My Quotidian Chant

This poem still mine
Heavy as lead they say
For me alone too weighty
You too have to share it
So take and keep
The piece of your choice.
It is the birth of my baby:
Labour pain in deserted oasis.


I scamper and caper on the hot sand
Chanting my memories of real poetry.
I was betrothed to this harsh reality
And besought to feel no pleasure.
I they forbid to feel it either
Lines of creative literature
In this world so impure
Where you stumble and fall
In attempt to wobble.


They scorn me poet who wrote this
With treason they sew up my lips.
Recording memories of slavery
And the complete drama of trickery.


I know I now need to marry,
I know you wish to marry me
And if thy Lord will it
Mine Lord too will.


I need a rebirth of self esteem
I wish God would give me a child
A wonderful baby to call mine 
One for me to rock gently to sleep
A pretty baby for whom to sing a lullaby
Chanting in a quotidian rhythm of pain
To create literary territories of liberty
Jammed with lines of poetry.


This poem the lines
Let chime and rhyme
Like toll bells in your mind
Only there will I write it
In unguarded secrecy.


Only there write it
My books are filled
With such lines of poetry
My feather-pen is weather-dry
The bottle has got not in it any ink
As the flooded fountain continues to drink
The irony of literary poetry.


This poem ever
All my poems ever
Not simple poem never.



My big brother will kill me
And fund the cost of my lavish funeral
If ever he reads this poem
So just open your mind
And there let me write it.


Father whisper to son,
Mother sing to daughter
My quotidian chant.

Copyright © Messoh Vincent | Year Posted 2016

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