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Best Poems Written by Atere Isaac

Below are the all-time best Atere Isaac poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Tunde Canada

The story of his pomposity
The gaiety of a been-to 
Embroidered in revenge.

Tunde Canada! 
Timid and denied by folks and friends
In his prime when the springboard, the hemisphere
At the time when chicks announce their appearance.
His ordeal was woven in ancient penury.
He was in the enclave of the rejected,
An outcast before his friends, 
Whose  hands, fortune,  has benevolently endowed 
But he was happily disowned by his entire ally.

Tunde Canada!
Determination and spirited humans
Benignly lifted from the corridors of poverty 
He suddenly became great.
How yesterday’s pain gone
And friends  who cast aspersion  are  back as friends.
He became the cynosure of them all
How fast humans forget the misdeed of yesterday!

Tunde Canada!
Now great!
But revenge beclouds the reciprocity of goodwill.
He mopped up his old friends for a drink,
And left them to bear their debts after  tipsy, 
And stayed in the  silt gutter. 

Tunde Canada
In the frailty of human foible, 
Revenge robbed him of his life achievements. 
At last, betrothed to a bride of a rich-dynasty
And before  the oath on the altar,
Absent from his wedding, either for  tipsy or else,
He left the bride, the audience and the priest alone in the church
Staring at his endless arrival.
Oh, a revenge against the society
Pain to his ungodly quest.
A victim of his retribution

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The Games of Life

THE GAMES OF LIFE
They said I am too forward
So I died while my birth awaits arrival
They said I have not informed them
If not, my world would have been their concern
So I did not come the way they thought
The tables before us
Are games
So the lucky, the chanced and the winner
Therefore, ours are written episodes
For which the games are played

For whom time demands
So the winner and so the loser

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We Are Victims

We are victims
Tied with  common fetters 
Loosed in thoughts of varied choices and desires
Loosely searching to make ends meet:
The meeting at this spot,
Either to go or stay, is a choice.

We are victims
Of the policies of pain
Emitted to drive us crazy, 
We are on the street , though not crazy.
Destroying our common patrimony. 
In futility, our sweat squeezed and 
Mixed with our hot blood,
Spilled on the street’
The rampage against the policies that police our lives.

We are victims 
Caught in the web 
Of a cruel nation
Piloted by scoundrels
The apostles of destruction
Who roused our emotions,
Taking the only broken cup 
Left for us to scoop 
The dirty water in the pond:
The beggar’s choice!
Out of pain, we have  heaped mud 
To cover the pond.
 
Yes, we are victims.
Our pain boldly inscribed on our skin
Our  thick skin, the archive of servitude .
And every effort to initiate freedom,
The beginning of futility.
  
We are  pushed to the wall,
The dog must bark.
While it barks, 
Its kennel is sacred.
Let us not destroy each other, our lots and more.
Let us not engage the street to loot, 
Though we remonstrate ,
Let’s not pull down our commonwealth,
The acreages of government,
They belong to us.
We are victims of a beautiful nation stressed with stench politicking.

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My Teacher and I

MY TEACHER AND I
My teacher has taught me many things
He seems to have known all
But the problem with him is his unstableness
In ideas and truths
He said if asked a car to drop me;
It is bad English
I should say I want to alight
I told my teacher I returned yester night
My teacher said it is wrong
I should say I returned last night
I told my friends don`t make noise
My teacher said no
It should be don`t make a noise
I said should in case you come call me
My teacher said
It should be in case you come call me or should you come call me
My teacher is my problem
He has taught me both present and past tense
But if I say it is time we leave
My teacher will say it is wrong
I should say it is time we left
But I have not gone or left
Is my teacher confused or I am wrong?
He said I should not say we love ourselves, 
But we love one another
I cannot understand my teacher
He speaks as if he did not suck his mother`s breast
He even calls my native name 
As if they have rubbed hot pepper on his lips
He said,
 2x = 2 that I should find x
Where does he put x?
He said I should assume 
A figure to complete the equation
My teacher is not well
He said the past tense of take is took
I now told him the past tense of make is mook
He said it is wrong
My teacher is playing tricks 
He gives symbols like H2O
And calls it water, Cl and calls it chlorine
He calls something MR. NIGER D, my fear is that he said D is death
He has said so many things I can`t remember
He talks as if the paper is wrapped into his brain
Let me ask my teacher
Do you know the bursting hole of a rabbit?
Do you know how to roast an egg?
Do you know how to hear and talk with the gods through the pebbles?
My teacher has many facts
He says if I learn them I will be great
But I must do the doing.

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The Breakfast of Scandal

THE BREAKFAST OF SCANDAL
Once upon a lofty testament
 The blue print of a rhapsodic love furls 
Among the two betrothed by a mutual affection. 
Their love echoes and here to stay and born.

Their twin love merges to one
 By the highly acclaimed folk, 
A great éclat from dawn to dusk; 
The world transfixed with joy;
 Those who could not attain such, 
Wish themselves the devil's blow,
And a few carapace of such great virtue;
 Their footprint on earth the words of all.

