I am not an easy poet.
If I were,
I would be
A poet my boot.
If I don’t speak in tongues,
If I don’t talk in my sleep,
If I sleep without nightmares —
A dead body
Supine and stiff,
My bed wouldn’t need
If you have a hard time
Dissecting my verse,
I died writing it,
If you died reading it,
That would be fair game.
I wouldn’t ask for more
I am not who you think I am;
I am not these accessories
and accoutrements. I am not
the coverings and conveyances.
I am not the display pictures
on my media walls or videos
and photos of my appearances.
It won’t be poetry with such a large crowd
for not all are well-versed in the verses;
few have their tastebuds still with tied tongues —
we won’t be minstrels if all can sing the lyrics
so we will sit to watch the performance
and hum and nod, along with the mute.
In the arena are many huge masquerades
leading the orchestra of a thousand choirs
and their songs in many languages
and are all sung in different voices —
no one hears or sees it all from a spot.
That’s why the roaming exacts and excites,
why the many beats…
We applaud the ones who interpret
and we applaud those who misinterpret
for they are all part of the unending quest,
and play key roles in our journey for clarity
for if anyone could paint with precision the picture
of our thoughts now, our work here would end.
The pen we wield as a shield and sword
we will sheath and walk away when someone
gathers our thoughts neatly in some basket;
and totally filters off the chaff that blurs
our vision through the fields and unknots
our tongues from the roof of our soldered mouths.
Maybe we are all…
They arrive bustling and cooing
by my window every morning
until they wake me up to pray;
I serve them a ready breakfast
of rice grains and cassava flour and grey,
cream, ruby, and brown guinea corn
to make a colorful spectacle when
they hit the black platform in their grey
and rusty brown coat speckled white,
their feet in pink and their heads marked
with red eye shadows over gold rim eyes;
then off to the bathroom, I head as they feast
and return to find the laggards and leftovers.
On not so sunny mornings, I wake
The invitation to the cold dark rooms tempts,
but we balk at the ugliness and won’t honor it.
The rooms suck up the life that goes into them,
leaving them with bruised visages,
decaying and foul smells in the cabins
where they fry and freeze up without air.
They squeeze essences from their guests,
bleach out their true colors,
pull out the marrows from the bones,
the sinews from the body mass,
blood from the flesh, and leave dry bones
and faces with hollow looks and animations
of horror plastic zombies filling space
Viruses and poison cover the burnt ashes;
No one claps with one hand
not even among the gods —
when an animal aches,
it rubs against a tree.
When the tree has an itch,
it prays for the wind.
No one is enough;
that's why it foams
when we pee together,
why alone none goes far —
why the soap needs the water to lather
and no star, not even the sun waxes alone.
The fish that jumps out of the river
will gasp for air; with no gap showing
as the river flows right on. …
Summer in the loud intensity
of its playful, airy warmth
and the raw earthiness of its exuberance,
another wake up for all who care
to hurry out of the heat of Gross Matter.
The preservation and persistence
of the harmony of the shades
in the tone and colors of winter
and its offerings are apt reminders
of the solemn purity of Paradise.
On that expanse of winter’s canvas lies
the stark, incorruptible magnitude
in the grandeur of its monarchy,
with a hint of the Last Judgment
stern and fair, unsentimental.
Everything is in the open and laid bare
as in the…
I am glad I won this one
and would do everything
to win again and again
and have the referee raise my hand
but the moment looms dull,
the excitement dampens
with you looking down,
your shoulders in a slump
(as if defeated, oh dear;
defeat is of the body, not the spirit)
the referee holding down
your hand to your side
just to ensure you don’t dare
smuggle it up in the air
and that stabs the hearts
we’ve won together tonight.
the crowd we entertained —
That demeans the bursts
of our energies and sweat,
the long training runs at…
It is entirely plausible that Joe Biden and his team have Donald Trump and the GOP’s number. Of course, I am thinking about their phone number here.
It is possible that while we worry about the messaging by Biden and the Democrats to the American public; they know what is noise and what is substance and what can resonate with audiences.
It is also possible a lot of unreported and underground work is taming the undisciplined and delivering results that will speak much more loudly than the megaphones.
Think about it.
Biden and the Dems beat the rowdy ones. …
Brother. Igbo. Entrepreneur. Poet. Seeker.