For you were a shrub among the poplars,
Evergreen and watery seeds your watchword
Scribbling knowledge in spilt-milk saga
Set pace for the observing world which in
Foetus I did follow, after the mighty fall
That very spot at the Nsukka Front should know
No deletion; let it grow shrubs for Okigbo’s wreaths,
And, poplars, in one single trunk, be his monument of a
Shrub among the Poplars.
And let the HEAVENSGATE open for him.
Dawn is a broad, unflawed painting
hanging on the loose threads of light,
hiding first behind wavering bulrushes on
the soft spikes of day
before spilling the good spell on us
of a new beginning.
Dear old man,
My quill quivers.
How do I glorify you,
With only ink, not gold?
Oh lady Calliope,
Lift my soul.
A pin drowned in an ocean of words.
Guide my conscience with notions,
Dearth of words I face,
To sculpt my father's grandeur.
A shrunken, grainy face is all that's left.
Struggles, unparalleled for eternity
Spine bows, for the weight he bears.
A warrior bending his knees to fate.
Wounds he has procured,
A soldier indisputably.
Laments the injustice once and twice,
Yet, prefers seclusion.
No more wars he seeks to wage,
On his own kinds.
The past shoots arrows at him,
Bleeding eyes and shattered bones.
How can one slip such agony?
And forgive his enemy.
Yet, still, Calliope,
Though you guide.
The shaking of my hand,
Hardly lets me carve his story.
Despite your hand over mine,
How do I shape an epic?
With your silent melody,
There’s no day like you
Quite like Christmas, splendidly
You reign supreme in what you do,
Reminding us of easy peace
Of time, solemn and gentle to the tune
Of fork and knife on plates of geese
After the church bell had rung at noon.
It’s gradually falling
Summer is increasingly lolling
The leaves are gently browning
We can’t wait for October’s crowning
When the gold leaves of lustre
Charm the fold with their cluster,
Flamboyantly trooping the autumn colours
And socially grouping them with lullers.
Leaning towards the pride of Hoboken,
I learned to listen with both ears —
And my wandering soul—
Whose cellar harbours old kegs of sweet
Songs that warm the spirits and embolden one
With just one hum of that pleasantly unique voice,
So frank and euphonious
That I crave love.
I hate to chortle at the sound of broken laughter,
Just like I refrain from weeping when dancing smoke fills my eyes . . .
But when dogs mourn alone,
I chafe my hands with the cold of tears of solitude.
Monuments and cairns I crave among the icy
Terrains, where dogs’ paws leave eternal marks —
The print-marks of an important visit,
Evidence of life on desiccated earth.
On board The Fram they sailed majestically
In the beginning,
Before joining a steam of blizzards they escaped from,
Returning home, northwards, gelid and depressing,
For a funeral of dogs,
The ceremony of age,
Attended largely by silent yaps of strayed thunder.
The swallow has gone,
Flown away, so has its mellow song
And so forth we go,
into bluer skies—indigo
Tempts drift further till tepid
Southern shades should not bid
Amid its alibi is incidence,
sun shrinks in appearance
Grayest shadows deepen
The first cool breezeway creeps in
Much warmth shall be ebbing,
heralding winter's woolen webbing
I count my blessings
of summer’s endings:
Abundance of sunshine so bright
Zephyrs on a tender August night
Book clubbing with best of friends,
Labor Day weekend marks summer’s end
As Summer ends Fall shall begin,
and what joyful gifts a winding wind
against glistening skin
Autumns kiss of this kind,
an earthly bliss entwined
And when the swallow returns,
no longer summer yearns
no longer summer yearns
bruises scars and stretch marks
the sum total of diverse past experiences
~ I am strength and stamina
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Her eyes are laden with drunken sleep,
Silhouetted by lank, tired hair flimsier
Than the spine of an elderly, broken night.
Tattered, it buries the horrors of night;
Braided, it creases the rows of black corn,
Sweeping swiftly south and downwards;
Ponytail ties the umbilical linking life
And skyline light.
Lissome, she traipses with no lamp,
Even when darkness confidently pitches its nightingale’s romance
To district judges seated on the kerb of the apothecary’s creed . . .
