Scrambling tooth and nail for a patterned fate
I approached the lofty mansion of Learning's Gate.
All cued up for a slip of paper - the one they call Degree,
halfway convinced that I hallucinated humanity.
For who under their own free will would venture
into this spiraling sameness:
this illustriously-in-debt, this Regal Club
of the Nameless?
I bellowed my voice into the air
(This great atrocity!).
But not a single student seemed to care:
So well fashioned they were,
adorned in their prized medals of mediocrity.
Along with their unwillingness to ever stray,
all too content to be but rainbows dreaming of gray.
I hung my head in such morose emptiness.
As I fashioned myself: the uniquely ubiquitous.
And what a fool I was to join the crowd - and yet so halfheartedly.
Striving for the cirrus clouds, the silver moon, and then the galaxy.
For my actions didn't match my cerebral creativity
I was statue still cursed with a meandering mind
(and other such extremities).
Exploding with hopes large enough for two
I sat clearly convinced languid leaps would do.
But one cannot daintily decide to dream the Dream
for it is merely the seed, another earthly deed.
You're not allowed to walk away, gandering as it grows,
for we are likened as the summer sun - keeping the rivers a'flow.
"Picturing profits in your hands
do not till the all too ready land"
explained the elderly gent with leathered palms,
"Someday soon you will understand."
And though we aim to be ourselves
brings us to the grid.
Imagination like a heavy rain;
we the paper people
so helplessly hid.
But fear not ye denizens
of the cherished cubbyhole:
where you keep under lock and key
your dust-laden soul.
If one burgeoning blunder
tore it all asunder
surely one single spirited spark
could heal even the most
dormant of hearts.
So fare thee well oh Cookie Cutter Coop -
Another day on that wretched plain, and I'd surely die.
I'm glad just to sever sameness in one fell swoop
by hanging on a star in the midnight sky.
NOTE: I always enjoyed using alliteration when I could... and with this particular one I went a little bit nutty... but I think it turned out okay.
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2014
Hoot! Hoot! Came the call
In silence I listened,heard
Suddenly, hoot! Hoot!
Came the cry,tree
Seems the world was in
Went I to the window
and Looked into the
empty Darkness. As I lay
down,I Knew somewhere
I would Hear that sound
Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu | Year Posted 2013
FREEING MY LOVE
Poetry is flying fish
Over a waterfall
It is words stuck in
An ancient spells book
Kept under lock by time
I tap into the recesses of
I find the key
To seek out the book and free
My love, poetry
I realize it doesn’t need the key
To be free
Just expression of it frees it
So here I am doing so
Letting it fly out of my mind
To fill the world’s emptiness.
Copyright © nana ayisha yakubu | Year Posted 2013
freedom means a lot to me
what does freedom means to you
to me;freedom is equal opportunities
equal reward for all
kinds of potentialities
to me as well as anybody elsewhere
freedom to speak without favor and fear
freedom to move to anywhere
so far as i want it
freedom is free and fairness
regardless of where i was born
or where i came from
the color of my skin
my religious status
or how i appear
for i am not what i wear
i need freedom spiritually
and freedom financially
what makes me different from others
is what i do with my life
Copyright © Star King | Year Posted 2014
Have a heart and heartless be not.
life is fleeting forlorn in hopes unfulfilled.
Seek truly caring kith and kin,
who love you still though flawed.
Loneliness by lasting love annihilated.
Passing passion ends in pain delayed,
though sought for sudden pleasures
and immediate delights.
Who cares for kin unknown and far removed?
The poor despised despite possessing huge hearts.
Copyright © Victor Chavez | Year Posted 2013
I don't know if I'll be back this time.
Time enraptures me,
Seduces me into places I know for too
A million faces but they'll never feel like
I got too close to the stone,
Heard marvelous stories
And wept when it ended,
And shared myself, do you hear me?
I love you yet I must go,
The past is obdurate no matter how
Adamant you are.
And sometimes, it feels wonderful to say
New adventures forever on the horizon,
New suns to set on me,
And a million faces that'll tell me to go
But I couldn't,
Because I am home.
These songs and stories I hear,
The winding alley ways to whom I'll
always hold dear
Because I've never been so close to home.
And I love you,
The million faces, I love them too.
I am home.
Copyright © Kevin Pina | Year Posted 2014
As October 1 approaches, HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY……………………
I have enormous tracts of land and vast volumes of water, but cannot feed myself.
So I spend $1 billion to import rice and another $2 billion on milk.
I produce rice, but don’t eat it. I have millions of cows but no milk.
I am 53, please celebrate me.
