Some of my earliest poems

A PATH

Sunder

Miracle beyond boarder

Divines of dark spaces

Colds from each place

Come, intercede, and proceed

Endanger my feeds.

Boulder

Accept my offer

Chaos in mist and enough

Pitched soil from rough

Gather remains in realms

Fetch deep beam of visitation,

Isolation.

Pretty whip

Plugs of fading grip

Reading

Pure stains itching.

Lettered cruise

Verses life’s abuse

Fading

Heaving thorns raining.

Chasing dreams

Heel after wheels

Draft spirited

Paddles drifted

Meet me at the shore

We did get there after all.

TIDY PASSAGE

The tongue is strange but we know it

The rug is same but does not fit

The mood exist but not deep

Faintly searched by my older lip

Blame me not it’s hard to sip.

The mind harbours but its never greeted

Hands that laboured were never protected

Rebellious no foul committed

I will do better with the latter

Grains for seeds is no flatter

Quarterly perfumed is smarter.

Timeful, ancient marks of bruises

I was not rewind but couriered with truthful gossips

Screen clips, washed ink, poisonous opium from white nurses

All anti-clock claims depict exchanges

Writings of blood, my ink vary

My compensation is best quarries.

I feel your trespasses, they are mastered

But my emphases springs when Eastered

Running fingers, groans faster

Splashing tumblers, stereo, by comfort of entry

Webby at spots of low dignitary

I owe you everlasting infantry.

I know its here, my words, my thought

I put it there to string my dot

If watered, withered, my fault

If not overshadow prays on knocks

Silently open doors with locks that suck

Lending patriarch as it does.

Unending leftovers of fueled lamps

Of gold, of silver, of bronzed palms,

Of sands abandoned at foot-match of farms.

On daring wells robbed

Forsaken, mistaken, mated on stolen crops

Eves after eves while it goes up.

Ascending splash but in great rush

Pardon my simplicity am used to real forge

Exceeding lonely bodies of slow urge,

I see geese decades of wealth

Harvest of shielded hero’s death

Lesser than trumpet’s sickly health.

KILLING IN WHOSE NAME?

On the first day

A child axed up the heavens

And down- splats, bodies, souls,

Angels, chiefs, gods, guns.

Funeral untouched, farewell memorized;

Quavers. Under-earthen, in uniforms,

In green bloods, plus white oath, guilty

And condemned. Killed in his name.

On the second and third days

They died. All. Each body

Soul, angle, chief, god, gun.

Their funeral was well attended, feasts.

We tilled the wailing soil, and buried

Them in two rows of white and green.

Shelves, in-scripted his name for theirs.

The fourth and fifth days reprised not.

A second child axed out hell,

And out- springs, spirits, demons,

Sobered, bullets, government, him.

They clapped and sang blues in red

The same our forefathers disco-ed away

To death. They opened churches and mosques,

Healed God of infirmities and tiring disease

A killer name un-deceased.

The day before he rested,

The season where rams offered human

Sacrifices. Our spirits crowned with

Demons, wore shots for soberly, bulleted to scorn.

With fresh stool, the government tasted

Our lips, tears, bellies, our dead, then cried

They cried out to heaven and hell.

And summoned over again witnesses

These deaths bear.

On the last day, the day we rested

The Day of Judgment,

He asked me: “in whose name

Where they killed? I answered:

“In the name above power, control,

Dominion, light, darkness, male, female.

The name above interpretation, coterminous

In the name of heaven and hell.