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| WINNER POEM OF THE MONTH |
"THE
JOYS OF LOVE" – (Poem of the month)
Going
to a place
Where the storm gathers quietly
It was going to listen to a story
The rain was given a chance to explain why it needs to do this alone
You would pour on the earth
And proceed to nourish
You will sing to the flowers
With promises that they will flourish
You will say to the plants
I am your blood
I will not become the flood
That usher in a plague
You will tell them
That you have come with news that they will cherish
You will tell them to perish the thought
Faith has risen over fear
Joy is here to stay
And will always have a say in these affairs
You are going to a place
Where the sun shines gently
You will feed your dreams to life
And it will refuse to belch
Creating space for more
That is the job of the oceans
Creating a reason to love
That is why a soul lives
Stamping dimples on your cheeks
Or just to find a way for laughter to leak
That is my reason for being
Laughter and happiness
Sweetened moods for which we have evidence
For which we have the rights to not produce a reason
That was the same story they told about love
You do not have to explain your feelings
Or why it is you have them
All you knew and still know
Is that joy is the sole craving of the soul
And that it has led you to this
What they define as ill that you call bliss
You are going to a place
Where all your vehicle did
Was just to announce that life is your lease
You are not alive for them to do as they please
You cannot freeze melting joy
For all that walked away
All we said was nothing spoil
Two has become one
And one refuses to be divided
Those burdened by frowns only need to know
That the joys that love produces is often exclusive
They were never invited…
Where the storm gathers quietly
It was going to listen to a story
The rain was given a chance to explain why it needs to do this alone
You would pour on the earth
And proceed to nourish
You will sing to the flowers
With promises that they will flourish
You will say to the plants
I am your blood
I will not become the flood
That usher in a plague
You will tell them
That you have come with news that they will cherish
You will tell them to perish the thought
Faith has risen over fear
Joy is here to stay
And will always have a say in these affairs
You are going to a place
Where the sun shines gently
You will feed your dreams to life
And it will refuse to belch
Creating space for more
That is the job of the oceans
Creating a reason to love
That is why a soul lives
Stamping dimples on your cheeks
Or just to find a way for laughter to leak
That is my reason for being
Laughter and happiness
Sweetened moods for which we have evidence
For which we have the rights to not produce a reason
That was the same story they told about love
You do not have to explain your feelings
Or why it is you have them
All you knew and still know
Is that joy is the sole craving of the soul
And that it has led you to this
What they define as ill that you call bliss
You are going to a place
Where all your vehicle did
Was just to announce that life is your lease
You are not alive for them to do as they please
You cannot freeze melting joy
For all that walked away
All we said was nothing spoil
Two has become one
And one refuses to be divided
Those burdened by frowns only need to know
That the joys that love produces is often exclusive
They were never invited…
Akeem
Adetayo Oyalowo
///////////////////////////////
WHEN FICTION LOSES ITS FAITH
Little pilgrims fail to perfect their resurrections
For there is no rising from the grave
With broken wings.
No god in the poetry of this religion,
So the child must fall asleep in terror.
A fog of generalities has swallowed the earth
And lyric observations fail with their big answers
For no straight line is seamless enough
To blast through all rocks
Of doubt, of trial, of hurt, of oddity and epiphany.
Terror makes for great art
And joy is not a process without casualty;
So I ask my teacher:
Is it normal to bleed,
Is it fine for father to feed me cat feces
Is it okay for mother to wean me on cat litter.
My teacher tries to reply but only gives off a sigh,
She cannot fathom
this
queer divine rhetoric.
Fiction has lost its faith,
my literature has destroyed her soul
in the finest possible way;
she tries helplessly to pray
but all she can mutter is,
let someone else’s idea -
kill this child.
Soonest
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
ONGOING
TALE
He stood with a smile that death feared
His heart shattered in countless pieces
Like the stars in the galaxy
As life held a moment in time
Ojadili the warrior king feared by spartans
Lay defeated at the feet of Olanma
His heart will pass through the black hole to be whole again
His won't be the first sacred Python killed for
sacrifice
In this stage filled with characters
As his flight through the black hole brings him torment and
peace.