I drive the best cars in the world but have no roads,
so I crush my best brains in the caverns,
craters and crevasses they crash into daily.
I am in unending mourning, please celebrate me.
My school has no teacher and my classroom has no roof.
I take lectures through windows and live with 15 others in one room.
All my professors have gone abroad, and the rest are awaiting visas.
I am a university graduate, but I am illiterate. I want a future, please celebrate me.
Preventable diseases send me to hospitals without doctors, medicines or power.
All the nurses have gone abroad and the rest are waiting to go also.
I have the highest maternal and infant mortality rates in the world;
and future generations are dying before me. I am hopeless, hapless and helpless,
please celebrate me.
For democracy’s sake I stood all day on Election Day.
But before I could ink my thumb, results had been broadcast.
When I dared to speak out, silence was enthroned by bullets.
My leaders are my oppressors, and my policemen are my terrors.
I am ruled by men in mufti, but I am not a democracy.
I have no verve, no vote, no voice, please celebrate me.
My youth have no past, present nor future.
So my sons in the North have become street urchins;
and his brothers in the South have become kidnappers.
My nephews die of thirst in the Sahara and his cousins drown in the Mediterranean.
My daughters walk the streets of Lagos , Abuja and Port Harcourt;
while her sisters parade the streets of Rome and Amsterdam .
I am grief-stricken, please celebrate me.
Pen-wielding bandits have raided everything in my vaults.
They walk the land with haughty strides and fly the skies with private planes
They have looted the future of generations unborn;
and have money they cannot spend in several lifetimes,
but their brothers die of starvation. I want a kit of kindness, please celebrate me.
I can produce anything, but import everything.
So my toothpick is made in China; my toothpaste is made in South Africa;
my salt is made in Ghana; my butter is made in Ireland;
my milk is made in Holland; my shoe is made in Italy;
my vegetable oil is made in Malaysia*** my biscuit is made in Indonesia;
my chocolate is made in Turkey and my table water made in France.
My taste is far-flung and foreign, please celebrate me.
My land is dead because all the trees have been cut down;
flooding kills thousands yearly because the drainages are clogged;
my fishes are dead because the oil companies dump waste in my rivers;
my communities are vanishing into the huge yawns of gully erosion, and nothing is being done.
My very existence is uncertain and I am in the deepest depths of despondence, please celebrate me.
I have genuine leather but choose to eat it.
So I spend billions of dollars to import fake leather.
I have four refineries, but prefer to import fuel,
so I waste more billions to import petrol. I have no security in my country,
but send troops to keep peace in another man’s land.
I have hundreds of dams, but no water.
So I drink ‘pure’ water that roils my innards.
I need a vision, please celebrate me.
I have a million candidates craving to enter universities,
but my dungeons can only accommodate a tenth.
I have no power, but choose to flare gas,
so my people have learnt to see in the dark and stare at the glare of Unclad flares.
I am shrouded by darkness, please celebrate me.
For my golden jubilee,
I shall spend 16 billion naira to bash around the bonfires of the banal.
So what if the majority gaze at my possessed, frenzied dance;
drenched in silent tears, as probity is enslaved in democracy’s empty cellars?
I am profligacy personified, please celebrate me.
Why can I not simply reflect and ponder?
Does my complexion cloud the colour of my character?
Does my location limit the lengths my liberty?
Does the spirit of my conviction shackle my soul
Does my mien maim the mine of my mind?
And is failure worth celebrating?
I AM NIGERIAN, PLEASE CELEBRATE ME.
Copyright © Valentine Mbagu | Year Posted 2013
Speaking in tongue,
Listening in form,
Sectors of the lung,
Levitates to perform.
Differences in light,
Diffusion of rights,
PacMan fever delight,
Dimming prestige as a phobic,
Leaving an anaerobic,
State of mind for myself.
A mortal to be,
A mortal I am,
One twinkle from thee,
Forget what is norm,
Become what is professed,
Speak without lest.
As a mortal: We need to be a mortal with
WANT TO SUCCEED, AND KEEP FEAR FAR
Copyright © Stacey Behal | Year Posted 2013
He swifts on by like a moon lighted night.
He shines bright for a moment in time.
His arm's always open with warmth.
His smile always bigger then everyone elses.
His heart of rage and fire.
He swifts on by, he swifts on by.
Who will know the true man within.
The man thats full of sin.
No one can, no one can, for we are all just man...
