Best Biro Poems
“I love you, pwera biro
Hanggang sa langit ang pag-ibig ko
Peksman ikaw lang
Mamatay man, Hanggang sa mabuwang
Tayo na forever, pinapangako ko
Till death do us part hanggang sa dulo,
Never na ‘tong magbabago
Para sayo susungkitin ko ang mga ulap at buwan
Ganyan kita kamahal
Wag mu lang akong iiwan
Puso ko sayo ay iaalay, Magpasawalang hanggan”
Pero tao ka lang NATUTUKSO
Isipan moy naguguluhan, Nalilito
Biruin mo sa loob ng apat na buwan at isang taon
Hindi pala Happily EVER After, “Hanggang sa Dulo”
Mahal na mahal pa rin kita, G@GO !!!
Ang totoo nga nyan, BREAK NA TAYO!!!
I only learned one thing in school
And that was how to fight
The teachers were always so good at it
And they were always right.
One teacher was nicknamed spitfire
Because she'd spit as she spoke
All the teachers wore mortar board hats
And wore long black cloaks.
Always late for lessons
Always got the cane.
School books hidden in your trousers never worked
You had to feel the pain.
One teachers face got so red when he got mad
We only had a riot in class nothing unusual
Didn't think we were that bad.
Our sports teacher used to whack us hard
When we forgot our P,E kir
And make us run through nettles
In bare feet the hurt more than a bit.
In science we always tried to make a bomb
And leave the gas taps on
We'd make pea shooters from biro pens
And when the teachers were facing the blackboard
We'd shoot at them then sit poker faced wasn't me Sir.
We'd hide around building corners
To gamble and smoke a crafty cigarette
Until one day a teacher came around suddenly
With a water jet.
One teacher had an affair with an other teacher
With a very pretty one with nice legs and blonde hair
I used to dream about
In my fantasies she was mine
It just wasn't fair.
I was convinced they were not human
But came from some other planet one day in spaceships
And not cars
Maybe they were from Mars.
We'd put condoms on door handles
Let the teachers tyres down on their car
Sneak into the girls changing room for an eye full
And steal their knickers and their bras
Sing rude words to songs at morning assembly
Throw stink bombs in the teachers lounge
Draw funny pictures in our books of our teachers with their trousers down.
Sometimes I'd be madly in love with a teacher or a girl pupil
And do nothing but day dream all day long
Skipping through fields of sunflowers hand in hand
Kissing like to clams under a tree all day long
Oh I was always in love with someone
And would often burst out in song.
I got good at forging homework diary signatures
Explaining why my homework wasn't done
It was always some far fetched story
Like I was chased by Atilla the Hun.
Ahh school days yes we were nothing more than savages
But the teachers were savages too
They should have changed the name school
To Human Zoo.
''I was a good boy I was''.
Peter Dome. Copyright.2015. June.
The mind that opens to new idea never
Comes back to its original size... Einstein.
I shall become a great writer when I grow up.
Then I will write about love and affection,
The negative side of love to mankind.
I will write about the evils in my fatherland
The bad leaders with their ego so high
To exploit the masses of their lily pride.
I will write about the calamity of humanity
That once lived in paradise earth but now
Dwells in dungeon with a lost host and dreams.
I will write about Ugonna and his feelings
Of hatred towards his father for hitting his mother
Not knowing that the old man was right in his deed,
What could a man do to a wife that dances outside.
I will write about the custom and tradition
Of my humble country home, nkporo.
When I grow up, I shall write about this place
How we grew up around this house chasing pretty girls.
I shall write about wole soyinka, chinue Achebe, j p clarks,
Chimamanda Adichie, Moremi, Oganigwe,Helon Habila,
Tunji sotimirin, Niyi Osundare, femi osofisan,
Ahmed Yerimah, samson iyanda, folu agoi, frank Eze.
I shall recreate the world with my speaking pen
Which have bEen in my shelf since my day one.
I shall pass a message through my biro.
I shall not just be a writer when I grow up
But a great and fantastic write with a great repute internationally.
Soon, I shall leave the four corners of this class room
To the street where life begins and ends,
Having to know what matters at the time it matters.
Neat orderly lines of chairs
Rattling biro pens on sweaty palms.
An echoing hall of icy airs,
exhaling teens failing to stay calm.
A bald figure glares over nervous being through supervising glass,
you will find me right in the middle of a scanty class.
A graveyard of buried dreams.
.
I was made to find ''x'' and i don't understand ''y''
why, ''A B, A B'' was the only rhyme scheme on my answer sheet..
