November

November

The hour to the tick tock clock
Double stroked in a thin round house
The usher of Christmas
November, so much a month in the calendar
Eleven flips to your page’s page
To your roomy room
This month, so fine but dry
The wind of Christmas your pride
The king gate keeper to a manger

November,
Things to remember
Plurals for all singulars
Mingling for our spinsters
This month for poets
It’s November to never forget!

Verses from Sokoto

Verses from Sokoto

These men do have a brain – A drained brain
They also have a vision – A television – Not colored
Broad and wild – Thick and fit for the pit
Scary and dark – Barricaded as agreed
They do have a future too – With rugged features

Our clothes – Green and white
The strokes? – ‘Cus we asked why

He whom the gods hates – They impregnate
He whom they love – They demean

Serious trouble for our drowsy dross
Too fat for our skinny bones
Made thin by things unseen – I never said politic
Our fate is only that of epic
Only time may heal…

Verses from Sokoto

These men do have a brain – A drained brain
They also have a vision – A television – Not colored
Broad and wild – Thick and fit for the pit
Scary and dark – Barricaded as agreed
They do have a future too – With rugged features

Our clothes – Green and white
The strokes? – ‘Cus we asked why

He whom the gods hates – They impregnate
He whom they love – They demean

Serious trouble for our drowsy dross
Too fat for our skinny bones
Made thin by things unseen – I never said politic
Our fate is only that of epic
Only time may heal…

Dad's Gone...

The beautiful things in life are fake
They are made of gold yet old
Crafted by a god yet false

Dad’s gone now so you cry
Make your sound as music
Put much sand in his hand
Dust to dust
Ash to ash – dreams deferred

Back to back
Evil to evil – miracle, the destitute
Impregnate the moon
Rape all the frogs on this floor of failed man to nature
Of corruption to culture
Dad’s gone now – lil Waaka is married

Rearrange my thoughts
Make death my priority
Starve my dreams with frames – call it vision 2020
My depth in the soil is 5050
I’m dying even before thirty
Dad’s gone now
Who bakes these dreams?

A Lover’s Dirge

A Lover’s Dirge

The world is large
Its walkway leads out only
Visitors are strictly invited

She was my all,
My east, my west
My morning prayers, my late night wishes
She was my all, my wealth

I am back here again
Lonely and lavishly poor
This heart I once found now brown
The vow we both sworn – worn out
You were my will and skill
My all – my wealth

Who made horror comic?
Who said man lives 120?
Too plenty – this plenary stage
We have met to part forevermore… my all, my wealth
Looking forward another – a future ex-lover…!

Opera to my Fore-Parents

Opera to my Fore-Parents

I am bitter at this world
It has taken away my joy, my all
It has placed me naked on the altar
It has taken away my joy, my peace of mind
‘The firewood of this world is for the strong only’
I am the wrong man– my ego has forsaken me also

Crow, thou cock of the crow
Sing, all ye birds of the sky
My thighs are weak
I have to give up now
My miracles are false.

Where is my salvation?
Who calls me a bosom friend?
Haven’t I tried?
Living two decades on earth...?
This world is only an abyss of a mess…

ANOTHER ROBBEN ISLAND (FOR LATE DENNIS BRUTUS)

ANOTHER ROBBEN ISLAND (FOR LATE DENNIS BRUTUS)

There are strokes that beat our collective rhythms
Bringing mild touches of God to us

There are reasons that aid our failed faiths
Our stale health and pale help
You came as a voice but now you are gone

Dennis, our Dennis
The moon even moans plenty
Dennis, our envy
Words are scattered without you
Poetry is in solitary
Activism is undressed, our aide
This mountain you climbed long ago is come again

‘The sun on this rubble after rain…’
Reign, poet – your sweat saw daylight
Our gratitude to Jupiter and Mars
They had you not until now
Safe ride home to another Robben Island

January

January

Lone pacer –the vertical leader
With eleven followers – dust calm
Boots from December dusted
Whirlwind of celebrations calm and quiet
Day one in one stroked cage
Better spelt and wide but concise – January

Alibi flame’s flick flake fake rims of dreams
Hope is born and horned to nations of the world
January – mother to resolutions unbidden
Carryover of yester year’s plans and pains
Job uproar and tender pay packets ranched
Merriments subsides – upsides the devotion

Painting green on green-grass and green flags
Tender hearts hopes for a pope’s sprinkle
Hallelujah! – Bad luck aborted – new luck conceived
January, the plenary house of venial creatures

If I ever believed....