Their matrimonial altar lay upon trust,
They stay in quietude and harmony,
None will one-day dream to dispute them
Or to harmonize their grievances;
They stay like the two eyes that never share a duel;
If all could by a means be like them,
The world forever shall glamour and clamour peace,
They love so much, both at the table
And in the "washing room" helpmeet they are.

Sometimes cited by the arbitrators to their client,
 Sometimes a pacesetter to the religiously inclined;
A perfect example to the world around and beyond, 
Both the dramatist and the poet their critics they always be. 
And the kings sit and take no decision without them.

While the works of men decay,
At the credo of indecision,
The ploughing of scandal overtakes the bedrock of trust.
Her faux-pas display a maximum foolery,
In the eyes of the fire on the cloud,
She burnt their property,
And sent her lover to hell,
And swallowed a knife.
A mystery to the world unraveled,
Each hand on the chin awaiting solace.
 The world is borne and grieved; 
Ours is to bear and stoically shaved.

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Beauty An X

How the pulchritude of a flower aerates
Playing ecstasy to all that see it to stay
A perfect replica of a mortal rates
How good the God's graces in it array
Whose slippery beauty per se, a threat to the global ford
Rampaging zeal in all to have its call
But fragility places a gateway of a gloomy cord
Over the wreckage of fashioned stars preserve and fall
How swift beauty freezed
A lasting pain in the memory of a lady
When ravished in the dark, mutilated and squeezed
The pride of age turns everlasting sorrow and moody
O wondrous mystery, joy fades overnight
And the work of glory timely blight.

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Confetti

This compliment to this glory
Confetti! Confetti ! Confetti !
The prime of adulation
The resume of a new epoch
Sentiment of joy, prime of hope. 
To this reality betrothed itself to humanity
Confetti ! Confetti! Confetti !
Of this terrible happiness
Lies the unsearchable destruction
That begets divorce;
A testimony against this perfect adulation
The numbing joy,
The hope entrusted,
Over the fame proclaimed
The world of peace pieced with hate
The happy songs from the altar of harmony by the priest
Altered by this untamed human glory and quest
Confetti, the pride of a lady
Confetti, her vision affirmed
Confetti, she is in charge of the hour
Confetti, her mates adore her with
And the uproar that matches the glorious ceremony
Beclouds and bedevils its climax

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The Peasant Suspense

In his weary hour
The legumes blossom on time;
Out of jocundity in honour
Of the beautiful turf
The drowsy peasant peak.

His weird blistered palm blimey,
 His nasty regalia wretched,
 He produces plenty and eats small
 He produces good and eats bad
 To the nobles he worked, 

The dark noxious pest 
Ravage and wrest 
The peasant-shaddock 
This tonic the dressy peasant
 A nocturnal haunter.

This extempore task
 Demoralizes his sinew
 His swansong 
Rhythmically envelops
 In serenity and drone.

Each rising smoke
Nervous him to move.
This previous eyes
That know no peace
By the smiling scorching sun.

At the dark hour
He puts on his clogs
And marched to the farm shack
There he finds the beetles
On the yam.

The great anxiety of the peasant
Is the bragging fire of winter
He fasted to lull it
He became gaunt
The sturdy peasant.

The time unknown: the blazing fire 
Burnt the bedecked bower 
The ranch house and the lettuce 
Barefooted staggered him
 To the farm with his straw hat
 And met the yelling ashes 
The cracking twigs of cocoa plant 
The peasant live no day 
Longer than that and slept

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The Complaint

Spirit of the wise
I have come to offer wine
Not from a sacred heart
But from the voice of a troubled soul.
Spirit of the wise
I come with my gift
Not to be given
But to be consolidated
I come with the plight of my friends
Whom were earlier yesterday
To have taken the oath of the pen
But are late already without the promise
And pride of their achievements
I come with grimace of my youths
Who are dying in ecological poverty
And economic misery
The heart is penciled with the flames of death
The very death caused by our politicians
Who through many promises have created
The world that must not exist
I come with the pains of my inability
To tell our big friends that they are political liars
I come to take a gong 
To gather them
That the restless spirit may find rest.

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The Tale of a Helpless Soul

Oh to my life tale
Mystic errors affirmed.
The trust of fatherhood beguiles
My little breast.
Oh to my life tale 
Trust thus father sunk
To my sanctity in valour
 And made away my pride
Bulling in tempest 
Not to let known
And if not hell saddles my tale.
Oh to my life tale
The mountainous belly I own 
Testifies of his power
And no more could I conceal else.
On a lonely eve
While the little birds 
Sang their sweet memorable songs
Of acrimony and reconciling them
In sonorous ending
I took to end it all
But god-like hunter
Took my plight
And bided me home alive
All to my life tale 
I lived in languor
Of a father’s crime
Upon a helpless daughter
But someday I must go the way I plea.