Best Nothing To Write Home About Poems
Many years ago before I became a man
When i was just a boy having his fun
I had a grandmother whom i thought would never die
She would sit outside her house as I played by
She was tall and jolly and I was fond of her
She died one day and now she is beyond the moon and far
Things I never told her as a boy, I would like to tell her now
I know am crazy, but I hope she is listening somehow
Thanks grandma for all those warm and tasty meals
Had your house been a restaurant, I still wouldn’t afford the bills
Taking care of me while my mother was away
I would give anything just to be with you one more day
Curling by your fireplace, listening to stories and uploading memories
Those were my happiest days, where I knew little or no worries
Helping you gather the chicken, rewarding me with a cup of porridge
I feel tears in my eyes now, as I turn back the page to that age
After you were gone I grew up fast, not sure where time went
The days ahead would be the opposite of the time you and i spent
I have been on the highway to nowhere, not sure how to get there
My will to go on is worn out and I have no spare
Life is a commercial puzzle of which they give you no clue
Grandma, if you were here, you would hate this world too
It’s hard enough being a man, let alone somebody’s husband
Women today have no respect, and I hold no title to a land
Strong drink is all I have to remind me how to smile
But I can never drink enough to carry me further an extra mile
I am always pushed in the same corner every year round
I have nothing to write home about, nothing to make you proud
It’s not easy dear grandma, to have a heart full of dreams
Yet watch helplessly, as the long winding road ahead dims
To speak but have no listener, to sing and have no audience
Life has been a maddening affair, down this God-forsaken ambiance
You were a silver-haired woman when you died, me just a kid
But I don’t know if I will manage, to live as long as you did
For am tired and am thinking about joining you soon
I know its much better where you are, beyond that silver moon
It was on the hanging tree, that we Romans got from the uppity Greeks, that they
pinched from the perishing Persians. A fitting death for a criminal from where else but
Galilee, great for a soldier's leave with its women and their dark dangerous eyes and
the warm sometimes wild weather but the men there weird; notorious for its pathetic
prophets. We can't ignore rabble rousers, especially at Passover too, so we hanged
him with two thieves for company making a chorus of the dying. This 'King of the Jews!
Just three, so nothing really to write home about. One wonders why our officers even
bothered when long ago in putting down Spartacus' revolt we Romans crucified five
thousand or twice as many; our famed Imperial officials must have got so tired or too
bored to be accurate; anyway they were only slaves and if we ever allow scum to win
then our great civilisation, our liberty , would be under threat and we, our families too,
being tortured to death!
A common death, still, what if it is true that this Jesus came alive after three days?
Many shrug their shoulders today as yesterday. How many for Easter Sunday lunch?
What sports on the telly? Others annoyed. Why do these pesky Christians insist
on spoiling our well deserved holiday by marching through places in 'Christian' lands
on - wait for it - 'Good Friday', with their dismal story that is not the Dawkins' truth?
Today Christianity maybe is the world's most popular religion but it all happened so
long, long ago in a land that still festers, annoying other lands, with no sign of justice
and peace in the cradle of Christianity. Yet aptly named Von Ranker, founder of the
scientific study of history, said this of Jesus Christ, "In the annals of world history He
was incomparable!"
My pocket like a onion
I eat onion a lot,
Cos I feel so good about it taste,
The flavour from my lips,
scare's men that gossip,
away from me,
My pocket like an onion,
I understand the benefit,
of an onion
It lower my headache,
Help relax my body temperature,
A white herb,
Yet when I slice the onion
Tears run down my eyes,
Like a man moaning his wife,
My pocket like an onion,
Like a jungle,
Like a ghetto,
Life is painted with a fight,
Where Struggling is ovious,
Like a do me, I do you,
Competiting for survival,
In a tiny line of opportunity,
My pocket like an onion
When it comes to money,
The space of the rich,
to the poor,
Is largely clear,
in the third world,
People always eager,
To do something,
But still found,
nothing to do,
My pocket like an onion
When I was a boy,
I was never worried,
about tommorow,
Cos! In my youth,
I never understood,
what the system is all about,
I never worked,
cos I was at school,
My parent provides,
all that it take,
Papa use to say! son,
one day you will be a man,
I love when he says that,
cos! it create a joy in me,
Doe I never understood,
the gravity behind his words,
Now am older,
Is time to be a man,
My pocket like an onion
I found my self working,
First job In Africa,
It like a play,
The wages,
was nothing to write home about,
working so hard,
For a common wage,
when I check my pocket,
Hmmmmmm........, is a word,
No comment,
My pocket like an onion
throwing out all in my pocket,
Yet nothing is found,
So bitter I grief,
Is a funny world right?
tears run down my eyes,
Like when I slice the onion,
Cos of an empty pocket,
After a hard day job,
My pocket like an onion,
situation like this still
Exist in the third world,
On a high scale,
Where empty pocket,
Provokes one to shade tears
like when u slice an onion,
What a past life experience,
My pocket like an onion!
