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Best Poems Written by Jones R Ayuwo

Below are the all-time best Jones R Ayuwo poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Jones R Ayuwo Poem

Marble Halls

I dreamed I dwelt in marble halls,
With servants and helps and slaves and all.
Silver cutlery, mahogany furniture and cedar floors,
I dreamed that man and beast both great and small
Knelt before me, swearing allegiance while a kissin’
My fingers so. That I would wake to the sound 
Of harps and flutes and lyres too. That work 
And pain were as alien to me as a red sun.
I dreamed that Ulysses’ flower grew on red
Tapestries hanging from the crystal roof.
That ariels and sprites and mermaids and hobbits
Attended to me and served me meals as a habit.
I drank from crystal ponds and swam in
Waters with all kinds of fish. Oh what pretty fins!

 But then I saw him! Standing guard at
The gate. Paying me no mind like I were a dusty old hat!
What insolence. Why doesn’t he look at me?
Who does he think he is? Thinks he that he
And his lowly assignments mean more to the land 
Than the princess of the marble halls and her hand
Littered with jewels from the treasures of Blackbeard himself?!
I could have him killed for no reason!
Could send him to Davy Jones’ locker any season!
Oh but I won’t. Oh but I can’t. My heart beats
At the sight of him; what shoulders ever graced man
Since Hercules, or chests like drums to beat!
A face like one of the statues of Perseus himself.
Oh that face, it graces my eyes daily and yet 
I am powerless to do a thing. Oh Gibbet,
Even in my dreams you torment me still.  

A tap and a shove, I think I dream still,
But here stands Gibbet in suit and tie;
At last it’s the aisle our nuptial knots to tie.
He stretches his awesome arms, and opens his lovely mouth
And says;
“I pay you not to sit and stare
Now pick your broom and this filth clear!”
I scramble and dash for my broom and cloth
Oh I did it again; sleeping on duty!

Details | Jones R Ayuwo Poem

Root

A long time ago, in the dark lands of the gentile pagans
The people where like giants and our twelve spies; ants!
The spies’ mission went sour and they were almost captured.
Ten managed to escape to our lovely desert camps; enraptured!
The other two made themselves scarce, to the inconvenience of a woman
 Who hid them in the roof of her house and lied to save their hides.   
By and by, our brave woman married one spy and another gentile woman
Married the other spy…oh the dreadful tides!!!
It so happened that our promiscuous spies both died, and at the same time too.
Their distraught mother (for they were brethren) decided to return home.
But the woman who had first hid them made bid to return with her
But Old Childless Mother said “turn away my daughters for thou hast seen I have 
No sons and am too old and ugly to attract a man, for surely any man attracted to
Me in this state must darn well be impotent or desperate!”
The second saw reason and turned back home to her shows for her name was Orpah Winfey.
The one who had first hid the spies refused and said (with courageous theme playing in 
The background) “intreat me not to turn aside, for wither thou goest, I will go and wither 
Thou lodgest I shall be thine squatter and where thou diest I shall be present for the wake keep!”
When she saw that her determination was deeply ruthed, Old Childless Widow sayest unto her;
“Damn, why the hell not!”
So it came to pass that Ruth came to dwell with us, the chosen people.
But she was an outright lazy pile of bones, what with all the sitting all day under palm trees
And gisting and gossiping with passersby.  Well some folk thought she was a prophet
His name was Barak Oboma, he was dark and handsome and he was our leader.
She made him start a war with the people in the East whose military was whispered 
In dark places to be to be “The Talibansers” but that is a tale for another day.
Here ends the unnecessarily protracted and adjusted story of Root: the harlot turn
 Wife turn widow turn immigrant turned prophet.

Details | Jones R Ayuwo Poem

Bandy Legged Drunk

There he stands outstretched arms that offer relief
Causing our weary hearts to yearn and strive for a little more.
Always a little more.
The glittering jewels of his bedazzled fingers ignite passions 
Deeply buried within the recesses of our byzantine nature.
As He totters, tentatively, temptingly
 Just within the grasp of our sight,
Just beyond the grasp of our fingers,
Try as we might.
With bandy legs he totters before us, leading that we may follow.
But how can one, being of sound mind, consummately adhere to the trail
Of one so detached from reality that he may be mocked as the village drunk?