Why, i had to quote and live by the words of another man,
so i could secure an A, B or C on that last day.
Alphabet i might never use in life.
.
Hmmmm...
What if, I get an ''A'' in farming and ''F'' in mathematics??
Does it mean am brainless?
What if,
I can't spell the word ''vehicle'' but can actually fix it?
Does it make me any less better than you?
I can't stand these tests
designed to determine the worth of our mind.
There was a young writer from Cairo,
So proud of his free flowing biro,
But he lost it in the sand
When a camel knocked his hand,
No longer his writing can flow so.
Malimit kitang tinutukso kaibigan
Subalit madalas ka namang minamasdan.
Akala mo laang na wala kang halaga,
Kabaligtaran pagkat labis na mahal ka.
Oo,tinutukso ka sa’yong pagkatao,
Sinasaktan pa mula ilong hanggang puso.
Kahit man ika'y halos mapatay sa tukso,
Paumanhin pagkat lahat yaon ay biro.
Halimaw akong palagi kang sinasakal,
Yunuyurakan minsan iyong puri’t dangal.
Subalit hirang sampu niring kamalian,
Katut’hana’y labis-labis kitang mahal.
Totohanan ‘tong sigaw ko na “MAHAL KITA!”,
Oo, dinig ng Diyos tangi kong Prensesa
Katutuhanan sa likod ng politika,
Ang sa puso’y totoong itinatangi ka.
Our education is dead!
Our education is dead!!
The bedrock of our society is gone;
Who shall bury it with its weeping soul?
The wise are crying at the hall of ignorance
The Ignorance are rejoicing at the detriment of their
Foolishness, rather than weeping togther with us.
No more chalk to teach us how to rule,
But there are many beers at the bar to drink.
No more table to sit in the classroom but
There are tables for the looters to write and steal.
No more biro to write and books to read but
There are many cigaret to smoke and enjoy.
Our education is dead and gone!
Our education is dead and gone!!
Teachers are bereaved at the dungeon of Unpaid salaries,
Looters build many mansions without looking back,
Their wards are sent abroad to school whilst we dine
With the dead system they killed with their legs.
Our education is dead and gone!
Our education is dead and gone!!
Fools are clapping in merriment;
The wise are entangled in fears of the unknown.
Our messed generation care not,
When is the future for the messed generation?
The ICT systems are sagging,
The academics boards are leaking;
The professors are dead with their sagging English,
They are teaching us nothing, nothing at all!
Our education is dead and gone!!
Note: this write depicts the atmosphere of students, about to do exam. The prepared and none prepared ones; how both of them feel in the exam hall.
Let words burst from brain
and quill dances on sheet
Let ink drools on paper
and cute words form
Let school wrecks her head
and paper fills with words
And none head gives hand
for it is her way to read
Let class knows best
when biro dances without halt
and paper sags of load
and shouts I'm load
and eyes grin in pride
saying thank God I read
And she determines her progress
with ease she says I shall pass
Let low knows her weight
when eyes twinkle as star
and mind fills with dust
and biro is chewing gum
and paper blank as space
then she knows I must study
all the best in the hall
for I wish you all to pass
Tucked away
right at the back
of my husband’s bedside cabinet
lies a brown leather wallet
The money is long gone
but to him it contains
something far more precious ...
My business card
from Radio Lollipop
a charity we were involved with
I turn the dog eared card over
and smile
written in faded blue biro
is my old phone number
This tiny little card
resulted in our first date
and eventual marriage
I have a lump in my throat
knowing he has kept it
for so many years
I drink until I drop
While he cheats and get a drop (drop- STI)
Where bottles are emptied I am found
Find him where condoms are filled
And zipped are undone
I drink, flirt and blackout
While he bumps, grind and passout
Weekends I watch football
While he figures out
as to whom to empty his ball
Social networks are his strong hold
Whilst mine is to grab the cold
My lies are easily detectable
His are barely discernible
The point here is that, there is absolutely
No point to be made
Just an inebriated poet
With a biro.
I want to go to school
Where papers draw lines on the sky;
Where we see our future backoning at us.
I want to learn how to steal with the biro
I want to reveil the hidden lines on the sky;
To reveal the sky' dirtiness to the world.
I want to go to school without a book,
I want to join those barking farmers;
Those farmers without holes and knives yet; they go to farm.
I want to sit among those seated with the moon;
Watch those that fly in the sky without wings,
I want to go and learn how to wet graves with tears.
I want to steal and speak corruption,
Hold Bible on my left hand and, gun
On my right with ease and confidence.
I want learn to write lines that break ribs,
To baptise many with words that change;
I want to go to school to learn change.
