Saturday, 19 May 2012

Homeland Melodies

Strain your ears now
To hear decibels
Of sound,
Sound of songs,
Sound of homeland melodies
Learned at feet
Of pious mother,
Sitting with me
In a dark
Moonless night,
Starless night,
With rain threatening
And thunderstorms scolding,
With bats hovering
And mother's lamp
Our companion.

Music Of Mosquitoes

The prison portal ajar
To the domain of despair.
O eyes of conscience
Watch with me
This warped world
Where harassed humans,
Most making atonement
For sins not committed
Worry about wicked warders.
Between morning and noon
Half-boiled beans in bags
On wheel barrows arrive,
Breakfasts arrive with no condiments.
Harassed humans sit eating,
Still nursing skin lacerations.
On bare floors
They lie at night,
Barely enough to stir.
Music of mosquitoes,
Music of their nights.

Thursday, 26 April 2012

The Detectives’ Den

Claims of innocence,
Pleas for mercy,
The detectives’ den
Is full of hostages.

Desk Sergeants
Sit behind dilapidated desks
Counting ransoms,
Brim with bail bonds.

Behind the desks
Banners beam;
“Police is your friend”,
“Bail is free”.

Are splashed with diseases,
Legs wobble,
Hands are handcuffed behind.

In quivering voices
Strapped of cash
Beg for moratorium.

The rest of humanity

Sunday, 15 April 2012

The Testimonies Are Threadbare

Miracle merchants
Mount microphones,
Tumble in torrent.
Tumble into tithe trunks,
Submerge into offering sacks,
Suffering is on sabbatical.

Miracle seekers
One after another
Mount altars
Mouthing testimonies,
Their love for microphones

Shadows terrify them
And tie them to the togas
Of merchants of miracles.

The terrors tarry,
The miracles emerge,
The testimonies are threadbare.

Tuesday, 10 April 2012

The Coffin Carrying Courage

The requiem
The cries.

The tears
On the city of coal.

The coffin carrying courage,
Clothed with cloth
Coloured green and white
Atop enu ugwu.

The bearded bard is here,
The masses
Are massed here
Moping tears,
Musing on their messiah.

From the bunker

Sacred Waters

We walked
On the crooked path
With evil aliens.
We sought comfort
In their evil enclave.
We copulated
In their polluted bedchamber,
Populating the land
With polluted posterity.
We will submerge
Into this sacred stream
And drench ourselves
With its sacred waters.
We will await the priest
Of this sacred stream
To purify us
And pronounce us
Our cleansed feet
Will walk
On the straight path,
On the pathway to paradise.

Hell Have Half Horror

The harangues
From the unholy
Hanging tags of holiness.
The harried requests
For tithes and offerings
From the hoi polloi.
The harrowed looks
Of the scared seekers of salvation,
By the prophecies of apocalypse.
Their hard earned harvests
Are huddled
Inside the barns of idle babblers.
The noise persists.
The pestilence
Pounding the eardrums.
The shrieks
Of sisters under spell
Shatter sleep.
The boisterous band brothers
In anticipation
I await Armageddon.
Hell have half horror.


With my left hand
I offer to you
This sacrifice
So your raging rams
Will spare my kneecaps
And the kneecaps
Of my offspring,
And spare the kneecaps
Of those I love,
And the kneecaps
Of those who love me
When we venture outside
The sanctuary
Of the good gods.
Your pets arrive.
The vultures perch
Atop the anthill
Eyeing my sacrifice.
The tortoises crawl
Nearer and nearer.
The rodents smell my sacrifice
And come running.
On my sacrifice
I turn my back now.
I retreat now
To the sanctuary
Of the good gods
Where I dwell.

Friday, 24 February 2012

Ashes Of Wednesday

On pew
They pray,
Their crosses burnt to
Ashes of Wednesday.
The Priest
“From ashes thou come,
To ashes thou return”,
Their foreheads painted
With ashes of Wednesday.

They leave to nowhere,
Their journey
Punctuated with prayers.

Their abodes
Have been bombed,
Their belongings
Have been made ashes.

From the podium
The President
“From ashes thou come,
To ashes thou return”.

Saturday, 11 February 2012

The Revolution Will Be Tomorrow

We are pretend revolutionaries.
In silence
We watch our world whirl
In the swirl of sin.

Our minstrels
Stare at the audience,
Their instruments mute.

We are like woodpeckers
That stare in awe at tree trunks,
We are like lions
That mew like house cats.

We are saints
In consort with sinners.

We are pretend revolutionaries
Cocooned in the comfort of cowardice,
We whisper to ourselves;
“The revolution may be tomorrow”.

The real revolutionaries will be born
And we,
The pretend revolutionaries
Will be buried
In the cemetery of cowards.
The revolution will be tomorrow.