This is the very worst of the evils and despair that has accosted our race
From the great perils of Jason and his golden fleece 
Down to the travails of Igodo and his band.
Despair and excruciating agony assail the mind and body;
Despair encloses the mind in the daunting cage of its grasp
While agony racks the body to the height of despondency
Where you feel you definitely can feel no more and then you feel some more.
It is at this opportune moment that the worst begins;
The aching heart.
 This metaphorical citadel of feelings and emotions begins a tumultuous overflow
Churning out bite after bite of sweet memory from the memory card of the body.
This is when he appears on the horizon, taking your tortured hands 
And whispering words of optimism - barren optimism.
Knowledge is the apex of despair.
Looking up from the dark pits of anguish into the dim and waning
Light of hope that fills your fading sight and illuminates the heart.
The knowledge that there is no means of escape, no broom upon 
Which one can fly to the blue moonlight like the famous wizards of
J. K. Rowling. This is truly what ties us down, what bellies our courage
And undermines our strength.

This however, does not advocate for the castigation of the bandy legged drunkard
He is the adrenaline that keeps us going
The stimulant that revitalizes our body and disincarcerates the mind
His faltering footsteps, the only life line to which we cling
That we might not lose ourselves to the maelstrom of horrors in this life.
Hope, our bandy legged tottering drunk.

Details | Jones R Ayuwo Poem

Crash

I twist and turn, I grasp and grab.
Is there any foothold?
Any crevice or jutting edge 
That my fingers may find lodgings?
The wind zips past me in cold blasts,
Sucking along what lil’ air my nostrils find.
I open my mouth to yell; …nothing.
Despite the wind’s fury and howling,
I feel perspiration break out on my face. 
That is the cold sweat of fear.
The knowledge that all that I have ever done;
The good, the bad, and the, well, not so good
 All boil down to this moment.  
The space between the top of the ledge and the bottom.
Time fades away and loses import.
My life flashes before my eyes like distorted parts of many movies,
Not the sweet memories of Christmas,
Nor the sweet smell of beans and plantains 
Wafting in from the kitchen…
No.
It’s the thought of all that I could have done,
The memories of all the things that I did wrong
And all the things I could and should have done right.
The things I did not do.
And as the bottom draws nearer, 
And the end sweeps up with that feeling of inevitability,
I feel only one taste in my mouth;
Regret.
And then …nothingness………
Thud!

Details | Jones R Ayuwo Poem

Root

A long time ago, in the dark lands of the gentile pagans
The people where like giants and our twelve spies; ants!
The spies’ mission went sour and they were almost captured.
Ten managed to escape to our lovely desert camps; enraptured!
The other two made themselves scarce, to the inconvenience of a woman
 Who hid them in the roof of her house and lied to save their hides.   
By and by, our brave woman married one spy and another gentile woman
Married the other spy…oh the dreadful tides!!!
It so happened that our promiscuous spies both died, and at the same time too.
Their distraught mother (for they were brethren) decided to return home.
But the woman who had first hid them made bid to return with her
But Old Childless Mother said “turn away my daughters for thou hast seen I have 
No sons and am too old and ugly to attract a man, for surely any man attracted to
Me in this state must darn well be impotent or desperate!”
The second saw reason and turned back home to her shows for her name was Orpah Winfey.
The one who had first hid the spies refused and said (with courageous theme playing in 
The background) “intreat me not to turn aside, for wither thou goest, I will go and wither 
Thou lodgest I shall be thine squatter and where thou diest I shall be present for the wake keep!”
When she saw that her determination was deeply ruthed, Old Childless Widow sayest unto her;
“Damn, why the hell not!”
So it came to pass that Ruth came to dwell with us, the chosen people.
But she was an outright lazy pile of bones, what with all the sitting all day under palm trees
And gisting and gossiping with passersby.  Well some folk thought she was a prophet
His name was Barak Oboma, he was dark and handsome and he was our leader.
She made him start a war with the people in the East whose military was whispered 
In dark places to be to be “The Talibansers” but that is a tale for another day.
Here ends the unnecessarily protracted and adjusted story of Root: the harlot turn
 Wife turn widow turn immigrant turned prophet.

