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Frank Azuoma Poem
(Dedicated to the memory of my mother Catherine who died June 3, 2011 and was
buried June 24, 2011)
Sleep. Wake. Sleep
Sleep on empty stomach
Food and liquor make the journey
Eat, make Epicurus laugh double for once
Holiness! Is it not about angels and fruits
Eden has grapes and bitters
The tempters line the trees
And chirpy birds blow the flutes
The tempers with long tales and the dragon
There is a golden chair and a golden crown
And a bsket of flowers waiting to waive you in
There the master's table you'll see in the morning
Ulcer and glaucoma have no role to play
So you must eat, launch
And lunch to roost
There Grace waits for his owns
If indeed in the father's house there are many mansions
Why could Richman not easily find a room
Sone, from the master's table think
Analyze, princilpize, study and report
Stone, think as you walk around the dais
Analyze as you sleep. Principlize
Sleep and Sleep
Then look back, look to the corners
Look at the dome and compare with heavensgate
Take note the colors of the priests here and compare
See the dark waters, you did not see there before
See your scions on the front seats
See me, Franco, with the cross of attrition
Flung on me by brothers and sister
See the masquerades, musketeers
See my men dressed in raffia for this Elizbethan epic
See the men of the nights and those of the days
Filed on the right and on the left with Infant Terrible
See the near monks minus opportunity
Hiding their faces and long ghoulish tales
Rolling out muted laughter or pardon
Singing accustomed sonorous tunes for the great
See our uncles sibblings whose finest tears I never saw until now
See the candor and the incenses that have prevailed
Are these not enough comets that the Lord rewards
Yes. So then, the sound of the trumpets
The trumpeters are your seeded three clans
Charging the heavens in swaggers
Blazing forth, in pomps celebrating life
Dancing this same song of homecoming
For Stone, the cornerstone of many parts
Cargo of our latest argosy
Berthed at the Terminal. Farewell mum.
Copyright © Frank Azuoma | Year Posted 2011
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Frank Azuoma Poem
I dreamt of what I could be
when this faithful deluge
give up
when my day
finally breaks
My bamboo bed
tripled its size
and has only few sticks
still left
Behold!
the depth of father’s grave
came forth;
so also
the forestalled
hopes of grieving mother
still in her mourning cloth
I could smell
the tantalizer
grandmother once prepared
for father
oblivious what next day
portended for us
When the hard nocks
of the rain
broke through
my thatched roof
and ceaselessly
came in droplets
on my brow
It furrowed
to clearer vindication
The light I saw
shorn so bright to be true
every thing in me soothed
and I knew I was coming
closer to where it all started.
Finally I arrived
the dingy room
where grand father
always sat alone
resting his fragile neck
looking at the world.
He ceaselessly crunched
at his well separated teeth
scolding and questioning
his unseen guests
Un-seeable guests
who claimed his only son
only last year
they still want
the remaining
contract performed
Ridiculous. Callous
I imagined grandfather
Must be telling them.
I imagined
Okosisi would dare the spirits
and refuse to die
at least for my sake
whatever the cult may say.
The strands of his hair
hung somewhere in mother’s kitchen
and she knows the price
we shall all pay
if that loop is mistakenly
eaten by the fire
I imagined
Okosisi would dare the spirits
and stick to his gun
and refuse to die
and if he lives
and the spooks demand me
who will continue the family tree?.
Copyright © Frank Azuoma | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Frank Azuoma Poem
(Dedicated to the memory of my mother Catherine who died June 3, 2011 and was
buried June 24, 2011)
Sleep. Wake. Sleep
Sleep on empty stomach
Food and liquor make the journey
Eat, make Epicurus laugh double for once
Holiness! Is it not about angels and fruits
Eden has grapes and bitters
The tempters line the trees
And chirpy birds blow the flutes
The tempers with long tales and the dragon
There is a golden chair and a golden crown
And a bsket of flowers waiting to waive you in
There the master's table you'll see in the morning
Ulcer and glaucoma have no role to play
So you must eat, launch
And lunch to roost
There Grace waits for his owns
If indeed in the father's house there are many mansions
Why could Richman not easily find a room
Sone, from the master's table think
Analyze, princilpize, study and report
Stone, think as you walk around the dais
Analyze as you sleep. Principlize
Sleep and Sleep
Then look back, look to the corners
Look at the dome and compare with heavensgate
Take note the colors of the priests here and compare
See the dark waters, you did not see there before
See your scions on the front seats
See me, Franco, with the cross of attrition
Flung on me by brothers and sister
See the masquerades, musketeers
See my men dressed in raffia for this Elizbethan epic
See the men of the nights and those of the days
Filed on the right and on the left with Infant Terrible
See the near monks minus opportunity
Hiding their faces and long ghoulish tales
Rolling out muted laughter or pardon
Singing accustomed sonorous tunes for the great
See our uncles sibblings whose finest tears I never saw until now
See the candor and the incenses that have prevailed
Are these not enough comets that the Lord rewards
Yes. So then, the sound of the trumpets
The trumpeters are your seeded three clans
Charging the heavens in swaggers
Blazing forth, in pomps celebrating life
Dancing this same song of homecoming
For Stone, the cornerstone of many parts
Cargo of our latest argosy
Berthed at the Terminal. Farewell mum.