If I ever believed in the Black Dreams of Tu-Pac
And the White Dreams of Hillary
Or the terror’s squad of Abdulmutalab
I quit!
If I ever loved – was ever loved or would ever love
I quit!
Dreams are orphans here
Parents are abusers too

I am wet and hungry for sex
My thighs itches for this test...
Many things have changed hands
My mind has changed lane too

If I ever needed you as a father,
As a wife
As a sister to his brother
Then you lose, my future ex lover
If bones drum wisdom
Mine drums freedom – of mankind
Of one kind of man
Not to be a Nigerian anymore!

POEM FOR THE GRAVESIDE

POEM FOR THE GRAVESIDE

Even when the red earth is gray
And the dreams are ray-less – pour some wine
Even when tears from pretty eyes have dried
And siblings from afar are tired – cry some more
Even when wishes turn horses
And wells tarnishes – hold hands a lil longer
Sniff mourning for life has ended

Bring out your dirty robes and the pretty dresses
Bury them
Dust your old guns and fire shots
Mourn for a morning in the delta
And the unrest in the north
Mourn for our mums and sires
Just as Jos has lost trust
We have lost voices to weeping

This human settlement is unsettled
Beads of reality have faded
Extremists inking dreams on broken crosses
O! Creator of mankind
Man has dashed his hopes
Renew his failed faith in you.

Inking Dreams

Forever, George, is friendship
When we die we lie
But when we live, we dream
We dream truth and ink fruits
Of castles and more miracles

Live and let’s live
Life is for the Living
Breathe and let’s dream
Precious memories are for precious families

As I wave hands across eyes to bring peace
Take this; a kindle handshake – Make Dreams Real!

Happy Birthday, Mr. George, a close brother.

TO SPIRITS, NOT MAN

TO SPIRITS, NOT MAN

Take away your man
Take away its worries, troubles and failures
Take away its blinking at passing damsels – bake it no more worries
Bring it good girls for excitement and fine juice for refreshment
Bring it food for its soul and kisses for its thirst
Bring it closer to the arm of its spirit-lady
Take away its man-sense and colour it as the flamingo’s

To spirits, not man
Marry young women, unborn
Cream their faces with your care
Lay them in peace to pieces of desires
Converge around them with wine
To spirits, not man – love, I pray thee.

For Love’s Sake

For Love’s Sake

Let’s hold hands at the Wikki Warm Spring
Let’s hold lingering tears too while sipping boldness
Let Joy flow boundlessly as we salute sleek images of you and me
While elephants and cheetahs dance in this waterfall of love
Let’s dance like a mirage to traveler
Let’s hold faith and tell Love we are her victims
Let’s have our tomorrow today and smile endlessly
Let’s jail failed trust but make hollow our loving hearts
Let’s echo loving in unison.

My priceless ornament of a thick black skin
Your sweet smelling wine of Southern African origin
Has spilled love on this dance floor for you
Take my faith for your shield
And my love for your life
Together, endless jingles we shall render!

For a black and white tomorrow, love me
At this camp site of returning moon moaning, kiss me
As singing sparrows chirp, take this tip – a love pill – hug me
Pick some earth; whisper to it some words of the living
Pluck me hibiscus and roses and
Let my dream grow so wild in your arms thou son of the Arogundade

Rampage Song

Rampage Song

This region has scars of fine laughter
Its creator; a subtle imbecile
Its children; ridiculously poor
Cassava – the rich home grown diet
We eat only at other’s exit

When we die bodies feed vultures
Weeping inks our nature
The delta; a devil’s perfect exile
Room for plenty at extinction
Pathway to dreamless castles

If God be from here,
He is an outcaste
If his angels eat from here
He is the gangster we seek
Our delta; shelter’s mirage

Let’s dream of home coming
Of poultry, no more cemetery
Of poetry for weeping kindness
Of sound oratory of sad songs gone
This delta, this Niger, hope you find sanity