Back to the future,
the matured drawing bord...
The indelible sword of the allure that seduces her.
Her edge, it does not end...
instead, it bends into the infinite,
the undefinitive depth of what was and what is,
attractive...
reflective...
primitive...
Her pulse, pressing immovably
against her immutable mind...
She is a goddess, I must confess,
a kind of powerful rhyme,
a dime a dozen a thousand times.
Oh why!
Why does my poetry live and die
at the inception of her word?
The amenable nerd,
the affection of my mental arection.
I am not ashamed, nor do I wish to subdue...
or tame...
the flame burning in my name.
In the name of liberty and luxury
and lust...I must!
For it would surely be, a bona fide crime,
to decline the art just waiting to climb
from your lips, my prolific truth drips and dribbles,
Tantalizing...
Realizing...
Fantasizing...
Lionel Messi of Argentina by Adejola Joseph.
A mystery on the pitch
Little shorty conjuring the magical moment
The ball on his foot is like a sticker on your car
Messi is a monster
If he takes the ball from the center field
He dribbles five without losing his posture
He dazzles you
He entertains you
The he shocks you!
Messi creates something out of nothing
The only hope in hopeless situation
Never beaten until the final whistle
Messi
The magical Messi!
Thanks the stars I exist in your time
I witnessed the modern era of great and interesting football.
Messi
The magical Messi!
Prof Adejola Joseph. Nigerian poet laureate. Ijesha born poet laureate. 08136798381.
I pull out my watercolours
to try to paint what I’m feeling
Vibrant red stained by brown
Bright yellow blemished by grey clouds
But the blue, isn’t blue enough
No matter how much i try
Should mix in my tears
Or breathe in a sigh ?
My colours comes to life
Dripping onto my fingertips
As my hands sob onto the canvas
Puddles start to ebb and flow
The red is shocked by electrifying oranges
And seemlessly the ocher dances
The emotions glide through the water
Rippling in ever corner
My paintbrush soaks up the shadows hidden in
The umbra of my nights
The ones with which I put up a fight
The vista of shades become a philharmonic conversation
A babble of acute sensations
Dribbles of passionate abstractions
Mirroring my great sollitude
They wash out into the pot
and merge into a muc of liquidifyed spleen,
Gunky disquietude ready to be pored out of me
As i stain the paper and myself too
I giggle because now I really am blue
These stains stick to me
And now you can see
The true colour of my melancholy
Whose voice calls in my dream?
Can it be or is it for Him?
Whose hands reveal the unimaginable*
How evident enough will its effect be possible*
In this RACE, let no patience dribbles me away
An irresistible act of catching away due to divine force
Spurs me to wantng eternal desires
Sooner, all events of the age of grace would end
Other eschatological events will b given regard
Divinely, it's of PRIVILEGE & never a right
All saints would be carried away with Him
Both dead & living will be transformed
Immortalised - whole in spirit, soul & body
Escaping the course of tribulations to come
When ANTI-CHRIST will surface earth to fulfill prophecies
Outside are dogs & sorcerers
Never had they decline His existence
But want immorality - sexually shutup around & love the practice of lie
Forever certain and fire, the will continuously cry
As living being - you get grace for DOOR remains open
Abandoning it is scary to consequence
What may bring shame & prejudice
Fear nothng and this world of vanity
Lose all & have eternity
Thats God's PLAN for man
Photo of you I posted in my heart
Drives, dribbles me in the court that count
Logos I stick on my shirt
Faces of you that mount
Memories of you I treasure
Frequencies I feel and hold
Selfies you share with me so cool
Breaths of me that fold
Our pictures in me, I keep
Smiles we keep and lift
Night or day we dip
Our lips too far that drift
One day, you left and I pout
Days passed, I waited for you
You who forgot to send a note
And blaming me, not you
Upon your return you snobbed me
Acting like a kid and mimed at me
Photos of you and me I showed
Posted on a high wall...
in the mall where you met me!
Famished, starved truly
Love, withheld cruelly
Doled out in dribbles
Tiniest nibbles
Hunger unsated
Puppies and birds, they were Clarise’s go-to’s.
She always had her eyes out, she never did snooze.
Fishing them out of crevices, crannies and old boats.
She never brought home llamas, donkeys or goats.
Puppies and birds, she collected faster than most.
I have sixty-two robins, she said in way of a boast.
Her blue glasses were always full of dribbles of white.
These birds let down squirts on every one of their flights.
