I never want to give up on my twin soul lover.
I will always long to be with him forever.
I am not sure when we will truly be together.
I often wish someone can give me an answer.
I only know I love him as a significant other.
I am always left waiting, feeling so unsure.
I wish I stayed pure in all the ways that matter.
I only know we're learning how to love each other.
I am realizing now that I want to do better.
I want to prove to him I am worthier than her.
I love him no matter how his past makes me feel bitter.
I am learning how to free myself from my own tether.
I will wait for him, even for up to a decade later.
I see the rift between us that once made us differ.
I am smoothing things out like the rapids of a river.
I know someday our separation will be over.
What do these crows say?
Certainly, they’re not wasting
their voice. Perched on the
branches of the bay tree,
they don’t fly in the sizzling
sunlight. Long, short, swift,
slow, vibrant, weak…Variations
in the length and the size of
their cry affirm their cawing
is not meaningless. How can
they be close-mouthed about
the things around? They are
never opportunists. Like the
black oyster, there’s life within
the harsh shell of their voice.
Theirs is a pretension-free
accent, conveying true emotions.
Their raw communication is
worthier than the polished talk
with the hidden hypocrisies.
Though undeveloped, their
language never lacks warmth.
It’s the tongue of the heart,
spontaneous and syntax-less.
First published in The Literary Hatchet (issue#28)
It's worthier to have little money
and many friends, than being
bank owner and having anyone...
Behold a Nigerian single parent
By clearly doubled duties bent,
Shaking her right now, inescapable rent;
Just grabbing what this had all along meant.
Lo! The Nigerian Loner Parent
More minutes to nasal congestion lent
And by same on silly errands sent
For an apartment she must alter its scent.
See! The Nigerian Single Parent
Lately her bond severed with A Kent,
For refusing to disclose where he went;
Newly hoping on a run-into Clement
And planning to “The Thing” Cement!
Just feel A-Now-Hopeful Single Parent,
Never her conduct judging a dent;
Trusting that she’s met a worthier Gent,
Whose worst would be life in a tent.
The women bending and pounding in rhythm
was a vibrant bucolic sight. The long wooden
pestles were powered by the human current.
While grinding raw rice,
they stopped to rest, and
to crack jokes, which were
embellished with erotic
connotations, and were worthier than today’s
TV humors. They made turmeric and coriander
powder, when their delightful nasal tunes vibrated
through the powdering
thunder. Chili particles
provoked their nostrils.
Sneezing was soothing.
They crushed herbs and roots, medicinal wonders.
Their minds, too, were muscular. The mortar and
the pestles have been discarded in a nook of the
present. The modern
ladies prefers to powder
packets, albeit adulterated
or preserved in poison.
First published in The Literary Hatchet (issue #28).
I can't imagine my life without you
I'm sorry if my hold is too tight
That tight may hurts you
I'm used to holding till bleeds
And I've never had something
Worthier to hold onto than you
Given a dog’s chance to survive
You won’t your swimming passions revive:
It would be over between you and butterfly strokes,
A thousand ‘All over’ with them even in jokes…
…And between you and jetty releases of mouthed water
You, ready to end its physical life with a mortar!
Allowed to live again,
Your church shan’t fail to gain
I predict: A hundred tuberous yams
And an appreciable number of Jewish rams
That should in any parish stir thrills
As well as tickle divine nostrils…
Now, erased from your mind
Are your gay strides towards your crusher
Its beautiful, treasured bank completely cast behind
And your greedy glances at what its scenes usher
Which you’d feared its disappearance the next moment
And you make a lousy loser of the worthier than ornament…
Sorry for the Drowning
Fighting his fate with mainly frowning.
What say you when a pig bathe in a muddy muck?
When he rolls merrily like 'tis panacea to his strain?
Don't you gawk at the amazing shuck
Could be to you 'tis a flaunt to his inert brain.
But how honey he embraces the muck-
When the sizzling lust for food slaps!
'Tis where he tanks up the lack
'Tis a divan for his daily naps
He rolls in it with sheer fun and joy,
Swaps spit with inner pathogens
To him's as sweet as the delicacy of soy
And dirt seems excite no antigens
But fools we the lookers
Who hate the act but love the actor
We're the daytime chaplains an' night's hookers
Musing the worthier and fudging the obvious factor
Don't we rear 'em and keep them?
And butcher 'em for pork?
And for sale don't we adulate 'em like gem?
Then why dub 'em berk?
With us is the knowledge and power-
To keep and care for these pigs
We can give 'em genial scour
And see 'em as moral prigs
NB: Exclusively for pig lovers.
Try to understand the natural meaning of this poem
Okay enough about me and my attributes
I'll bow to those proving worthier, won't dispute
Sometimes comes out poop
Or like a delicious soup
Other times a toss up and doesn't compute!
Further Or Worthier
Maybe impact might have been initial,
Wondering how much to make it official
After analysis which was much further
Decided to facts no one mat be worthier
Looked deeper to see what was superficial.
Jim Horn
Has he who enthrones no power to dethrone?
Earthly glory never lasts. Its state
Is inconsistent like seeds down
And be the watchman: be wise! No power perpetuate
Lest, when the Master returns, he will demand
Full account of your stewardship
If wanting be: he chides you. He may demand
A worthier servant over your place, his vine and sheep.
But who am I to resist His call if such He tells:
'Come, follow me and henceforth, my services crave
I should worship Him whose sovereignty rules
Even Him alone should I serve
'Tis true, He will ignite my zest
He'll grant my feeble heart rest.
Movement Was A Birther
Movement had become a birther
President no one else was worthier
Then our Hillary happened to be
And also between you and me
Into detail cannot go further.
Sounds like a Trump idiom.
Jim Horn
There's no great worth
Worthier than a gold
Lovely to look at
But can never be sold.
Better than wealth
Can't be detached
Came in to life
Emotions attached.
There are weary tears
Surpassing the fears
When young voices cry
It's giving twice leers.
Heaven after pain
When seeing their grins
Giving a miraculous birth
To my endearing twins.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, please let down your hair
you're way up here and I'm way down there
If only the miles could be spanned like a tower
I'd start climbing at once and be there in an hour
I'm not much of a painter, or swimmer or plumber
so maybe it's best if I wait until summer
In truth, I'm not sure that I'd be up to your measure,
your standards are high and you're deserving of treasure
So, I hope that you'll find a much worthier match
than this humble poet; as I'm not much of a catch
The consumer products are trilling
But not like this sacred Green lantern
A glamorizing image to behold
On its arrival to the world.
Perhaps there is one secret about it
It keeps on being amazing as it gaze
A little witty whimper
But worthier than gold.
Though it's sighted in my vision
But I swear by the day,
night, thought, and memory
This lantern is real.
Green lantern
A natural kind light for the faithful
humble and kind-
hearted souls.
So colorful as chameleon
So giant as elephant...
So dominating like the earth.
Green lantern-
A symbolism of descendants
from a rear world.
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