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Best Poems Written by Onyebuchi Okonkwo

Below are the all-time best Onyebuchi Okonkwo poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Onyebuchi Okonkwo Poem

This Silly Thing Called Love

Craze comes out of barrel of joy,
Joy, what makes you behave coy,
Coyness, a thing that would get a toy
From the soul, hands of a smart lil' boy

That his head bobs in saving his mother,
Mother, the filial original not really similar
Similar? To the father, rasp voice that quiver
From the garden of marital rupture. It'ld linger

Over the elms of gut, ebbing with the tide
Of bliss ended. Never should beings all hide
The love, warmth of family. Filial code to side
A broken china, a shattered shuttle that'ld bide

Brittle bliss. Come in the evenings and laugh
At the debris of the drum, a rumble of cough
Upon anodyne ruble of ruin. Feed from trough
O! Love if you aren't life. Then live quickly, rough.

Details | Onyebuchi Okonkwo Poem

My Favorite Poet

Doth it not thrill thee, Poet,
Dead and dust though thy art,
To feel how I press thy singing
Close to my heart?

As though they were dried palm leaves
In Indian catalogue, your works
I would press so close
To my chest like man's third-leg
Snuggling to the thigh. I count
The beats straineously of the melody,
The vibrations of your works strike
Me to rhapsody. Who am I then?
A little child by the stream
Waiting for your sensual song, bird
To bide me somnolent
In a reveberating cacophony
Redolent of the train swiftly buzzing by,
The train that was you.

I would often sit at the threshold and wait
Till the moon grow to become sickle-thin
And the monstrouos night has sucked away
All the oil in my clay lamp. I still stay on
Like a good sentry, my eyes rummage hungrily
Through the pockets of a page,
Where the blood of your ink was shed-
For your sojourner I have become.

We will go together
In peregrination into the labyrinth
Of all those pages from the cream,
That was your brain.
I will be the mute acolyte,
Benignly I will wend,
Stepping into the trail you left like
Smoke unconcerned about direction,
Its flow turbulent, not the lamina vein
Of subtlety. Sometimes I feel cold,
My garb, goose bumps,
At the stark, sometimes shocking
Reality of your judgements.

You were and still is a victim of truth,
And I gloat at your judgements jealously,
Almost perfect. When not correct, you were
Honest, at least.

I would often dream
Of you smoking your pipe;
Your small, dainty frame silhouette nailed
To the wall by the pyrexed testis
Of electric bulb as Jesus to the cross.
Then your pipe bleed forth smoke
Like blood from fresh wound, seeping out
Ceaselessly, ideas sream forth from your brain
Like liquid from a boiling pot
Frothing over.

So I will proudly say I have
Some portion of your blood in me
To inspire my dazed memory
On those dark gloomy days.

for my uncle and late Nigerian Poet, Chris Okigbo.
(c) Onyebuchi, 2011.

Details | Onyebuchi Okonkwo Poem

Glittery Story

Tell me this tale of the sun flash
Across your face, too hot, harsh,
Your candid stories like fairy tales;
To ears harrass our illumined faces,
Indeed. I learn laughter's lofty gales.

I will stare at your straight visage-
Water and steel of similar, sly page,
Smooth, flawless in its frank portrayal
Of myself. I should know how rumpled
Water grow into ripples of a storied age.

Yet you Mirror, is yet so smooth;
A worthy canvas, a brushes' tooth,
Fluffy. You narrate my falls and glory
In solemn reflective manner, yours only.
I'm humbled by your simlple, arcane story.

Details | Onyebuchi Okonkwo Poem

An Ode To Small Comforts On a Rainy Afternoon

Bloom! Bloom! O! This evermore wintry tide
Whisper litanies, wondrous lullaby,
Caress skins in that comely way you ride
Marvels of seasoned rind of litany;
As you march avidly, a lone Magi
Desert of roofs blend, your trusty drummers
Quench their arid taste, dust tongues scream, twist, prancing
About. Cadence of words dry
Like fire throat, miles ran, visage of radar
Bridge and brace me to hearken, phone ringing!

Like the soft warmth that never try to hide
Of noon-lake, a swift cut of knife sharply
Through yam, perfect sequence of each slide,
Slices of ease drop, manna fall creamy
Upon eyelids-vertigo turn up sly.
I’m butterfly, cocooned in your fingers,
Spell the craze of disturbed markets racing.
Noxious nostrils, cold nigh
 To spill chilly globules, tobacco tars
Ebb cursive; somnolent steps receding.

Now I am soft like tender foliage wide
To stark sun rays, woman splayed, slippery.
 Rapture, I incline to your meshed inside
Grant that laughter of a nude history
Where specters feast, their bliss and empty sigh;
Anodyne rings of mirth with diameter
Copious, contempt of your feet pattering;
So my answer is wry.
Louse, I latch to the phone, sweet chat linger
Till rain cast her nest; am I lost dreaming?

First Place in Cyndi Macmillan's Contest.

