Long Palm oil Poems
Long Palm oil Poems. Below are the most popular long Palm oil by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Palm oil poems by poem length and keyword.
Once upon a time in Erin land,
the sun smiled on the people
the rains communed peacefully with thunderstorms
Erin flowed with palm wine and palm oil,
And her children drank to their fill
Oba Adeniran, was a great king,
loved by both the gods and his people.
Providence favored Oba Adeniran
Oba Adeniran had two healthy sons.
Now, Oba Adeniran must name a heir out of his two sons,
Or, he may lose the throne upon his demise.
The happy Oba had no worries.
His two sons were hale and hearty.
Omo-oba Adedayo loved his younger brother above all;
but he was nothing like his father in nature.
To him, the throne is his birthright,
So also are beautiful women and sweet wine.
Omo-oba Adegboye unlike his elder brother, was a hater of law and lover of war.
He too wanted the throne and so spilled his father's blood,
Somehow by providence, his mother and brother escaped.
He’d crossed the thin line between love and hate
Omo-oba Adedayo raged with vengeance.
He must avenge his father and reclaim his rightful throne
He rallied allies and built an army
His mother scraped her knees, and washed his feet with warm tears of love
But he won't yield to her plea for peace and truce.
It's better to forgive and rebuild, than to revenge and perish, she warned
Too late, the battle had begun.
The two princes came upon themselves
One fighting a just course and the other fighting a lost course.
He who lived by the sword, died by the sword
The good prince defeated his younger brother, and reclaimed his possession.
The queen mourned for months.
Husband and son dead, yet the throne lived
The victorious prince celebrated his victory with wine and women.
Thence, the die was cast, he must be crowned.
But then, tradition must take it's due course.
No coronation for a king who has no heir.
Omo-Oba Adedayo must beget a heir
Years upon years went bye, but no cry of a baby
Alas, Omo-oba Adedayo has a dead manhood.
A disease, his souvenir from women and Alcohol.
Now, the crown must move on, to another bloodline.
And it happened once upon a morning
Erin land awoke to see Omo-oba Adedayo’s body dangling from a tree
A deliberate escape from the shame of failure.
Till date, no one either remembers Oba Adeniran
Or any of his two foolish sons.
But then, the crown lives on, and has never been forgotten.
I could recall the
epic journey of my
ancestors
With palm oil in
their lips and kola
nut in their mouths.
They all wore the
ancestral rope down
on their waist
down the mountain of
wisdom and bravery
To fight for the
freedom through the
ancient call.
Wisdom and
perfection were with
them.
Courage were their
backbone
They were bound to
the journey.
They were champions
of all time,
Heroes who fought
merrily for their
generation to come
they Harvested the
roses of the
paradise and grown
them in my village.
Pretty roses, king
of all flowers are
grown in my humble
land.
Champions are breed
under a glorified
atmospheric
condition in my
village.
Pretty ladies with
dark ski, long hair,
pointed nose,
beautiful body
White set of teeth
and dimples are
breed there
Under the motionless
passion of love.
Wisdom are made in
my home town
Love grows strong in
the eastern
heartland.
Bravery dwells in
the southern home
where the black
liquid lives.
Have you heard of
Chinua Achebe, Wole
Soyinka, Niyi
Osundare,Femi
OSofisan, Olu
Oguibe, Buchi
Emecheta, SEfi
Attah, Helo Habila,
Teju Cole, Flora
Nwapa, Adaobi
Tricia, J P Clark,
Ben Okri, OBinna
Eruchie, Chimamanda
Adichie, Saro Ken
Wewi, Akachi
Adimora?
They are roses from
my village.
With the spirit of
"NIgerism" they
stand tall, unshaken
They speak louder
and clearer upon the
mountains,
They lifted their
body and soul to
work
And break through
discrimination and
rejection.
To tell the world
that Nigerian could
do better.
They were crucified
by thought and
change
Passion for
greatness, air of
change, they breath.
There are still
undying roses within
speaking silently
Waiting for the
right time to strike
the match box
Waiting for an angel
to emerge like the
village voice
To speak perfectly
to the world.
Roses are grown in
my village.
The journey began from birth
Since presented out into this life,
The brow beating experience,
Gloom besetting this vagabond soul
Are harrowing like the trail in front,
The ancestors had proclaim the future
To be bright, baring all retributions
Encounters in life,
They have spat out hard wine
Cracked the obliging kola nuts
And chewed the Alligator pepper,
Honey gel and Adun had featured in my throat
I have been boiled in salted perfume
And showered with herbal spring,
My soap is dark mushroom from an ancient iroko
Soaked in the pot of palm oil
I am spick and span;
The red-hot emerald from ember of coal
Have burnt into my chord
And swallowed into my belly,
I, lifted up with shaking hands
And showed to the rising sun,
The two hands clasped together
Taken up at wrists with shaky hands
And showed to the setting sun,
My legs brought together
Gripped at the ankles with shaking hands
And turned upside down;
Showing me the underside, inner in of the universe
The world is not trust worthy
Don’t take more than you can chew
Don’t give more than you can chew
You will grow and yet old
Prosper in life yet progressive
Go in peace,
You will not miss it
You will not die
You will not smell
You will not wander
You will not miss the entrance to your abode
You will not suffer reproach
Go with joy,
I then gathered together including
Sack of experience of life on my back
Loaded with my egg on top,
They weigh a tone but, not a weigh down.
