Convalescing
From
“Civilization”
From the bloated, rude, crude, insatiable
Busy-for-naught
Businessmen,
Found me a plot
In a lost meadow
Where owls swoon
With dancing stars
And poplars rock
My hammock.
The flower is there, but not the flower's design
until I sing its petals like the sun:
the nectar trembling in the flower’s throat
is sweetened by the trembling of this string,
which links the purple voices carved from silence
along one single curve from then to then,
which is the flower’s design.
The flower’s design is what the flower is for:
it grows to fit itself to what I sing
and finds itself for once forever whole,
since in my song its bloom and bud are one,
moving in harmony.
These melodies hold nothing but its life.
The flower’s design is what the flower is.
These cypresses and poplars have a motion,
a gesture, and a speech no wind instils:
my song reveals them as a kind of rhythm,
a flexing of their being, which is joy,
a dance existing only in my music,
as do the sky, the mountains, and the sea.
My songs are to the light as light to darkness,
uncovering the dreams enwrapped in day.
Without them, all our vision sees is blindness,
and all our utterance announces death.
-------------------------------------------------------
Another Spring
The days are getting longer,
The sunshine getting stronger,
The snowdrops started flowering,
And poplars still are towering.
Creation, God’s expression
Of his power, his love, his mission,
Makes mankind look up to Him,
For some, feel deep their sin.
Then see Jesus, God the Son,
Salvation on the Cross He won,
So take some time to look and think,
No more in sad depression sink,
To Jesus go and feel His love
And all His glory up above!
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.
“Look deep into nature and you’ll understand everything better.”
Albert Einstein
I stood on the sloped path near the waterfall.
Mesmerised by the sound of falling water.
All around grew green-leafed ferns,
While tall poplars and redwoods provided
Ample shade that covered the running stream.
Tall purple pickerel plants, scarlet cardinal plants,
Everything contributed to a sublime, picturesque sight.
A symphony of sounds emanated completely around.
Frogs croaked in great abundance, jumping in and out,
Of the clear stream where fish swam toward the sea.
And all around, busy bees fluttered over exotic flowers,
Where nectar provided them with such sweet nourishment.
Placed 1
The weeping willows
Their widow's veil of leaves
Trailing sadly in the stream
Pungent spicy peppercorn trees
Their green feathery hair
Festooned with pink beads
Crooked old oaks
Their gnarled fingers
Pointing in twisted directions
Rigid tall poplars
Giant thin arrows
Forever trying to touch the sky
The blossoming apple tree
Petals slowly falling
Pink snow drifting to the ground
The purple flowered wisteria
Ever reaching out for somewhere else
Unable to be content in one spot
The graceful ghost gum
The crisp clean lemon aroma
Of a glowing spectre on a moonlit night
Prim pine trees
Dressed in green ballroom gowns
Still waiting for the dance to start
Liquid amber in autumn
Sending down colourful stars
A rainbow mat on the ground
The dull silver grey wattle
Glowing yellow with the brightness
Of a thousand tiny suns
Every tree on this planet
Has a beauty of its own
We should learn to care more
An unpopulated place where
poplars grow
Unseen canopies expose
tree trunks in a row
Wildflowers swoon over
undergrowth below
As back to front figures
watch the panoramic show
Lush vegetation evokes a
spellbinding hue
With violet bark
to engrain their view
Don’t flee this forest
reality will go askew
Stay forever
they may just pull through
Lost in the emerald
is a world of their own
Do they seek solace
have seeds been sown?
In this vibrant thicket
where trees have grown
Have they just come together?
or come back to atone
Perfect is a dream
without fear or dread
One that only ends,
when we go to bed?
The artist knew well,
his final words bled
“Sadness will last forever”
>yet brilliance he spread<
Describe what you see my love, she queries
A game they often play in the depths of the forest
He replies, Turgid are the woodlands densely they’ve died back
creeping where no life is seen,
between the flowery meadow's cracks
The poplars have shed their leaves leaving violet trunks bare
For it isn’t rare, sun light that shan’t filter thru the canopy
Entrapped is the pale old plant ivy green
However, the white roses striving and yet flutily parade
whilst tolerating the languorous shade
As he describes his innermost inhibitions
without interference or shame
In the distance, expanding their horizons together
Both aware 'tis a harbinger of the end game
I could never tell reality from dreams,
so palpable, oil on canvas seems,
and while in both realms, I now dwell,
must I say to one, farewell?
or go on living in Hell?
On a long spring day one hopeful May,
my imagination would display
violet poplars and undergrowth of green,
where emerged a woman, so serene -
magically, from nature, unforeseen.
She spoke to me and I could feel
that she must certainly be real,
but she told me she wasn't there.
I said I didn't care -
she was the answer to my prayer.
