The Silhouette of Luminous Strings (POEM OF THE MONTH)
Every time you cast an unusual spell with your magical ink,
you leave me groping at my aunt's crystal ball
combing through cloudy ice, itching to unearth the truthful
link
glistening under your mind's blanket.
I
once took an endless tour round
the
portals of shaky preambles
riding
in rare colourful caravans
with
flames of lionhearted warmth
burning
within the sinew of my bones
like
the overzealous beds of - the
historical
- burning bush
all because you sent layers of colours on an errand
and I just could not resist the peace that crawled into my mental
shell
like when a snail finds warmth in her pod.
Sometimes,
I just want to snap my fingers
&
connect the dots,
make
them flow without warning –
waving
their bangs to the Master's touch.
Your
captivating strings are the pieces
that
confirm your mysterious adventures
through
the Sun's eye & the Moon's soul.
Daily, I see them boldly
streaming through fluffy funnels & baked clays
clothing naked vessels
pouring into broken jars making them whole again
like gum's smooth kiss on a ripped sheet,
such seamless dots connecting every heart
mending the pieces of the puzzle.
We
are the dots connecting every heart
fixing
the pieces of the puzzle;
Our
adventures through hoops & rows
are
luminous strings radiating glamour through paper's natural skin.
Oluwatosin
Okupa
/////////////////////////////////
LINES
The lines of poetry have fallen
for me in pleasant places.
Fallen, not in the nature of white
and powdery lines which must be
sniffed at and not sniffed, if mental
acuity must be maintained.
Pleasant falling lines must be identified with clarity and not
under the influence
of philosophical expressions where good is called bad and the
useful termed useless and unfit for purpose.
It is true that to all perfect lines there
is a limitation imposed by the reality
that all perfection is limited.
.
That practice only leaves permanent markers.
That only God is perfect and the rest
of us will die in our sin which is defined not as going beyond
the mark- hupaballo but as falling short of the mark- harmatia!
Like the long jumper outside the sand;
the javelin thrower inside the circle,
the athlete not meeting the qualifying mark, falling behind the
line and blaming the elements which are open over all and sundry.
Lines following occams razor
and reduced to the limits of parsimony.
Pursuing through lines of understated elegance, the simplicity
on the other side of the complexity that is all of living, loving, learning and
leaving a legacy.
ANDREW
WHYTE
/////////////////////////////////////
UnAware
[The Swiftness of a Pen]
Upon the Hill of Kilimanjaro, feels the
rhythmic line of a heroic assumption in me,
having sealed up all zeroes of the old; and sprouting a young
sucker of lives' new checkpoint
The end of other ends withered; and
the end that'll birth a new end, I wish never ends.
Leg bruise, lip split and blanket coverings
Oh! I love them.
Bit-a-bit gathers the clustered eggs of waterbeings,
so is the pulse of my caged heart.
The stream of my consciousness never got a licensed go ahead of
occuring; rather, a silenced shatter of dreams and stutter of words.
Many with wishes to dish,
many with unexplored prose hands; and
many with already disposed purpose.
All thanks to the swiftness of pen - who has made a (invincible)
Captainman of our (fearful) Schwoz.
DREX
MELODY
///////////////////////////////////////////////
LINES
Many Many Years Ago
I squinted to be sure I
saw right
My sight’s always been
right
But I must have seen
something
Something not quite
visible
Many many years ago
Hakuba had shown that
little trait
A trait of insincerity
He came in a little late
to my surprise
There was no reason for
such
He missed his way
That’s what he said
There was no other way
Save for this same one
we both have known
For like a lifetime
Agreed
He missed his way or
whatever
Whatever
That was many many years
ago
Someone said I was naïve
I thought was patriotic
May be
Just may be
In junior class
The trait showed up
again
This was many many years
ago too
And just like that many
many years ago
We left with five meat
balls in the bag
Now, it had turned four
How could it be?
He said I couldn’t be
sure
I waived that line of
thought
He out to have changed
Why am I suspecting him
After hours of
ruminating
I left for my room
To catch up with some
sanity
Many many years after
We got a space to share
We got a space to share
We made a plan together
A plan for US to excel
We got a “kolo” within
One you could never
empty
Without breaking
To keep our income safe
Yet
All our figures at
harvest
Could not tally
Hakuba still has my mind
to blame
Many many years after
The lines are still the
same.
Ilupeju
////////////////
CROSSING
LINES
The charming
smile you gave me yesterday
sent sugary
warmth down my spine,
I wanted it to
last.
Today, your
cold distant look
has got me
confused again,
I wish I knew
how to please you.
You see,
I'm tired of
having to watch you
switch roles
between loving me
and pushing me out.
I wish you'd
tell me the days
I cross the
lines,
so I know how
far away I'll stay
And when to
come back to you
Or not.