If they like let petrol be one
thousand naira at the station,
It is not my business not at all
I will still have my tea taken
Every morning with Agege bread.
If they like let them find not
The hungry budget paper,
It is not my business not at all
I will still have my tea taken
Every morning with Agege bread.
If they like let them create million
Jobs in the inland and the mainland,
It is not my business not at all brother
As far as they did not take my cup of tea
I will still live and drink with Agege bread.
If they like let them feed school children
One square meal per day in their hungry
State, sister, it is not my business to know
I will still have my cup of tea sweet as breast milk
Every morning with Agege bread to water down.
If they like let them fight over the country,
Let them embezzle all the money here leaving
The poor with nothing to write home about,
It is not my business anyway with them
I will still have my beautiful tea taken daily.
If they like let PMB travel all over the world
It is not my business with them at all here,
I will still make my tea in a brownish colour
As far as my cup of tea is not taken from me
I will be as happy as the puppy in my world.
If they like let them find the Chibok
girls in Sabimsa forest with Children,
it is not my business to know at all
I will still have my cup of tea taken
Every morning with Agege bread.
If they like let them repair the roads,
If they like let them bring light to us,
If they like let them stock all the money
Abroad, It is not my business to question them
I will still have my cup of tea taken daily.
I will only react when my cup is taken;
When my cup is taken from my mouth.
So long they don't take my cup of tea
From my savouring hungry mouth, I will
be fine, let madness rule and ruine them all fool.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016
The Best Thing You Had...
May 27, 2013
"Frankly Speaking" I can't hide my kindness? My exterior says tough; Yet, for some reason you looked right pass that!
I did not intend to care-or to love or to march on beat- or to become unhinged.
Can I hide my eyes? Why are you not afraid- Why doesn't my indifference offend you? Before now, not even months ago, I was shrouded in beauty; Which I thought was the reason for your endearment.
This time I am now withered - No way for her to see the big deal you saw in me. Beauty nor homeliness is not allowed to not stand in the way of progress - I was your means to an end- Then after she asked after me. You spoke ill of me said, that I was "nothing to write home about “. By then I'd come to know That I was your "best kept secret ".
She has stolen me from you like a thief creeping in the shadows. As a good friend, she had to ask you to make sure that her next move would be fair' She ask after me again - As she was one of your uppity friends that coveted whatever you were doing.
You knew what it was- ' She knew there was more to me than met the eyes, and so did you. So, the day you all went sailing on your yacht is when you deceitfully gave her your presumptuous assessment of my worth.
She in turn revealed to me of your “cum si -cum saw” pretentiousness. She told me she would do better by me and how unappreciative you were. She came to rescue me. And we stole away to the Boca-Raton.
And the best thing you had was now gone.! Even though my survival instincts and my ability to turn nothing into something. Still pays off for you.
Now you had the profit all to yourself ... Although I think about it often,I bet you never had a clue.
Yet with all you knew,when she asks you about me, the backbone of your spineless spine: The truth could have been told --and we could have been fine-
We are sharing the memories of those days separately. Maybe you know now why I left you with your "mangoes ", I never told you the secrets in my sauce. As I am just "FRANKLY SPEAKING"
(tid-bits of my life)
Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2013
AMBIVALENT
The swallowing of a morsel can't be justified
If the stomach still hurts.
Scorpion– the shining demon,
who doesn't stop until it’s quashed
applauds as it was filled with goosebumps.
A dog with two tails–yet barks,
and they say the future of the unknown
Is seen by Accompaniment of tears with personal growth.
Yet– the flame went down through us.
Come rain or shine,
A new Renaissance needs to be found
To a land proposed with happiness
In a wide dark bush filled with bitter leaf.
Yeh! the old Renaissance
The assumed room temperature was hugged.
some bellied up while a few fell on the wrong side of the grass.
Who knows!
If I will bite the dust before then!
Time flies like an arrow
No money– yet parties flowed like never before
No Food– yet waste bins overflowed with food remnants
Nothing to write home about
But bittersweetness is to be remembered
Peace be unto us that made it,
To that decade we never thought we could overcome
Surely another mountain shall stand against an egg,
Enthralling to see the new resolution.
©Fawass Olalekan Adelabu