I have journey to the end of the ocean,
Climbed to the tallest peak
Tour to where the wind originated,
Seen and met genera diverse in
Mythology, taste, setting in milieu
I have gone to the end of pleasure
And back; still I am on trip.
We love to make lists,
To describe, name, number.
How can it have value,
If not on my list.
As logger I stand
Before the green forest,
The numbered trees
Are ones to cut.
The forest cut down
Is only to me
Bigger box to live in,
A shiny new car,
The species I slaughter
Are not for my count,
They appear on
Another mans list.
Naturalists say
We'll not care to,
Protect animals
We're not taught
To love.
But lists stand appalled
At life in the forest,
So long they peter
In our dismay,
Jaguar, Lemur
Capybara, Agouti
Blue Morpho Butterfly,
Tree Toed Sloth.
Tapirs, Ocelots
Even Kin Ka Jous,
Countless insects
Eagles and bats.
Scarlet Macaw,
Reptiles, amphibians,
Snakes and lizards
Too many to count.
Epiphytes, bromeliads
The Bougainvillaea
Ferns, moses, lichens,
Quite without number.
Two thirds of flowering
Plants are found
In rainforests
Going on lists adinfinitum
But do you really care.
Capitalist drivers
Economy must grow
Making it cheap
To maximise profit.
Palm oil a desert
Hard wood for looks
Till next years fashion
Changes the rolls.
Who can make lists
Play the accountant,
If the bottom line
Only shows human worth.
How many species are
Bought for ten dollars,
Balanced in columns
Of profit and loss.
What accountants
Hand or eye could
Frame the aeons
That go to create
The beauty
Of the ecology of life.
Tiny movement
On the wicker chair
Jumping spider
Catches the eye,
Instant spring
Strand to strand.
All its being
Compact perfection,
Taut intent
In the moment of life.
Awed to wonder
Begs the question,
How can anyone
Cut the rainforest
That I learn is,
Though never will see.
The sun's savage fingers have penetrated
the calving sheets of ice, delving deeply
beneath the blankets of the frozen surface.
And the oceans, bruised mauve and swollen
like a pregnant whore, rail against the rocks
of man's kingdoms with their bowels ripped
open by bleached coral and rising temperatures;
from which clouds rise up, bitter like a smog
eclipsed sun, only to fall back to earth with
corruption pinned to the coat tails of every raindrop.
And, across the fields, a coal-filled crystalline air
drives a guilty world's dreams towards unprotected
lungs and evaporating lands. Where oil worshipped
totums portray the sordid lucre of promised bounty,
producing lopsided views of a dying humanity
And the keeper of the rain forest's keys deals with a
polluted man, chain saw in one hand and palm oil in
the other. Leaving the abandoned trees to rage
unheard against the indignity of their rape.
Leaving embattled tribes, gentle guardians of the land, to
stand defenceless against the idolatry of the dollar; whose
spiteful colours of destruction are spreading their kaleidoscopic
tendrils across a world full of dust bowls and refugee famine
Proud are we who stand tall against a world that gave us
a garden to play in and a sea to banquet on. And proud are
we who make the toys that blast holes out of creation and
bind the full power of the sun's wrath against such a tiny emblem
"Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much. Wisdom
is humble that he knows not more" (William Cowper 1785)
Just like a germinating node,
so are the childishly preened pudenda load.
Ecstasy in fluffs of dew are bestowed
as croissants for neonate are getting bold.
Silky gazelle of a nymphet endowed with
sacra enshrouded in rotund paunch.
Void of fangs and mouth befitting are the teeth
of the edifice in humanoid with no grouch.
The seed of yesterday grown into belle
with dribbling tactics like that of Pele.
Flaunting is the resolved fate
of the sacred supplements to beckon dates.
Beauty turns a bristly cave to hot zone.
Porously damaged by the bruises of intruders than ozone.
Countless are the palms that perched on bristols.
Maw sleazily sips syllabub of bullets from pistols.
The sacrosanct abode is completely looted.
Detritus is what left in meretricious package for the prudent
who services in honour of the temple,
even though he is deprived of sacred virtue.
No sooner did she coruscate
than bean cake burst into hot palm oil.
The past becomes a hunter of the present,
so once valued lifestyle turns to toy.
Seductive lustre of her face turns to squeezed monster
by the harvest of sacrilegious treats
deliquesced to sweep away the sacred grace offered
as a companion and visa to yonder.