Details | Onyebuchi Okonkwo Poem

Silent Night

S ilent night, cold night, frozen the drapes,
I n fog's advent, beryl chrome, winter's finger grips
L ivid network of view-less ether. Laser body
E ncapsulate chill, reproduce serenity, an energetic memory
N ow on shepherds' muse. Brew widened gaze,
T ug at ciliary components to drive in your daze.

N ight of delight, dabble upon us staggering shafts of bliss
I n this way we are Oliver Twist, expectant eyes
G row quivering wits, drawn bar chart, statistician's story 
H istory and bleakness of inequality. But you O Night beeps
T actfully-toy cat, serene not to wake darkly, dawn that sleeps.


For Francine Roberts 'Holiday Acrostic Contest'

Details | Onyebuchi Okonkwo Poem

Her Arrival, Herself

She arrived.
Meet her,
Boiled egg, naked smoothness white
Like marble, reliable and strong.
O svelte composure of demureness,
Burst and strut through
In the last quarter of the year
To us.
Border line, rain and sun
In battle, drench an already saturated earth
With querulous mingle.
And I am not earth bitterly
To harvest warm dimpled kisses.
Should I dare,
Descriptory massage,
Almond rounding of your eyes
Received and stored in a lid
Lubricated with tears, and contained. Those eyes
Belong to stellar-clad skies
Scudding pedagogically for the Magi,
Myself, they move, and I learn
A lovely pencil of nose, yours,
Yet domicled above lips
Unselfish to reveal snow-white melons
An opening of fresh rose bud,
With the fragrance raw.


The gait is contagious
Not to me. But I wish
I could see disrobed her figure eight
That would never be mine.

The soft breakables of the valley
Would be adored to wetness and excitement,
Fantastic, incited not by me
Who cannot enter that palace
Preserved in the garden
Of her thighs.


for Chiugo, my elder brother's wife.
(c) Onyebuchi, 2011.

Details | Onyebuchi Okonkwo Poem

My Beloved

You are my sacramental palace, O queen,
Domicile where my love have been
Waiting. Would I guess your name,
My dame, I will call you mine-
If you lovingly could be keen
To call me yours. I have seen

And looked love in the blinking eye,
You! My sacramental tarbanacle, dry
Of complaint, soft like an infant's palm,
Tender tendril of yam sprouting, sly
So gracious that I gasp wryly, 'why?'
Sagacious serpent gliding so high.

To capture my soul and wean it
Of hate. You career my heart beat
Not with clinical vessel so slow.
But with your voice smoothly knit
In sequence of all of its heat
A spectacle of a marveled kindred spirit.

Details | Onyebuchi Okonkwo Poem

Santa's Surprise

.
                                                          .~.~.
                                                        .~.~.~.
                                                      .~.~.~.~.
                                                    .*.~.~*~.~*.
                                                 .*.~.~.~.~.~.~*.
                                                ...I wrote to Santa
                                      to bring at large three yule strings:
                                              joy, peace, love. His gift
                                     came glazed; to my shock, one gift,
                                     Love, master of all, with mirth.........
                                               ****************
                                                   ****.......****
                                                           ^^^
                                                           ^^^
                                                           ^^^

Details | Onyebuchi Okonkwo Poem

Bird

O! O! O! Bird O! Bird!
                           Why quench the thirst of my enjoyment?
                           With your melodious beak-flute
                           It seems like malady to perch
                           On the rigid composure
                           Of the branch; or a dancing spectacle of leaves
                           Bending their way, hunch-backed, peering
                           Into the earth. Thus this way
                           Nutrients stream a bewilderment of trees
                           And nectarine condensation of your beak.

                          Will you sing to me?
                          Tell tales, narrate agonizing fables of yore
                          Sarcous sacks that build in moles,
                          That a atoms of being, clouded in obscurity.
                           But you Bird cannot evade
                           A temperemental quiver;
                           Plan of arrow, naughty,
                           From the bow, boys and smooth egg-stone
                           From beach- testicles of rubber bands
                           Meet and mingle with your dizzy fall
                           Then your quaint cooing
                           I would hear no more.

Details | Onyebuchi Okonkwo Poem

Protection Mistaken

Every morning will be 
glad for its noon
Not a drying debris of a 
forgotten lagoon
Where fishes fret, 
streamline too soon

To swim deeper like us 
cowering in hustle;
Mosquitoes chance on a 
scrotal hair- to shuttle,
To srike is di-
pain.Labourous fund's 
fumble

Upon the rind and egg-
shell. And proud yolk
Aloofly dance, wiggling 
slippery tail, chalaza folk;
Warm under pointy 
squeeze of teat of milk

Puppies thrive. A pouch 
opens to hold
Stuffs from a refined 
periphery. Was it mold
The thrifty twilit and 
stories of old told?

So this pouch remains 
warm to our body:
We who its benevolence 
steadfastly try, study
While we err and pride 
swerve us, gaudy.

-c-Onyebuchi, 2011.
3rd Place in Brian's 'Any 
2011 Poem' Contest.