80% perspiration

The road smoked a mirage; The tires screeched a skid. The bus made a superb ballet twirl And landed with a big splatter.

Nigerian Politician Herald of a beginning! Insane musings of the irate mob, Nerve numbing screams of the few. Set us free!! These chains squeeze!! Tongue lashings; Saliva splatter... Deadly venom on pink tongue; Killing the makeup of ministers, TV personalities, hungry aides And jaded journalists. We want change!!

 Although the technological advances spearheaded by the western cultures have greatly improved the lot of Africans over time, it is sad to see us forget our own unique identity that made us the people we are. The present generation of children will never know moonlight tales or games; they will never understand the proverbs and nuances of their mother tongue; they will not find fun in the festivals and spectacles of their culture. This is sad. Is there no merging of the western culture with African identity? Are we to, therefore, leave the palm wine for the Chardonnays? *just thinking out loud*

The drab sameness; The cold grey and wet screen Of pouring dew blanketing the view Of nature’s mysteries, As this bus sways along The treacherous road to Benin Is all I see.

  On my way to Auchi Ha! I perceive Atlas In the frowning sky, His back bent with weight. Yes I did perceive the goat-faced charlatan And I laughed. I perceive the smoke from the burnt length On my way to Auchi.

Teaching, for most graduates in Nigeria, is the most thankless job ever. There is no appreciation for molding kids into better members of the society. This has discouraged a lot of young men and women, including trained teachers, from venturing into that area of specialization. The joy of seeing a student achieve greatness can never be quantified though. It is this pleasure, that we can then consider to be true blessing for a teacher.

Broken Mirror Twisted cowries at my feet; The eyes of the gods are red-rimmed. The chalk encircles the window That looks deep into the fiery depths. The tom-tom ululates my thoughts, Fear stretch cold dark fingers in.

Purple haze in the sky, Blanketing the world In diamond studded velvet glow. The tender breeze caresses, Teasing and erasing the stress The sweaty and stifling sun Brought to the blue green world.

  Overdose The light bulb blinked on And took a look at the floor, Filled with the debris of the night before: The table, packed full; Two bottles; red wine and two glasses, A line of coke, wrapped weed and smokes The splayed ankles of the model, Panties hanging like an ankle chain on one. Music spilling from throbbing speakers. What a party!

Do you remember me? I was the breeze that blew your sails As it billowed across uncharted seas In lecture halls and libraries. I was the candle flame that drove away The cobwebs of ignorance And grooves of darkness That shunned the illumination That Alexandria’s Lighthouse promised.

A slice of lemon shaped moon Squeezed into the blue gray sky, Eyeing the depressed sun; head bowed. A flicker of starlight Diamonds on velvet hair, Hanging down her back; The moon, I mean. Woven until morn, Waiting for her darling sun, Waiting and waning and wasting away.

I lie in wait, Deep within chill depths. Smoke, drooling from my lips; Chill dew, leaching my skin. Soon, I am chosen. Soon, I am revealed. My innards -spilled; My soul -emptied.

Life sometimes hits us with a lot of trash and slowly kills our dreams, aspirations, ambitions. It is said, I can't remember who now, that the grave is filled with great men. Some of these greats were potentials that were never realised because they died. Don't go wishing you did this or did that! Dream big!! Pursue your dreams! Live a fulfiled life for God's sakes folks! Don't exist, live!! Happy new month...love ya'll Do You Still Dream?   Good morning my dear. Did dreams sweep through sleep As you tossed and turned? Did you dream of beauty; Sweet, red lips, fair flushed skin, Long legs, wide hips, Protruding buttocks and breast? Did you dream to touch His heaving sweat slicked chest, Flat stomach and beautiful hands? Did you?

  It's a Free Verse I Write Perspiration of a word, The tears of the soul, Pouring out in iambic rhythm On sheets of unforgiving papers.

Old Man Time Drumbeats of old, tightened skins, Breathing out rhythms of the black soul. The lash of civilization cut short our song, Taking our spirit and binding us in chains.   Intoxication of power; this power first stolen, Now returned, is dressed in democracy Of a few monarchies and takes to the streets In habitual confrontation with the discontented.

I can no longer find my muse. She has travelled in a rush. From me, she has refused        Prayers like a goddess so crushed As to reject a sacrifice. I can no longer sing. Like a nightingale turned To an owl, I can only hoot.

This poem was written a long time ago. Like most of the poems i have posted so far, it was written at the beginning of my foray into poetry writing. It is actually a poem written for a woman, who i consider to be one of the most awesome of the beautiful ladies i have had cause to be in love with over time. She influenced the way i relate with people in a huge way and i am always grateful. I have sought her blessings to post this poem here, and she gave them. Unfortunately though, i gave her the first verse, she has never seen the second. hehehe....Do enjoy.

People will talk

Introduction I have always wondered about ways to get my work out there. I mean garner readership and hopefully, a fan base that will appreciate my particular brand of aesthetics. I had surfed the internet for a bit, looking for poetry submissions, contests, journals that cater to not just my style or genre but also to my culture and my geographical location. Most submission sites will take anyone, so I didn't have a problem there. My problem was poetry contests. Most of the poetry contests, I saw at first were mainly for the American or European community. By American I mean both North and South America. But after some dedicated surfing of the internet, I discovered poetry contests that allowed international writers to submit and awesomely with no entry fee.

