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Best Poems Written by Gerald Nforche

Below are the all-time best Gerald Nforche poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Smile of Paradise

A  bleeding heart sent me to bed
Tormented hot, by a lover's deception;
And in the folds of my blanket, cold as wet,
I sighed into sleep  of sad emotions.

In such momentary somnolence,
I beheld this face in a blooming garden;
A dazzling beauty, dignified opulence,
Which radiated a smile so open:

And as the doves whispered, my heart bloomed in bliss-
That smile that eased suffering for which I wept.
And from her soft and renaissant lips, words fell at ease;
" Welcome to paradise," and in such smile,I blissfully slept.

                **************

I staggered from my dream in lamentation;
Questioning its end, a sudden event;
But that powerful smile began to register,
and the words " Welcome to paradise," oh! the reminder!

Forthwith I tumbled  and wept to again behold
With a heart of bliss, that smile in  heaven's fold-
So everyday I went to bed praying in cries:
" God, permit me behold for once that smile of paradise."

              **************

Three months later in windy spring 
While I sadly tended my garden's hold,
I felt a breeze, softer than all its brothers, coming in sighs
And raising my head, I saw her plain, with that  SMILE OF PARADISE.

Details | Gerald Nforche Poem

Come, My Sons

We have been coaxed by honeyed words,
Deranged by colonized thoughts, my sons.
Our sinews have furnished their bans
While we are submerged in poverty’s fangs.

You hold to each others’ throat
Nourished with daggers from intruders’ moats. 
Is this how you want My bloodline to end?

Details | Gerald Nforche Poem

The Face of Death

Beheld thee ever the face of Death?
Felt thee the cold haunting breathe?
Hasth thee looked through the hollow eyes
And shivered Upon hearing the astral cries?

Take but a moment, just a moment
And close thy eyes and reflect.
The almighty by his hand spinned Earth
And therein obliviously placed Death.

Now, beheld thee ever  the face of Death?
Felt thee the cold haunting breathe
When thee gape through the misty mirror
At thy skeleton's dramatic error?

Hasth thee watched the lips hitch
And heard the Medusan screech?
Hasth thee looked through the hollow eyes
And seen with fright thy dreadful face?

Details | Gerald Nforche Poem

Ode To My Village

When I stand on the Hills and stare down,
while milky sunbeams shine asound,
I admire the grace with which spreads
my Village, its glories and innocence.

Oh my Village! that valley wherein I first kicked,
That place where I first experienced my birth,
That Paradise where the birds play and cling
While happy children cuddle and sing.

That Valley wherein I ate Irish Potatoes
Drank sweet palm wine and ran wild,
Where I savoured sweet achu,
hunted rat mole. Oh! life so pure!

Oh, my sweet grandmother and father!
They raised me to love this sweet land.
They told me one morning as I stretched-
"Mowi, yu'u, there is no better place than home."

Now I understand while I behold the radiance,
The opulence of this village Politicians want to steal,
Politicians and leaders so neglect-
But I say to them, "you are wicked, wicked!"

"If there is a place that is home to me,
Where I will love to grow and make square,
Where I'll love to hug and bless
It is my village Bamendankwe."

Details | Gerald Nforche Poem

Being An Artist

------------------------------------------------
Have I not told you that what you mistake
for madness is but the overacuteness of the senses?
- Edgar Allen Poe, “The Tell-Tale Heart
------------------------------------------------

I have seen men forget to Look at themselves
And ponder on their souls and their hearts:
There they sit and smirk and giggle
At the frailties of fellow man
And at the fallibility of another.

Through misty dawn till dusk
Their lips move with stealth
Defaming and cursing at ease
Playing with the Cello of Death.

"He is insane, you can wager on that,"
"A bastard, he thinks like a swine,"
"He is spiritually dead, sold for cowries,"
Atrocious words from evil tongues.

A poet like me has been so addressed
Since my thoughts and ways are irrational:
The artist from Plato's time to present
Has lived under despicable sight.

Artists are strange people
In art they have found themselves;
In art they have found truth, happiness-
So, why call them mad? Why call them mad?