I want to learn how to cry under the water,
Learn if fishes ever get thirsty of water;
I want to know why birds don't fall off trees when they sleep.
I want to go to school and learn why building is called building when it is already built;
Why they say dogs food is new and improved,
when no one tastes it.
I want to know why and why and
Why pizza is round and comes in a square box;
Why doesn't glue stick to its bottle,
And why money does not grow on a tree but banks have branches.
I want to go to school and learn why I'm me,
And me and I never agree together when in trouble;
I want to learn why lizard has no hair and why
The sky is white without lines drawn on it.
While downloading some music
a thought crossed my mind,
of things that I learned in the past
when playing old music in various formats
which, sadly, were not meant to last.
I learned concentration when using a biro
to untangle a music cassette,
and patience when searching my reel-to-reel
for a song whose place I would forget.
And keeping my hand steady,
breathing quite slowly, thus making my
body relaxed,
when lowering the stylus on my record player
to land at the start of a track.
So my patience, control and nimbleness of finger
I've held up to the present day,
while all the young 'uns who want everything now,
have missed out on these joys-
Just press 'Play'.
Don't be telling me we need technology,
I understand it easy but it's not for me.
I own a PS3 and Grand Theft Auto,
one game disc that rotates with audio.
I don't buy MP3 I still purchase CD,
I like to look at the plastic collection on the shelve,
others take selfies, a plastification of themself.
I don't care for Facebook, use it as a poetry book,
I haven't signed up to Twitter
'cus I havent the time for celebrity litter,
to busy writing bits of rhymes into poems
to then show 'em as a Facebook status.
This electronic age is overrated and separates us,
like all are Spartacus apart
and using electrical sparks to much.
I spark a hunch and clump hunches together with pen,
I do it again and again,
using ink when I think so I link lines and mix sounds fine,
Iphone and Android cameras encourage steroid usage
and they clone how they prefer to think they look at this age,
but all have baggage, get old and all have saggage,
technology brings out the shallow and that's savage,
I photoshop with a biro and redo the negatives,
while their perspective is negative unless looks are perfected.
120,000 views on my poems,
no idea of how I look to them.
Don't tell me we need technology,
I understand it easy, I just prefer poetry
.
400g of inspirational words
75g of blank canvas (recycled paper for the Eco friendly or a lap top for the modern aged)
50g of writing materials (pencil, biro, quill and inkwell or ink cartridge)
1 tbsp of friendly comments from other marvelous poets.
Stir well, heat on stove or in microwave.
Season to taste and enjoy!
Break the fire that burns the soul
Never couple the blood unless it is hot,
The scented motion are fire proof in the oceans
Where the weeds are the king of the grasses.
Days of unholy beast of lust and lost are here,
Drop your ears, drop your tongue of justice;
Let's tell tomorrow that seperation is gone,
Gone to the fading psalms of sorrow.
Split the heart of agony without a second eyes,
Make the tears that bleed in their seasons cease.
The music that plays from Nkporo to Edda,
The dancers that swing from Abiriba to Ohafia,
The voiceless that are seated from Item to Ozuakoli,
The hands that are busy from Igbere to ugwueke,
The eyes that sees from Mbaise to Mbano,
Remember and cherish us at the sight of
The spirits that queue in Isikwuato and Abiam;
The masquarades that sing from Arochukwu are
Not only for the mouth to clap in sorrow, but it
Is for the legs to walk no more without a step.
Who says black men are stupid? Let him come home;
Come to fatherland and see that the blood that runs in our veins are truth for wisdom and intelligence.
Listen to the faith of the lovers in the African soil,
Sound the drum louder from Aba to Umuahia,
We bake poetry and tradition that live for thousand
Years, we are what the tourist seek in the west.
Who says Africans are beast of burden from womb?
Who says we are monkeys rather than humans?
We connect borders that testify of tomorrow,
We are the unsung song that singers clamour for,
We are the artifact of the moon and the sun.
Leave me, leave me alone; let my pen bleed blood!
Let my inking biro tell the world of her injustice
Against the sons and daughters of African.
Soon, soon; they shall watch us like a movie of love.
Africa is with hope and tomorrow,
We are not in sadness and trouble.
We have men unuttered by immorality,
We have children that never kill but look
With a hopeful face to see the world change.
I ask you again, 'who says Africans are fools?'
We are not, we are not like they think we are.
We are made of shade of tradition and cutures,
Africans are the sons that sun the sun of the world.
We head the head that head tomorrow's head,
We legs with the legs that searches future legs,
We are Africans, proudly African we are.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
All Right Reserved