This is a tale that is old
As old as the first wars it brought
The same plague
It won't be the last.
In this the victor and the vanquished are equals
They will all dine in the table ever laid
Like the spider in its romance
Can be mate and dinner.
Ifeanyi
Okwosha
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
A
NUTCASE
It's always a chase
That mind blowing
Hot
Secret
One sided affair
One minute you're here
The other you're nowhere
Yet we chase
Life is not always fair
Heart skipping
Butterfly flapping
One sided dreams
Of red lipstick and high heels
Most time it's a bad deal
Yet we keep chasing those dreams
Hoping what could be would be
Then comes the illusion
Our vivid imagination
Making romantic allusions
Causing one sided confusion
Cos the Ladies seem to stick to their plan
Leaving us feeling like the main man
A simple misinterpretation
Then the shocker comes
That rude awakening
The internal/external slap
The reset button
That gets us stuttering
No more make up
Just a one-sided breakup
We're holding onto an empty cup.
Then it happens again
The butterflies
Skipping hearts
Deep craving
Mind racing
One sided dream
We grasp on to what we seem to see
She presses the button
And all sins are forgotten
Clinging to smiles with brown blue eyes
We see her statistics
And lose our sensibilities
Becoming the crazy stalker
The die hard fan
The unrepentant crush
Receiving unrequited love
It's a bloody war
We simply refuse realities News
It's always happening
It's a cycle
An ongoing nightmare
Hot
Secret
One-sided affairs
The origin of which remains unclear.
It's the chase not the man.
Erhio
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
ONGOING:
Investigations and projects
Which should be investigated closely before large investments
Are made, are always ongoing.
I wonder why?
There is a certain present continuous ad infinitum dimension, to
this which makes them rather too open-ended
and lacking in the possibility or potential for closure and
finitude-
a thing which is good for both individual and national psyche's.
Development qua Development must not be cast in concrete, like a
recurrent decimal
and self-fulfilling prophecy-
once third world, always third world as decreed by the learned
professors pontificating in obscure journals,
with no Singaporean translation-transition to the supposedly
first world is permitted, except of course you are Singapore or even Dubai-
avatars, outliers
and quantum leapers.
Pregnancies as pregnancies might
go on and on, but
are not ongoing because there is
an end, a termination (not in the crisis
of unnatural abortion
or natural miscarriage),
an expected end-
give or take 9 months
and we are fine.
But not so for the ongoing something
or the other.
Not so for the
ongoing this and that . It goes on;
on and on until
that special form
of boredom called 'accidie' sets in
At that stage,
just let the baby cry!
Andrew
Whyte
////////////////////////////////////////////
A
NUMBER OF THINGS
I suffer insomnia every night
So I have learnt to count to
100, several times before I sleep.
Oftentimes at the 67th,
sometimes the 76th count,
I mix them up and start from scratch.
On days I do not get to 100,
I just lie on my bed and stare,
Till they start rolling in.
Series of thoughts trailing each other,
Thoughts after thoughts after thoughts,
like black soldier ants on a quest for blood.
They never stop, till I curl into a fetal position,
face pressed into my pillow
as I start the count from 0 once more.
But this is not about me.
Someone is out there,
Who will struggle again to sleep tonight.
Pricilia
//////////////////////////////////////////////////
ONGOING
I made love to her on paper,
Spilled ink like passion
Across the sheets. I caressed
Her curves in every love letter.
I kissed up and down her thighs.
In all chaotic realm, beauty lies a wounded
Work of art.
Beautiful but torn, wreaking
havoc on my heart. Camouflaged by
insecurities, blinded by it all.
I love the way you sit there and barely
notice me at all.
in short sentences and prose.
I tasted all her innocence,
without a spoken word. I bit
her lip and pulled her hair, in
between the lines. I made her back
arch as she screams,
it only took a pen but yet,
We made change after change
on the road to perfection.
when i finally felt beautiful enough,
their definition of beauty
suddenly changed. We don't just become
butterflies. Do we? what if there
is no finish line but in attempt
to keep up i lose the gift i was born with.
for a beauty so insecure,
On going you were as you called
to say hello I felt the distance,
As the wide took you
On a raid to your new home.