Copyright © stephanie hanvey | Year Posted 2013
my feet punch the dull, rugged pavent as i slink down the cool quiet night with only the harsh stale lamp to highlight my way ahead a presence is felt as the hairs on the back of my neck come to a stand my heart unconsciously increases in speed my eyes dart from shadow to shadow as the darkness flies around me, mocking my every move my pace quickens as i attempt to escape the nightmare, they are chasing me now snatching at me with there thick claws ive been forced to a sprint they drew closer i can feel the cool of there pace against my back as i lurch forward out of there reach ahead is a never ending blanket of silent blackness i close my eyes and stop dead in my tracks as the darkness engulfs my life the suffering has ended
Copyright © Jayce Collazo | Year Posted 2013
Standing listening, listening, a brush of air passes by
The whaling, whaling, sound of the voice of the earth
Lisping, lisping, the words of the old and new
Hailing, hailing, you to stop and look and smell the air
The sigh, sigh, of hope that always given in time
Hush, hush, the noise has quieted down to a stop
The brushing, brushing, grass that is laid down by wind
Lashing, lashing, with quickness that cannot be seen
The high, high, notes that can be aching and soon heard
Snapping, snapping, ripping the air apart with its song
The loop, loop, which thrashes the leaves around
Standing, standing, letting the sounds brush around
The opening, opening, of lips pushing the air out
Whistling, whistling, that of which life has not gone out
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2015
Flames roared through the nights sky.
A glimpse of blue still protruded through the flames.
The heat warmed the mortals below.
They believed that this was a great night.
The sky emulated a beautiful red color.
The color was extraordinary with remnants of blue.
They believed that they were all safe.
They were not nearly as safe.
They were witnessing Armageddon.
The war between good and evil.
For no one is safe until judgment day.
That is the day when the sky will forever remain blue.
The birds will sing a tune.
The flowers will bloom.
That will be the day.
The day when we will all be ok.
Copyright © stephanie hanvey | Year Posted 2013
Dreadful dawn dug doggedly deep, dazed dues
Prickle-prone paths pierce peer-less purpose
Buried bricks burn beneath brine and blood
Homes and holes hitch-hike heated Hours
Sync'd steps stoop, saddling steely shores
Shadows of sagging shoulders shed shrewd strokes
Sanctioned sympathy sealed and soiled in stoic stories
Homes and Holes hauling hymen of horror hormones
Nagging newts nutured nadir of nervous noisome nuns
Jilted jones jaded in jiltery journey of jerky joules
Measled mare much-malligned by myriad of magnetic manacles
Homes and holes held hostage in hidden hydrogen hades
Copyright © Ajani Ibrahim | Year Posted 2013
My mind is a jungle
And I'm trying to tackle this shackles
A soul more superior than any dictator
Superior enough to leave hate
In the soul of man
And I know you can hear me walking
And I can see you watching
Fascinated only by my impeccable visage
Of Power and Liberation
Awakening the need for you
To admire all that's Supreme and Powerful
Do you hear me now...
Copyright © Connie Moraba | Year Posted 2016
There came a time in the history of Nigeria when she dreamed for independence,
There came a moment in the history of Nigeria when she groaned to gain freedom from the British;
There came a season in the history of Nigeria when she desired to obtain independence from her rulers.
The moment when she groaned for independence,
The season when she was ready to groam freedom;
The moment when she desired to be independent as a country.
The moment when she seeked her elites to stand up and fight for independence,
The season when she awaited the voice and appearance of her freedom fighters;
The moment whe she believed that independence was ready to answer the call of nature in her country.
The moment when she believed to find freedom and independence which as that missing part of her that made her a complete country,
The season when she trusted and believed in the treasure called independence;
The moment when she hoped and desired to be called an independent and sovereign nation in the history of the world.
The moment when she was expectantant of the mother called independence,
The season when nothing meant anything to her except for the father called freedom;
The moment when she still believe to be an independent country despite foreign exploitations,
with the understanding that she could still stand up on her feet as an independent country.
She believed that someone who understands her tears and passion for freedom and independence,
will arise and fight for her freedom knowing that he will never bear to see her travail in birth for independence.
The elites she knew not but believed was out some where fortiing and preparing themselves for independence and fight for freedom.
Independence she waited for like an expectand mother of a child,
Each step she took was believed to bring her closer to freedom and independence.
She believed in freedom and independence for her country and it's occupants, and not
colonisation and exploitation from the British colony.
She believed in fighting for freedom and independence than dying a coward,
She believed in her elites efforts to obtain her independence and sovereignty.
She expected her elites to stand up and rage for independence to freedom and sovereignty,
which they did when the opportunity and strategy came for them to uphold.
She believed that destiny will bring her independence and freedom,
when the hour of liberation from exploitation comes.
She believed that her pains and heart beat was felt and understood by her elites.
