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Poem

Childbirth,  an act of blase bourgeoisie-
How untrue expression it stand to be
With mother listening to the rhythm of
her dying father's song at noon sleeping?
All noted, supernatural fetishness... 
All written,  unbelievable forgotten expression. 
Our Dibias are home sick without their black cats. 
This time,  with calabashes filled with dirge
Tales of childhood in African soul. 
Takes of their unmerited spiritual failure,
nothing like the weight of a child to the palm,
from hand to lap, to stop the urge from the
longing lower part of the belly... 
Nothing taste like child bearing to a mother! 
In our bloodshot eyes,  we glimpse the vulnerability
that hide itself so well underneath our valuable eyes. 
Children are gold, bearing them is an experience 
graced perfectly by nature. 
Passion lies within its oasis of fate... 
Dreams return hope to an unpredictable womb, 
Child,  a purposeful treasure of a home whose
absent brings hurt and pains. 

©John Chizoba Vincent
   Cam'god 2017

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