#Shadyrabbit
//////////////////////////
‘ON
THE LINES’
I lay bare on a line,
Not straight, neither crooked,
But a line with wavy patterns,
A line lay with hope yet with bumps at each
crossroads,
A line clear yet unseen to the eyes, but found
in the heart,
A line with many a crossroads of doubts but also
with a flyover of faith and believe,
A line pure still unrefined,
A line so far yet close,
A bridge though may exist in time, but time
still laid tracks to ride.
These lines were drawn not with the pen,
But with love ink in two hearts,
Lines were drawn so deep gaining much thickness
with every stroke,
Lines though not hidden still scared to show,
Lines sketched into the hearts hoping never to
be erased,
Lines ongoing in its complete form,
I stay in line with you with the hope to board
the same route to hearts resort,
I gave my tickets to stay in line with you
waiting for our dreams to arrive,
I give my pen to write down some lines on the
best parts of your heart,
I hope this line strike a beautiful chord in
your heart.
Asapen
@Akinyemi
Akinmusire
/////////////////////////////////
BUSTLES
I see men hanging on
nooses set down by
their fathers. They wrestle
on a stage set by myths
of the old old world, held
at the junction of a tiny string—
leftovers of an unending war, like
thobes of honor they
don day after day.
Olaitan Humble
////////////////////////////////////
ONGOING
I know that you love me
You know that I love you
Our mutual affection in lifelong journey we see
Aggrandisement is divorced from our motive
In the solitude of silence, we subdued giants
With the simplicity of faith
Our gifts, talents, potentials are accentuated
When the pathogenic protein came to town
In lockdowns and restrictions,
In mutual bold stare our response
Covid-19 paid obeisance
To our divinely orchestrated innovations, insights and creativity
Olumide Soyemi
I know that you love me
You know that I love you
Our mutual affection in lifelong journey we see
Aggrandisement is divorced from our motive
In the solitude of silence, we subdued giants
With the simplicity of faith
Our gifts, talents, potentials are accentuated
When the pathogenic protein came to town
In lockdowns and restrictions,
In mutual bold stare our response
Covid-19 paid obeisance
To our divinely orchestrated innovations, insights and creativity
Olumide Soyemi
////////////////////////////////////
DEATH IN SENSES AND HANDSHAKES
It’s now that the death multiplied
its appetite
its bloody mouth, a god everyone
worships
& time busy –emptying its
stocks & herds
of silent marauding the abandoned
streets
that patriotism returned to the
heart of pillagers
pinching out of their haunt
bounties taken at
trick-point giving-out at camera-point
as charity
there is fear & hunger
inside breaking our bones
no one answers unsolved mazes like
death, as
virus armed with the weapon of
gods arrives
dark evils surrendered to the
higher evil
men across atlantic came down
contagious
only silence stand there, markets
where you once
saw mass sellers, traders, too
large for your eyes
only silence stand there, churches
& mosques'
people buried down their faiths to
stay alive
this is the first year that
traveling was suspended
protecting our rolled-up
hospitalized future
death that calls the rich by their
wealth it’s now
neglecting the cries of the poor it’s
crushing
geographically, grief is a blaring
metaphor of
burning memories, a map of
mourning, yes!
life fading out on the owner like
a candle lighted
at both ends, cavid- 19
unemploying us in stages
the strength of flaring death from
overseas
cajoled putrid souls to do good at
despair time
the doors we left opened in our
sincerity, death
rushed through them, deep,
chocking our lives
uncertain interpretation circling
the sky, only
death getting stronger as the year
grows older
Umar Yogiza Jr.