Copyright © Frank Azuoma | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Frank Azuoma Poem
Yesterday's loud welcome
Dance of the night.
Linda-Marie's dot pens
Celebrate the happy woman
and the love lair
Spicing the world.
But not just happy woman
The ribful happy man too
Whose rib gladened
And brought her forth
To rule and relish
Since Edem times.
Happy woman, happy woman
Happy as vessel of honour
By whom we all came here
Happier for spicing the man
And blosoming the world
All by his precious glue.
The one sitted high above
Gave to us the grove
Long. Short
White. Black
Red. Yellow. Purple
Purpose dovetailed by Him.
Short arm. Longer arm
Crouching in firmness
Bending over, long siding
Caging things, climbing or falling
In proper cool or hot always
Whether in extreme urgency or not.
With only shadows on the walls
Tellling their presence at times
And muted belches or gaspings
Melting at diverse points
To start all over if there is iron
Here in Africa, we know it well.
No template of half measures
Works here in the savannahs
Come away then to Africa
Where nature binds and bids
Come and have your fill
The happy woman is an African
Copyright © Frank Azuoma | Year Posted 2011
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Frank Azuoma Poem
THE ASSASSIN’S REGRET
I crawl.
Climb.
Jump. Fall. Dodge.
Recoil.
Aim. Miss. Aim. Miss.
Lie Low.
Wee hours will come.
Behold. Emerging tigers
Woken up. Pacing around
Menacingly scenting up, screening …
Mea culpa !
Who called them?
To leak my blood
Sure they will
If they find me out.
Speak
Assassin’s bullet?
Speak for your self
When I am gone
If I can go from here.
Am an only palm fruit
Roasting in the fire?
Am son of living widow
Mea culpa ! My father castrated
When I was three weeks
My three brothers died at three
My sister drowned at three
Thrice have I make this trip
Assassin’s bullet
Wait !
Wait until am gone
If I can go here
O God spare me this grudge
Spare my soul for today.
Copyright © Frank Azuoma | Year Posted 2011
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Details |
Frank Azuoma Poem
Surely, it will rain
The rigged erosion site
Will yield up the graves
With the mangled duffers
We must see
I cannot stop the rain
The cast is already overused
The thunder lines have marked
Out themselves in the sky
Bidding for time
Oh! it will surely rain
It will rain the hard beetles
Resplendent at the castle
Their strange tangles with
Cruelty and promise
Will evaporate
About our virgins
They lost their seals
They walked provokingly
In short pants and bustiers.
Rods of derision pierced
And so they should walk
As they like.
Before it rains, My Dear
Goats will lose their shame
But they must never be allowed
To scud to the rock, and
Ridicule quest for an account.
After the rains, My Dear
The survivors will be happy
The losers will be happy
The spectators will be happy
They would all have learnt
From the rains.
Copyright © Frank Azuoma | Year Posted 2011
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Frank Azuoma Poem
JUST LIKE THE LION
They swoop on their preys
Like the lion
And the carrions
They must leave behind
Tell their story.
Have you seen
Sleeping lion snore
After a great feast?
Have you seen the lout
With glee in its wake
Stroll to warm his skin
Under sun as the day lasts
And the way he hounds thereafter.
Bones that are heavy
Made swifter to crush made whole
Strong bones made stronger
By battle and valour
Eyes gazing in blank
With whiskers and tail to watch
As to what the head is thinking
Or has seen
Any moment
The soft palette in the mouth
Strains between good and evil
And begin to wet
Hooded with an enduring mane
He could just pace around
Resting his tireless
Paws and claws
To do a good job means
All must be ready for the job
The power mongers
Are like the lion
Swift with their hands and legs
And all other trappings
For holding victims in leash to death.
Copyright © Frank Azuoma | Year Posted 2011
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Details |
Frank Azuoma Poem
African love
and African justice are one
a fountain unveiling
our spring of sacred water
and salt melted into one
The gods
have different names
depicting the shapes
they want it to take
The god of birth giving
is the master
of African love
and the god of thunder
is the master
of African love of justice.
Lethal mystic will
and consent
melted in one
enjoy
the same standard
It is our wealth
and the sorrow lulling
drink of our people.
Copyright © Frank Azuoma | Year Posted 2011
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