The persecutors burn with evil and delight,
And they are of the perfece breed, they think-
The best corn in the stack, hear them sing
The artist's head wedged beneath their legs.

written- 18th Feb. 2014
3:50 PM

Details | Gerald Nforche Poem

Climate Change

RAINS REBELLING,
RIOTS RAKING-
WINDS WEEPING,
WEATHER WEATHERING-

THUNDER TEARING,
TEMPERATURES THREATENING-
LIGHTNING LIQUIDATING,
FIRES FLICKERING-

SUN SEDUCING,
ECOSYSTEM EDGING-
EARTH EJECTING,
STORM STAMPING-

GEOGRAPHY GESTICULATING,
SCIENTISTS SEEKING-
CLIMATE CHANGING
MAN MOURNING:

Details | Gerald Nforche Poem

Should I Be Blamed

(autobiographical)


I was barely eight before mother died
When Gerald was happy and not as reduced
When he was the loved son
The child with a loving home.

From aunt to aunt I learned to live
Out of the anger of dad
Out of the voice that brought fear.
Into the hand of pestilence-

My second life began-
A life of maltreatment,
A life of struggle
Elder brother disowned when he revolted
The treatment harsh and inhuman - so he bolted.

I joined the struggle
The life of scuffle
Wherein I was the marked
The recalcitrant and ragged
The delinquent in school
The tortured child of the family's few
Who outlived the deads of two aunts
Beseeched to care for him.

I am half mad, they tell me
I know I am a psychic
Half crazed child
A ricochet of mum’s death-

I have been alienated
Disillusioned by life, ill-fated
Tortured by a disturbed mind.

Dad on my heels
Listening to propaganda
murder-bent at my heels
flogged  flogged  flogged till I go for pills.

Fled my home to the street
Ate from the bin
Lived with street kids
One of the flocks
One of the hard rocks.

I have been in the cold
No bosom have rocked with me
Save mum’s who lies in the clay.
I am spiritually dead
Physically out of mind, they say.

From pastor to pastor
From prayers to prayers
From recessions to intercessions,
Through starvation for correction
I remain unchanged.
I am finished, they say.
Nothing can help me
save God on whom I weep and call.

My relatives
Alienate me
making me atychiphobic
Aggravating my anthropophobia
building in me gelotophobia  
and all those anthropological phobias
A loved child has no right to know.
It bringing me pain for they are nailing me shut.

I pity myself - Pity me father
Pity me, brother
Because I have tried
Tried to be loved
Tried to be the best from limps
But I am not up to those dreams.

I know that many dislike me
Feel uneasy when Gerald is around:
Instead of helping me
They  become indifferent, violent.

I told Louisa last week as she fumed at methat
anything I lay my hands on
fails to work again.
It either gets bad or broken.
My own things end up craggy
No matter the patience and prudence I put in.

Why then am I born?
Why the fear
Why the alienation?


I pray that I be left alone
Donot curse me again, donot.
Accept my fate and let me be
Else you help in killing me.

Details | Gerald Nforche Poem

Alien Tracks

Fear not! Fear not! Fear not!
As you trudge through alien mud

Trudge! Trudge! Trudge!
Through parts that hush

Scuttle! Scuttle! Like cattle!
By tracks return is a scuffle-

But beware as you rush
That paths may not lead to paths.

Details | Gerald Nforche Poem

Maria Drew

she lit the candle,
watched the wick kindle
but as the flame burst forth
the wind by windows fought-

But alas! the flame, stabbed
wavered for life, but sabbed
soon faltered and died.

The drapes rise and fall
the wind hurries at four wall
and another match lit
by its glow she saw it-

The pale face, withered smile
there lies her heart, off a-mile
away to the towered end-
Yet still the flame died astern.

The scream through the night-
the call of the wild a-flight
as a heart is stabbed anew
by the despair of Maria Drew.

Details | Gerald Nforche Poem

A Strange Telephone Conversation With Jen

Number 6 of
THE JENNIFER POEMS



“Be that Miss Jen?” shuddered my voice.
Oh Eros, for three barren year I have waited.
“Alloo,” came from the other end, soft , softer
Pulling my very heart from my enfeebled chest.
That voice, the fuel of my hitherto dying soul; 
Voice of Jen. 


If by the hand of providence 
I was at that moment fossilized,
An eternal smile be on that face registered
So that the world be told I loved her true.

Permit reader to tell thee what so troubled a voiced plodded-
I implore thee listener to hold those hearts like men
For no worse pestilence, no worse dissatisfaction 
Had I before felt when that voice quivered in resignation.

“Gerald, no human in this world
Will point to me as a friend-
I have none save fiends and pestilence.
No family at my call.
I have lived in a world of gloom and deceit.
Oh Gerald, if my very pain be understood.

And Jen resolved to exhume for my ears
That self-pity and doom of those gloomier years…