///////////////////////////////////////
O
IS FOR ONGOING
Oh, No. It is Ongoing. No, it is Outstanding. This is how Ocholi and the Oloibiri oyster catcher ogle and argue. Like the Oyster shell grating at the Ocean floor. Suddenly, there was an opening, a clean pathway like the throat of an O: out of which the oars and roars of Ocholi’s men overcame the oddity of the ocean’s overblow. This is always an ongoing war, like the Octaves on the oratorio of Orisha. The ongoing orchestra of the ocean, the oyster and oyster catchers and the overpowering row of Ocholi and the Oloibiri fishermen. Shall we then call the pulpit orator Ode Eyeoyibo to ordain Ocholi to the Ocean for your Oyster; Oloibiri to your Oilwell for your Oil. Or is the soft-spoken wisdom of the opulent garden Owl enough? One to the spoils of the Ocean. Another to the toils of the Oil. This will be ongoing for eons. Maybe we outsource. No, let them outsmart or out-scheme each other. O is for opus, the ongoing work and war, like the tragic Olympian Ode of Oedipus: orphaned and offensive. This is forever ongoing, like the onion’s concentric O’s, oozing like an opium and watering the O rings whose orbits cradle the eyes. Ongoing like the oars of Ocholi and the roars of Oloibiri oystercatchers, so too the Ocean overblows with waves upon waves upon waves upon waves.
While Ocholi and Oloibiri oystercatchers ogle and argue, the orchard is overgrown with orange, olives, oil-palm, okro and of course, ox-shit. O for the two organs, that bore Ocholi and Oloibiri, the double O’s of the ovaries of their origins. The O of the overrun ozone layer and dropping Oxygen, is this the mouth of an omen or an oracle? Ocholi ha overfished the Ocean. Oloibiri has overheated the open sky with oilrig. O mother Earth, overexploited, overused and overrun. Like an O with a void inside itself. O who has made orphans of our lands. O for the Oarfish that died of oil spill. O for the Ocean that died of thirst. Today, I hear the tired echo in the throat of O, it is Ocholi and Oloibiri cursing the Ocean and the Oil. And this orbit of an encircling gloom is still ongoing. Like the Ocean and the Oil. Like Ocholi and Oloibiri. The land is like an open-hearted old maid, she holds all the opportunities. And when she opens the ten thousand doors of oak, may we find ongoing mercy within mercy within mercy within…
Oh, No. It is Ongoing. No, it is Outstanding. This is how Ocholi and the Oloibiri oyster catcher ogle and argue. Like the Oyster shell grating at the Ocean floor. Suddenly, there was an opening, a clean pathway like the throat of an O: out of which the oars and roars of Ocholi’s men overcame the oddity of the ocean’s overblow. This is always an ongoing war, like the Octaves on the oratorio of Orisha. The ongoing orchestra of the ocean, the oyster and oyster catchers and the overpowering row of Ocholi and the Oloibiri fishermen. Shall we then call the pulpit orator Ode Eyeoyibo to ordain Ocholi to the Ocean for your Oyster; Oloibiri to your Oilwell for your Oil. Or is the soft-spoken wisdom of the opulent garden Owl enough? One to the spoils of the Ocean. Another to the toils of the Oil. This will be ongoing for eons. Maybe we outsource. No, let them outsmart or out-scheme each other. O is for opus, the ongoing work and war, like the tragic Olympian Ode of Oedipus: orphaned and offensive. This is forever ongoing, like the onion’s concentric O’s, oozing like an opium and watering the O rings whose orbits cradle the eyes. Ongoing like the oars of Ocholi and the roars of Oloibiri oystercatchers, so too the Ocean overblows with waves upon waves upon waves upon waves.
While Ocholi and Oloibiri oystercatchers ogle and argue, the orchard is overgrown with orange, olives, oil-palm, okro and of course, ox-shit. O for the two organs, that bore Ocholi and Oloibiri, the double O’s of the ovaries of their origins. The O of the overrun ozone layer and dropping Oxygen, is this the mouth of an omen or an oracle? Ocholi ha overfished the Ocean. Oloibiri has overheated the open sky with oilrig. O mother Earth, overexploited, overused and overrun. Like an O with a void inside itself. O who has made orphans of our lands. O for the Oarfish that died of oil spill. O for the Ocean that died of thirst. Today, I hear the tired echo in the throat of O, it is Ocholi and Oloibiri cursing the Ocean and the Oil. And this orbit of an encircling gloom is still ongoing. Like the Ocean and the Oil. Like Ocholi and Oloibiri. The land is like an open-hearted old maid, she holds all the opportunities. And when she opens the ten thousand doors of oak, may we find ongoing mercy within mercy within mercy within…
Michael
Achile Umameh
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