The name independence she was passionate about and the fame freedom she was desperate about.
The memories of colonisation she groaned to erase and the histories of exploitation she desired to filtrate.
The name independence she struggled to uphold and the gain freedom she strived to unfold.
Before her moment of independence,
she strived to make full proof of her countrie's ambitions,
she sort self asset and not self liability.
She seeked and desired independence and freedom from exploitaion which she got.
Her dignity and hour as a country was restored on that fateful day of October 1, 1960 whe she gained and famed her independence and freedom.
She believed in independence and freedom which she got.
The death of her elites and freedom fighters was never in vain.
This is Nigeria At 53 and she is still a sovereign and independent country.
Copyright © Valentine Mbagu | Year Posted 2013
Ive developed a bit of a fetish, dear,
The smelling of objects of a queer kind.
"Queer", the collective perspective of a selected few
Let me address the subject once more
Select more carefully the words I spew
I could always blame the man in the moon
Bending our horizons
Breaking our straight lines
Demanding ability of our mind
It was in the earth of a rock that I smelt my first sound
perhaps I heard the smell,which ever way round
Upside down inside out
The more ways I look at it the more life shines light
The more light fragments my sight
How wonderful, the array of colours
Have they always been there I wonder as I gaze into the array
into the sweet bliss of the day
Tossing words and metaphors
The sweet whores of definition.
Define, re-define, move some stuff around
in itself a process so delicately designed
intricate elements of another's expression exposed on the opposite end
Yet out of love
Smell this orange, smell this plant, smell this stone
Thank goodness this game is not mine alone, I've passed it on
the smell of sound freed from being bound by a single mind
We could also just smoke spliff on the side of the road
Remove the clothes of our built up guilt
creative confidence spilt in a display of laughter
It was indeed
a beautiful disaster
So now that you are the master once more
the master of your own disaster
The birthplace that chaos bore
The unbound potential of it all
Does the change of wind move your breath
Are you moved by the changing breath of wind?
I'm inclined to thinking, dear
Its rather intrinsic
A magic trick I say
And I do say,because I'm the boss of the world
You're the boss of the world
We showed them that day
On the side of the road
smoking our fat spliff
being deliberately exposed
It all made sense though, in the end
when the nose and heart got involved
and the warmth of the shared space of love
a cloak for the bitter cold
Here in lies a buried treasure from way deep down in the earth
Unearthed in a single tear
Heart vibrations cohere
In conclusion, dear, these are my perspectives
Acknowledging openly their equal opposite prospective
Let's crunch numbers to square this all off, for interest sakes, of coarse
So one and one equals eleven
the first Master Number
The illuminator, the messenger and the teacher
Who could have imagined such an extraordinary creature
Copyright © Dominique Baptie | Year Posted 2015
What source sends the singing that searches out man?
What spawns the silence before the sudden storms?
Yet, with all wisdom and with all his wonderful words
Man cannot tell nor discover where the wind is born.
The might that moves mariners over the bounding main,
Which molds mountains and makes mysteries for man
Yet gently gives play to the giddy youth of this age
As it pollinates the beautiful gardens still unplanned.
Frigid Snow, Fiery blast, Fractious Tornado, and flimsy breeze
All founded in figures shifting faster than fearless fantasy.
Yet, never turning from timeless tasks to trendy tales
The wind whispers and wanders throughout infinity.
Copyright © Sariah Colwell | Year Posted 2016
I drew a line in the chalk
I tasted freedom
I touched the moon
I saw the air conforming around human nature
I danced in bliss
I smelt emotion
The sweet aroma of artificial joy
I drew lines in the chalk
I drew lines
But these lines become permanent
The lines in the chalk became the lines on my soul.
These lines didn't make me jovial
But caged my mind
I drew lines
To set trapped insides free
To dance in the sky
To become light
To be wind
I smelt only what I could see
And what I saw were lines
A gradual flow of red streams
A visual art form of relief
I drew two lines
But they weren't in the chalk.
But I was an artist
Copyright © dineal karl | Year Posted 2016
Just Moseying Along
In the fullness
the empty scales
awaits full emancipation.
As the pale sun fades
frail freedom flashes
upon the horizon:
Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016
A moment of depth,
is a priceless treasure;
in its higher connection,
the supreme love does all.
A fragment of silence,
refresh our conscience;
permitting the sadness,
to fleet from our souls.
The night can be a bench,
to recharge and rest our bodies;
kissing heavens with our prayers,
while the Almighty bless our heads.
My voice is your voice,
if our thoughts are united;
let the spark and the fire,
sing the same song above.
Copyright © Walter Tomeo | Year Posted 2017