The puppies seemed happy, none were in cages or a pen.
I cannot open the door, she said, afraid I can’t let you in.
We didn’t want in there, but we liked seeing Clarise.
She has a keen sense of humor, and empathy, my little niece.
Anxiety consumes.
IT eats
And IT eats
devouring,
until the only substance left is drool.
A drool so cold and numb,
one could say IT hurts.
IT dribbles down the brain
looking at memories,
looking at moments,
ripping them and moving to the next.
IT leaves IT'S exhausting trail while going back to IT'S hiding place.
In the back of the mind IT sits, getting hungry. The anguish is almost addicting.
One more thought circles back and once again anxiety pounces,
always hungry,
always empty,
never satisfied.
Enveloping me in a cloudburst,
my minacious blues held a funk.
Dribbles are now torrential,
a rainstorm in my brain.
Overactive mind,
l’m exhausted.
Let me go
right now
fears!
He’d done this hundreds of times
Step up to the line and make two dimes*
Small crowds, large crowds, no matter
He sunk ‘em all, every record shattered
Three dribbles, a deep sigh
Swish! Easy-as-pie ...
How’d he miss with the title on the line
~ blinded by those dollar signs
__________________________________
*'Two dimes' is slang for two points; in this
case, two free throws made.
Ecstatic eye of night
thoughts tangled tangent
tint of orange moon
slivers were just hazy
incipient learned launch
as the querulous quirk
indented ingress idly
still desperate to capture
though less likely
lavishness connoting mood
human forest focal point
I dream in dribbles soppy
though never flagged yet
as futile aspiration amid
hues strictly night bound
might benefit wistfully
when strident slumber
indigenous to townscape
has its muted rippled
riddle not tactfully
resolved due to blind
daylight tinctured template
aroused by the clangour
of mint medley lure of
Arcadia circus dangle
of inchoate promise known
as crystal carrot jewellery
box whose flecks fly a riot
before the milling cluster
who wantonly wonder
at collapsing fortress inside
whilst rugged resilience
that tower block of prime
revitalised endeavour bent
on a fantasy forage with
disposition a pointless block
though underbody wobbles
if left without the widest
custodial watch of the self
one might be elated finally
Raining
Downpour Showers
Slows Drizzles Sprinkles
Misty Moisture Sticky Muggy
Splash Dribbles Droplets
Waterproved Spots
Rainbow
Solid denim
torn at the knee
dark hues of cotton
comfortable as can be
tears from the loving
of horses' gentle pull
stains where
children's hearts were full
A hint of reds
purples and greys
eclectic and simple
depends on the day
Easy the flow
strong are the seams
a small touch of color
smell of lavender when cleaned
Fancy it's not
though dribbles of strife
wares of this wardrobe
express a simple life.
Lugubrious blue mood skies funereal and morose shed raindrops,
they unleash tableau vivant torrent’s wet tranche,
blessing, bane or boon from vault of heaven,
damp pearl blob bewitching moisture mellow morph form,
the stuff of less than benign grumpy weather grouch,
whose plight infuses yen for sun-drenched bliss,
haven of the ultra-violet swathe enthusiast,
for others raindrops are a liquid gem relish firmament bequeathed,
to whet voracious craving of nascent pastures,
whose gaunt green blade emaciating stillborn,
that aqueous honey to hue-blazed floral garden in situ bloomers,
who swallow cloudburst drizzle meed in muted slurps,
droplet streak and spiral bubble patten on top hung awning window,
empyrean tear beads that roof top tap dance ritual,
so tantalising to the awestruck spellbound eardrum,
or impromptu downward dribbles on romantic saunterers,
prompting boisterous laughter as they flaunt their dome transparent chromium truss umbrella,
those enraptured red-blooded refugees beneath tilting gust spun bumbershoot,
as mud splatter cherry cheek urchins shriek,
amid the spray and splash globules at agile finger tips
If I were to look inside a rainbow
what sight would I find to astonish me?
Would there be a klatch of bright elves below
with brimming buckets and brushes in hand?
Would they giggle and sing as they painted
colors of the rainbow's mystic aura
with a linen drop cloth well-acquainted
with dribbles and leaks of the artist's stroke?
Would their casual conversation weave
tales of magic places and pots of gold
that a few unhappy humans believe
could be found to abolish all their woes?
I should like to think that the cheery elves
delight in creating rainbows of hope
to inspire mere mortals to love themselves
and rejoice in God's mysterious ways.
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