Bedridden attire inextricably adorns the body of a raver.
Cosmetically pimped face is decked with burnt patches.
Pimps desert their client in company of debilitated beavers.
Sacred virtue that breeds grace is not found to save its owner.
I am a son of the dark continent
By conception and ancestral offshoot
This black earth,
Where my dark ancestors deposited
The birth right of my life
In the dark bowels of our black sacred earth,
As the Canon and cradle of civilization;
The Land where my dark nostrils
First embraced the dark air in my dark lungs;
Which my dark ancestors bequeathed me;
The sacred ancestral black air which saturate
My dark back bone and black spinal cord,
Ensuring the purity of oxygenated black blood,
Meandering inside the black bowels
Of my black body and dark soul;
Galvanizing sacred ancient wisdom
The bloodshot ebony retinas
Of my dark sacred ancestors foretold
Time yellowed corn from afar
Blazing tobacco pipes competed fiercely in the twilight
For supremacy of sacred African nights,
With African Moon and unyielding black stars
Of Africa
The sweet aroma of embellished palm wine
Buried in the bowels of countless kegs of sacred African calabashes;
Roasted yam dipped in sacred palm oil and African pepper
Teased their black taste buds, stretching it to the boiling point of saturation;
Bonga fish and soaked garri was their appetizer,
As my dark ancestors soaked in the dark skin of black pride,
Battled to determine whose black skin was darker
Than the pitched black nights of Africa;
And whose black blood aligned more with black Africa's clay earth!
Boast brownies baking
in dirty palm oil bacon fat
Sugar-coated swine vanilla cupcakes;
pineapple upside down snout snacks,
so coconut phone hasty ...
Sound-byte puff pastry
Flour-face teflon pan —
tart marshmallow mint muffin
Silver tongue baguette
spooning out citrus acid banter batter,
so sour cream tasty ...
Lip huff puff pastry
Pinocchio banana crêpe nose;
roasted lies, almond alibis deep fried
Blueberry bagel beak raisin Cain,
yeast yell swelling pride:
Con-fectionary leaven in the oven,
so mint cookie I scream dainty ...
Pigging out on the puff pastry
Prune-flavored pucker paczki,
Fat Tuesday belly decadent bowel delectable
Cinnamon bun —
pumpkin spice glazed doughnut sphincter hole,
so dollar fig bark hasty ...
Plum tweet puff pastry
Odd cream of Bavarian
whip up the Orange Clockwork zest crowd
Egg white octogenarian
kneading raspberry rhetoric —
Gen. Custard pie hole powdered sugar loud,
so strawberry swirl tasty ...
Marble fudge puff pastry
Apple cruller golden crust coin flavor,
chocolate frosting money honey savor
Pecan pie cherry cheek a la mode,
buttery scone biscuits served cold
Key lime cheesecake dainty ...
Black bury tone puff pastry
Perchance blank sheets had choice,
they’d refuse the stain of ink.
Yet ink delights in spoiling emptiness,
like palm-oil staining white cloth.
That defiance—
to create and keep records,
to write poems for posterity—
perhaps, or perhaps not,
like smoke beneath a cover,
escaping what time cannot cage.
Sometimes poems sing into thin air,
with no eardrum to soothe.
Other times they endure the test of time,
speaking as soliloquy to the unborn,
through wisdom and well-chosen words—
like echoes billowing through valleys.
Few then recall the ink
that shaped such classics,
long dried and discarded,
like footprints blurred by rain.
It is the paper that blows the kisses,
absorbs the tears,
and wears the credits given.
So paper may delight,
while ink grows dispirited.
For obscurity never veils real visions—
a passing cloud misguides the senses
from knowing who holds true honour.
So paper may rejoice,
and ink fall into silence.
Yet vision does not drown in shadows—
like sunlight veiled by dust,
truth will still gleam through,
to honour ink that turns blankness to beauty.
JACKIE OILY PALMS
I recall them days that i lived
at the east coast of Kenya
then a college boy
We lived at the hostels near customs
in a place near an animal orphanage
Hallers park- near Bombolulu town
Where coastal s loved to partake
sweet palm wine straight from
the palm trees all over the region
Me Georgie and Jackie
then best of buddies
went to try out the wine
Started out on the real wine
before they offered us 'cham'
claiming its oil from the palms
First taste i know its locally distilled spirits
very potent and lethal.. i edge my buddies off
but despite.. they decide to partake the spirit
back to the eatery Jackie now eating
from the dinning table apparently those
who partake palm oil don't need plates
Jackie following day too sick cant attend classes
we did-int tell him the secret that me and Georgie
threw up all we drank from our delicate stomachs
Brave Jackie held it in and Memo had to comfort him
..Sorry Jackie you have malaria fever and your so sick..hic..
we dint let go that twas the palm spirits haunting our Jackie
lewis k NYAGA