A friend of mine posted this on her facebook wall, 8 year old girl raped by a man and married to the rapist . I felt this to my soul. How can a man decide that sleeping with an undera ge girl i s normal? Why will the girl's supposedly caring parents give the girl to the said rapist as his wife? What has this world turned to? Are there no laws protecting the weak, helpless and innocents? These thoughts ran through my head as i composed a short piece i titled What Am I? This is to help generate attention in a social media campaign to save this child. The issue of the safety of the girl child should be included in bills to be deliberated on and passed into law. Please do read the link above and share the hashtag #Favour8yroldrapevictimneedsjustice.

Adeniran O gunsanya College of Education invites you to a seminar and poetry presentation. THEME : The Poet: A catalyst for national growth and development.

Introduction I have been quite busy for some days now, thus the absence of posts here. well am back again and got some new stuff to weaken your knees as we continue our exploration of the dark parts of man.  I have two poems today, submitted by good friends of mine. I hope they reach you where ever you may be. The first is by Eucharistus Valentino Omamogho, He is a really good poet (my personal opinion) and i do hope he would have the time and patience to contribute to this project of mine. His works can be found on voicesnet.com and on his facebook wall. He titles this one, Reach. Eucharistus Valentino Omamogho

Early this week i posted two poems as a start to my rants series. These are poems written in teenage angst and express the emotional turbulence that very few folks noticed in me. Some of my thought processes are quite warped. I do not subscribe to any of the ideas postulated on this lines. i was high 80% of the time..lol..If these poems reach you, do not hesitate  to  comment. Thanks

 Surfing through the internet, i realised that there were certain poems i had written in my DELSU days, that were actually rants. I railed against everything then....LOL... i was a real mess then. These are some of my really warped works. They will tell a tale and they are nothing like my present works. I will deliver two each week until exhausted. The rants are usually quite lengthy, so you have to bear with me. Read at your own mental peril. Please these poems were written at a difficult time in my life, so please be gentle. Gracias.

Introduction Poetry is the earliest of written expression of beauty and thought. The earliest form of literature is poetry.  From the poetry of ancient Egypt e.g. Pentuar's celebrated heroic epic in Praise of Ramses II to the erotic works of Sapho of Lesbos and Homer's Illiad. Poetry has hung along the halls of palaces; the libraries of the aristocrats; the parlours of the intellectual elite and the simply beautiful. Poem of Pentuar Poetry though, no longer striding the halls of the social elite, still brings the soul of man to the fore; expressing the deep things of life. In this age we live in, poetry as an art form is no longer in the purview of the elite but is now expressed in writings of every strata of society; from the poems of kids to the poetry of published renowned poets, poetry is being written by everyone and anyone who is skilled enough to try.

Delta Steel Company Ovwain-Aladja is a tale that grips the heart and makes you ponder on man's insensate actions and how it affects other men. A company built from the proceeds of the oil boom of the 80's in Nigeria, has been left, bereft and abandoned with legs splayed like a oversexed prostitute. Retired staff are dying each and everyday, their eyes ever to light on the proceeds of decades of loyal service. Facilities and utilities left abandoned. This company was a big dream of development and economic empowerment outside crude, but the relentless cruel few have thrown her into the dustbin of history. Those of us who grew up there; whose education was fostered among superb educators; whose parents had worked there, we have felt the care of the Nigerian government. Yes, they have shown us what it means to strive; we shall strive and indeed overcome. This poem is dedicated to the entire former staff, staff, including those that have passed away (May they rest in...

IT WAS A SUNDAY MORNING IN ABRAKA It was Sunday morning in Abraka, Babes still in their dirtiness Of yesterday’s play. Babes still in the nude of innocence, The nude of untutored minds. Water boils in the blackened kettle As smoke curls like Abel’s to the heavens. “Time to bathe o”, mother says, As she breastfeeds the little one. To wash in the cold blue day Was too much work for the child. Mother notices and calls out “Abigail baf am, make you dress am for church.” Little ones run around Clothed in dirtiness and innocence; Some getting ready for church, Some getting ready for play, On a Sunday morning in Abraka.

INTRODUCTION I had wanted this to be a reply to a comment on one of my poems posted on a poetry website's facebook wall. The comment had asked why my poem had no rhyme scheme; basically no end rhymes. I had wanted to explain to the dude what free verse was and how it was different from blank verse, sonnets, haiku or whatever rhyming form of poetry but while doing some research on the internet, I came across a question on free verse and a reply that grazed my brain (blood flowed; literally saw red). The dude said and I quote, "free verse is just an excuse for the writer not being able to make lines rhyme and scan. It is just manipulated prose ! You can take any piece of prose and split it into lines - but that does not make it 'poetry'."

The dirt, sludge, smell and decay created by the supposed progress of this age is quite depressing. The earth is under attack from different directions; gas flaring, oil drilling, poor disposal of crude byproducts e.g. plastic bottles, bags, shoes, etc. The rivers are losing life, the farms are losing crops, the stink is choking us, yet we pretend that it is fine. Please do right thing today, keep you environment clean. properly dispose rubbish.#IAMANIGERIAN. 

NOTE:   The attacks on Africans especially Nigerians from other African countries residing in South Africa does not tell a good tale. Agreed, Nigerians, for example, can be overwhelming but that does not make them demons or witches to be killed on sight as the bible doth commands. We in whatever country we are citizens of find certain foreigners obnoxious but accommodation must be reached because we are all humans; all members of the global community. This poem, #iamanafrican reaches out to those who felt aggrieved with the presence of other Africans in South Africa. Please show love. Peace.   Ps: Check out my design on www.cafepress.com/poetrypicturesshopping . we need to spread the word out.