Details | Jones R Ayuwo Poem

Root

A long time ago, in the dark lands of the gentile pagans
The people where like giants and our twelve spies; ants!
The spies’ mission went sour and they were almost captured.
Ten managed to escape to our lovely desert camps; enraptured!
The other two made themselves scarce, to the inconvenience of a woman
 Who hid them in the roof of her house and lied to save their hides.   
By and by, our brave woman married one spy and another gentile woman
Married the other spy…oh the dreadful tides!!!
It so happened that our promiscuous spies both died, and at the same time too.
Their distraught mother (for they were brethren) decided to return home.
But the woman who had first hid them made bid to return with her
But Old Childless Mother said “turn away my daughters for thou hast seen I have 
No sons and am too old and ugly to attract a man, for surely any man attracted to
Me in this state must darn well be impotent or desperate!”
The second saw reason and turned back home to her shows for her name was Orpah Winfey.
The one who had first hid the spies refused and said (with courageous theme playing in 
The background) “intreat me not to turn aside, for wither thou goest, I will go and wither 
Thou lodgest I shall be thine squatter and where thou diest I shall be present for the wake keep!”
When she saw that her determination was deeply ruthed, Old Childless Widow sayest unto her;
“Damn, why the hell not!”
So it came to pass that Ruth came to dwell with us, the chosen people.
But she was an outright lazy pile of bones, what with all the sitting all day under palm trees
And gisting and gossiping with passersby.  Well some folk thought she was a prophet
His name was Barak Oboma, he was dark and handsome and he was our leader.
She made him start a war with the people in the East whose military was whispered 
In dark places to be to be “The Talibansers” but that is a tale for another day.
Here ends the unnecessarily protracted and adjusted story of Root: the harlot turn
 Wife turn widow turn immigrant turned prophet.

Details | Jones R Ayuwo Poem

Root

A long time ago, in the dark lands of the gentile pagans
The people where like giants and our twelve spies; ants!
The spies’ mission went sour and they were almost captured.
Ten managed to escape to our lovely desert camps; enraptured!
The other two made themselves scarce, to the inconvenience of a woman
 Who hid them in the roof of her house and lied to save their hides.   
By and by, our brave woman married one spy and another gentile woman
Married the other spy…oh the dreadful tides!!!
It so happened that our promiscuous spies both died, and at the same time too.
Their distraught mother (for they were brethren) decided to return home.
But the woman who had first hid them made bid to return with her
But Old Childless Mother said “turn away my daughters for thou hast seen I have 
No sons and am too old and ugly to attract a man, for surely any man attracted to
Me in this state must darn well be impotent or desperate!”
The second saw reason and turned back home to her shows for her name was Orpah Winfey.
The one who had first hid the spies refused and said (with courageous theme playing in 
The background) “intreat me not to turn aside, for wither thou goest, I will go and wither 
Thou lodgest I shall be thine squatter and where thou diest I shall be present for the wake keep!”
When she saw that her determination was deeply ruthed, Old Childless Widow sayest unto her;
“Damn, why the hell not!”
So it came to pass that Ruth came to dwell with us, the chosen people.
But she was an outright lazy pile of bones, what with all the sitting all day under palm trees
And gisting and gossiping with passersby.  Well some folk thought she was a prophet
His name was Barak Oboma, he was dark and handsome and he was our leader.
She made him start a war with the people in the East whose military was whispered 
In dark places to be to be “The Talibansers” but that is a tale for another day.
Here ends the unnecessarily protracted and adjusted story of Root: the harlot turn
 Wife turn widow turn immigrant turned prophet.

Details | Jones R Ayuwo Poem

One Nation

In the south;
Racing hearts and trembling fingers,
Sirens wailing in the distance
Uniformed men in their well rehearsed stance.
Human roadblocks emitting sweat, stench and saliva.
Metallic birds, hovering and circling the skies yonder.

In the north;
Eyes wide with terror and disbelief
Starring down that tiny black hole
Just a lil’ urge and it spurts out rapid fire
This already brief sweet life, rudely asked to leave
By the faceless fellows bearing the black hole.

Everywhere else;
Scrambling and clambering and stumbling
Each seeking the shortest and quickest way to safety.
She rises and surges, nothing is sacred before her!
In the wake of her destruction she leaves behind her children…
Flotsam and Jetsam!

Somewhere in the middle;
Strewed lambs and assorted avian limbs
Decorate the tables in the grand halls within a certain rock christened Aso.
Some say the beautiful ones are not yet born.
I say the beautiful ones are born…
Only, the ugly ones handle their make up
 So they look ugly too.