No sailor of seas on a long journey,
Nor gold coffers, just words of poetry,
Yet, precious nuggets from the depths of sea.
Gone to explore as a graying old man,
O rudderless with no more than a pen,
And ready to return with empty can.
Ye have explored single minded till now,
And find it fruitless to take stock of wow
Bare of brickbats—a rule somehow to bow.
Shallow praises, if not hollow, of pen,
On a dunghill as if crackles stray hen,
Shrill, vague voices that few care to listen.
Cheer up, ye chase no goal-pointed measure,
Passing an idle time, nor tame leisure,
Let your pen toil for spirit’s sole pleasure.
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Tercet |01.05.2024| poet, introspection
Poet’s note: In an age when scores of things vie for people’s attention, when nothing succeeds unless promoted and marketed well, a pen ponders. The poem is classified as ‘Other’, but it should be called a ‘Tercet’.
Categories:
dunghill, introspection, poets,
Form: Other
Eons on anvil, hit and miss,
Earth’s not mastered mood of Nature.
But look at this fool of a man,
On dunghill a much crowing hen,
As if has reached top of stature.
Easy may it be to reach there,
Much harder to take the due care.
His seems the right candidature,
Be atop endangered species!
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Reflections |30.12.2018, revised March 2023|
Categories:
dunghill, earth, men, nature,
Form: Free verse
Her rest lie at the dung hill
Curled in a fetal form
curled in lasting pang
calling out in vain
life is Pain
life is vain
alas, the lie has been pegged
Hmm, here comes the damned
piling the dung
piling her heap
thus spreading her space
Beauty has a cloaking face
Beauty has no name
Hailed, sung and cherished by the day
With the damned
piling the dunghill
With the damned
Enslaving her brain
Now she is a waste
Behold in pity
Behold in vain
Beauty on a dunghill is vain
Categories:
dunghill, beauty, betrayal, emotions, jealousy,
Form: Narrative
Marauding herdsmen, simple
in disposition,
but yet
sophisticatedly armed
straddling an AK47 as
the rod of a stockman.
The simple farmers, genial
in disposition garnished
with infectious courtesies
straddling simple tools.
It's a fight to the slaughter
not of cows so sacred
but
Of grazing rights and farmlands
Of pastures and food crops
Of the North and the South.
The sacredness of the herdsmen
and cattle.
The lowliness of the farmlands,
life
at its lowest ebb.
Impunity!, impunity!! where the
rule of law reigns supreme.
The herdsman as sacred as
Buddha.
But the farmer as droppings on
a dunghill;
to be trampled upon.
Blood and dust a mix with
derision.
Blue blood runs in the
herdsman's veins
The herdsmen reign supreme in
Nigeria.
Categories:
dunghill, africa,
Form: Free verse