Priscilla
Ahaiwe
//////////////////////////////////////
First Gong - (for the rebels)
against our wish, we get on a journey no one knows,
on our tongues the bitter taste of goodbye.
i begin the sojourn a boy forced into a man
on my mind the empty swing from which I was plucked;
it still goes to and fro awaiting the child in me,
the one who is long gone, the one who will never return.
i am Ijendu, man of dust seeking to give laughter full of
bubbles
for all the troubles that plague the troubadours;
but there are logs of history that the child’s mind cannot axe.
they lie to say death still has power over youth.
single slave, I, incarcerated in many prisons; remember me?
doe-eyed kid standing with his mother in your street wearing the
smile of graves.
you need not ask the ritual question, the three markings on my
palms are answers.
i did not write this script, fate has a twisted mind, derives pleasure
from our burdens;
life. so sweet. time. no more.
there was no time for closing ceremonies, no time to ask:
do the dead go hungry too? what currency do ghosts trade in?
now the dogs and the underdogs mope in resilience,
hungry but not angry; the body keeps rumbling in its blood,
ours is the gift of tears, the statues have refused to speak.
but to the arsonist and fire-fighters in hell my message is
short
and my prayers are as vindictive as they burn.
may satan be the wicked’s only companion; no light. no cameras.
action!
let noxious words grow wings fly about like scalar quantities
let me be safe with mathew and mark luking at john.
nene says every wrinkle tells a story but there are stories we
should never tell
like how abali ingests ohuda and how hope flies away on ubochi’s
wings.
the children do not nurse wild goose ambitions anymore,
things that matter have no weight and occupy space no more.
finally the day has come, to exploit the goldmine
beneath the terra firma of human existence,
no faith in the lines of battles drawn, no god in these lines of
poetry,
but with these mere words a new generation will make god in
their own image.
SOONEST
NATHANIEL
//////////////////////////////////////////////////
LINES
Lines
are fences visible and invisible
Not
every line is straight
Some
are slanted to make it work
Some
are imaginary but insurmountable
Whether
imaginary or tangible
They
are indispensable
Needed
in every atom of existence
For
every boundary a real line is in existence
Rules
are lines of action
Order
has visible and invisible lines
Crossing
the line has its consequences
Whether
positive or negative
Read
in between the lines for deeper understanding
Rail,
air, road or sea we travel in lines
Rigid,
fluid or imaginary all are real
Even
as the rainbow forms its colours
Its
beautiful children line up
As
they dazzle the sky
Wherever
you find spaces you will always find lines
Ifeanyi Okwosha
/////////////////////////////////////////////////
For
Brianna Part 3 - Destiny
Bri
You are lines drawn by God
Lines drawn on my palms
That on this tenth month of the
year
On this third planet from the sun
The son will give you me
Bri
Like a dawn breeze, you are
Broken dreams mended
Felt it could not mend
But time is lie
It was like drowning on dry land
I am now in the cult of the
fathers
Bri
Having you is like
Having my heart take a walk out of
my body. Having my heart go walkabout
Chisom
////////////////////////////////
JUST
A BLOCK AWAY FROM FREEDOM
The lines drawn were ever so faint
Hard to tell if they were even straight
They didn't seem to evenly divide
The resilient conflicting sides
The lines were clearly not defined
They lacked the power of trust
In between those faint lines
Amidst gushing winds of fear
We saw a sea of tears
We heard loud sobs
Soldiers singing songs
Angry mobs
Dying young
A dark sight
Of red green and white.
They murdered the last flicker of trust
Walking thin lines
A clash of forces
Court cases
Troubled faces
Constant pacing
Heart's racing
The Eagle and two horses shake
What is the Nation's fate?
The search for whom to trust
The last line of defence
Muddled up pools of lies.
Grasping at thin threads
Rules torn to shreds
No white flags in sight
They forgot we record at night
A technical tactical fight
And we're holding on tight
We fan the last flickers of hope
Trying our best to cope.
For victory is just a block away.
Maybe Truth will win and
We'll walk the line to freedom.
Erhio
/////////////////////////////////////////////
A
Paradise of Forking Paths
We are in the same storm
but different boats. The old
drift. The same rift. Newer
fatal fault lines. This is Nigeria.
Why does the arc of our moral
universe bends towards injustices?
Why do we not always listen to
The inner authority of all who suffer?
Nigeria; a paradise of forking
paths, a plush garden of labyrinths;
forged by blood and bones, by
lies and furies, disparate myths
and weeds of mutual suspicion.
Full of tired and toxic nostalgia
for an imperial era that never was.
This old lie is a dye; a greasy web
Whose moist blessing has
hardened the dividing lines.
With which we highlight the
dents in each other’s armour.
This old lie will not die.
like the labyrinthine lines
forking highways to nowhere.
Bogged in unending verbal duelling.
The trophy promised is a mirage.
This estate is broken. The battle
lines are cast in stone: the cross
and the crescent; the palaces and
the palates; the tongues and throngs.
The vexed line of the Charter says:
“We the People” to a vast uncertainty
Of the unaddressed and unredressed.
Beaten black and blue with mutual mistrust.
Whose axe is bloodier on these forking paths?
In this raging deluge, I build a moral ark
There, we may find a final lifeline.
Michael Achile Umameh
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