As dappled light on my skin, tingled,
reality and dreams commingled,
and this lady fine and fair,
that I swore I saw standing there,
disappeared slowly in the air.
An uncertain afterfeel
Rolls inside and bides
Like a tape recorder reel
On the floor unwinds
Meet your Lady Aftershock
Be her truest slave
Take her down to the docks
For the random wave
Slams the door, the draught bursts in
Papers scatter to the sides
Applications from the screen
Texts with seals and signs
There’s no memory to feed
Files are kept alive
Fictions growing fast like weeds
Shuttering your life
The damp wind keeps blowing on
Through the dusty streets
Shades of poplars hanging low
Over the empty seats
Lady Aftershock walks in
Busy on the phone
Wheel of fortune starts to spin
Blues of Mr.Gone
Lights go dim, the evening goes
Like most evenings do
Morning comes, the daylight glows
But there’s nothing new.
Bury me, my love, in a lead coffin
To not hear the rustle of the poplars,
Not to hear the noise of the world,
Until I rot completely.
Bury me, my love, in a corner of the cemetery
To be far from other dead,
To be hidden by the thick earth,
Without seeing the beautiful sky.
Bind me, my love, with heavy chains
So that I can never leave the coffin
For I want to become earth
And then to turn to dust.
I will remain forever in the earth
For I cursed the eternal heaven
When it stole people dear to me
And now, it doesn't accept me.
In the temple abandoned by time, in the silent whisper,
Our palms unite, masters of the subtle light,
You watch over with the warmth of spirit when angels dart,
You, the reliquary of divinity, the guiding star when the world stands still.
The elixir of dawn in your chalice, sweet venom, unknown assuagement,
Beneath your mantle of bliss lie embers that do not burn,
I walk in your rays, seeking a natural shore amongst the silver poplars.
The night clothes you, a queen in veils, in the white that transcends,
Your kiss, a fresco that breathes life into the sacred and undisturbed,
By your side, I cross the chasm between shadow and astral glow.
You, ruler over art, mysteries of what my eyes behold,
Born from the great abyss, a promise sculpted in the heart of the sun,
My treasure, the sky and the earth, the altars of my life.
Unfading glory, you are mother-in-law and artistry to stars,
The hourglass envies our shared moments on this dazzling realm,
You are whole and complete, in the sweet silence that embraces the corners of the world,
My treasure, a mystical altar, forever in the twilight of splendor.
When will the summer come, the fields be ripe again,
The sun down-shining power, the clouds reducing rain.
When will the poplars be releasing, millions of seeds,
And outside be snowing fuzz-balls, carried on the breeze.
When will the maple tree, release its helicopters,
And send them down in twirling spirals, alighting on the flowers.
When will it stop this raining, this downpour from above,
The sky be blue, serene, and birds be singing love.
Why won’t it stop, why won’t it clear, why is it always so gray,
I wish that only the summer be here, to clear this dreadful day.
Front door
The turning key clicks
A vacuum sound as door pulled
All of nature's cold air explodes
A rooster crows
Flood of sounds
A woodpecker is feeding on a post
Silly bird, like dynamite booms
That sound is heard
Doesn't slow other birds
The doves coo
Crows caw their warning
Mockingbirds realize it's morning
Sparrows too busy eating to rue
Spring color
Spring green tender leaves
Weave a delicate quilt
Oak tree's chartreuse tassels
Offer a different gilt
Maples' tender leaves in guacamole'
Redbud leaves are in still in bud
Poplars beginning in forest green very slowly
Gingko has no show but it's no dud
In-between
The kitchen hub is busy
Breakfast prepared but simple
No time for a morning tizzy
Baked banana and date-nut bread nimble
Then I sit and rest a spell
Upon pain and trouble do not dwell
I think about God, Who loves me still
And wonder do I do His will?
I feel as if I'm on a boat,
floating on a narrow river,
driven between its banks
by an invisible strong current,
leading me to God knows where.
On either side tall upright poplars
stand on guard as if I might try to escape.
An early greenish hue tints all
and ahead of me I see
a cloudy thick fog.
I wonder who is watching there,
hidden in the thick haze.
I wonder why I am where I am.
Where has my memory gone?
Is anyone hiding behind the trees?
Maybe I have lost my bearings.
Why all these questions in my mind?
Or perhaps I’m dreaming.
Suddenly I notice ahead of me
a fork in the river.
Now I am in a checkmate of indecision
Especially since the river current stopped.
Where must I go?
Left or right?
Am I going north or south?
The fog is no help.
The aquatic crossroad confuses.
I know not which way to take.
Shall I let the river decide?
I must take the right at least,
but which is the right?
Take my bearings with my right hand?
I hear an inner voice:
"Wake up, take up the oars.
Life is what you make it,
stand on your two feet,
do what is right,
or enter into oblivion
into that looming fog."
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