With her the night loses its potency,
Its sacredness,
Expelling flies that die out on their own willpower,
Like winged dinosaurs,
Through the age of decomposing summer.
It's all been analysed before?
The oneiric spell cast upon slow, difficult nights
When the breath smells like the anus of hell.
By the way, I drivel.
Not saliva.
Oh, no!
I drivel on about hissing nights that ought to be lonesome,
Stretched out, dark, and without rays borrowed
Earlier from a twerking twilight.
Restless nights, worn like silky cloaks, diaphanous,
Seeing through the naked veins of her sweet eyes.
By moonlight when the moon shone with all her majesty,
My ancestors told us the story of the Tiger,
Which crouched at every rumble of the jungle-thunder,
Either out of fright or from bravery;
Tiger, male and ferocious,
With wicked fangs,
Tiger which breathed fire upon the foliage that shielded
Our village from the rage of the sun,
Which raped lady antelopes with utter contempt,
Which dined lavishly on forest flesh
And wined drunkenly on hunters’ blood,
Which knew no honesty,
And which turned wild upon them,
My ancestors,
Season after season,
In rain and in harmattan,
Until one fine day
When the forest trembled with the screams of
The beast, beaten on its own tracks,
With roars of terror ending when the moon
Slid between the witnessing clouds.
Laughter creased my face
With the wideness of joy in a darling
Hallooing loudly, Hawaii!
Making me younger with weakly wrinkles,
It warmed my heart with a flaming ring of mirth.
And I liked it.
I watched the waves as they rose and fell,
Like the big flattered locks of a comely
Landlady combing her tresses on a windy, snoopy
Sunday morning.
And I loved it.
Who are next to be loved?
Lucy & Lucille.
One laughs
The other winces with laughter
When cold fleeting winds blow over
Our inchoate sensibilities.
And we love it —
Like we loved Lucy.
Love of Horror
When shadows lengthen, and the moon hangs low,
My heart beats fast, a thrilling, eager glow.
For whispers chilling, and for blood-red gleam,
I find my comfort in a waking dream.
The creaking floorboards, the unearthly wail,
A twisted plot, a terror-filled tale.
No gentle rom-com, no drama's soft embrace,
But monsters lurking, leaving not a trace.
From classic slashers to the psychological fright,
I seek the darkness, bathed in eerie light.
The jump scares jolt, the tension holds me tight,
A delicious shiver in the dead of night.
So bring the ghouls, the vampires, and the fiends,
The ancient curses, and the nightmare scenes.
For in the horror, I find a strange delight,
And slumber soundly, dreaming of the fright.
Grant me rest under your lissome stems
Let me hide from the raindrops — shiny globules
That drip with tropical hauteur,
Rain that harms the ribs with cold rebukes.
Welcome me within your greenish lair, from
Your cane roots to your starry leaves —I insist on visiting
In your prime, so fresh with dew and so green, like
The envy in the gritty eyes of singed composts,
When waving rays of the shifting sun
Bathe the narrow venues formed by adjoining stems
Up, up and up the stairs and dome of the jungle.
I pray to shoot up with you and befriend the skies.
Oh, such elevation!
Fill my gourd with green wine;
Make me drunk with the spewing colours of life.
My heart is open to receive light —from misty dawn to
Dusk crowned with your blessing.
Let it rain on, I pray.
My palms are spread out like your leaves — I borrow the
Innocence of your frondescence.
Carve me flutes from your nodes, and, from them
Raise the cadences for summons, to be accompanied by
Drums fashioned by hands greased by the gifts of
The forests. . . .
Raise the joy, the frenzy, the tone of the ceremony
Raise, raise . . . upheave them
To royal heights — such as yours.
I recall the yelling but silent voice of winter
that broken December when the lights from
lanterns shot up from their wicks with the
fading strength of departing glows abroad.
Twilights hastened through the spine of
receding days, halting the approach of a
wayward Christmas.
The wilderness around us yielded froths from a
puking snowstorm,
fastening laces of Hell with strings of abundant
sleet.
Specific Types of Ode Poems
Read wonderful ode poetry on the following sub-topics:
christmas, dog, family, food, friendship, funny, kids, life, love, middle school, music, nature, romantic, school, sports, war
and more.
Definition | What is Ode in Poetry?