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Best Poems Written by Nyonglema Pisoh

Below are the all-time best Nyonglema Pisoh poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Football

Zillion supporters screaming, a loud buzz,
 Yearning to return home cheered by victory.
 Xerox machines preparing the next day’s papers; Max
 Wit for the shame or fame of a member of the show.
 Violent vitriol from commentators like engine rev
 Unites with supporters’ glee at likes of Eto’o or Kanu
 To spur skill at each minute to get even one stunning stunt
 Spirits soar, sink, so it is, for here serenity bores.
 Roulette, lifté, counter-attack by one party raising the roar.
 Quick kick! Oh no! Replay?! Why not? That must join the FAQ
 Pray the corner kick slays the opponent; oh that header was sharp!
 Oh he missed that goal again! No replay?! Hell no!
 No! Now he’s channeled that ball too late for the man,
 May the coach coach correctly and call him to quit the team!
 Leave the pitch you little loss-bringing imp! LOL!
 Khaki-wearing “messer” I can even get your reek!
 Just as our jests are about to milk out laughs, I couldn’t find a word to end with “J”.
Instead I had a whole lot of them J-starting words. So I
 Hunched to think, but then looked up at the BROOHAH:
 GOAL GOAL!! Oops the scorer is the "Mr. Bug"!
 Fooled? No, I’m still for him leaving,( Scoring oaf!)
 Even though this elation, release and joy, came from his device!
 Defensive tactics, offensive backing up, I can almost get mad
‘Cos the best defense is attack Doc!
 Bye losers, we took this easy. Supporters bob
 Away, and the whole stadium sleeps in the starlight bathed by mother Luna.

(c) Nyonglema

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We Could Get Caught

"How's yours coming? Got any ideas? "
"I'm in the fifth stanza already, this is going to be neat!"
That's me and 4 other friends of the poetry club, 
Scribbling away in a corner where the tree's shadow
Builds a shelter from the sun, and for the Muses
Larking away in its green rustling branches. 

Really though, we should be in class....
But what's the point in hunting for an "x"
Which is written on the page, and has no meaning, 
Nor content? They call it a "variable"! 
Well, these words for sure are variable too, 
But to play with them and twist them to falter into 
New meanings (see what I did there?) is divine. 
No weird symbols from a Cyrillic alphabet today for us! 

We're scribbling our souls on pages, to see them live. 
We could get caught but no beating could ever beat the
Exhilaration of the ink dancing into new thoughts like Adam's first breath. 

(c) Nyonglema

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The Grass Is Greener

We’re not called upon to choose anything we live through;
Neither parent nor sibling nor school nor form of sinew;
Neither colour of hair or eye or skin,
Nor love or hate, nor loss or gain
Nor opportunities nor whence we come. So much is true.

But as much as this truth I hold as true as sunlight,
I know that painful times will time to time alight
When with bitter phlegm you curse
The earth where you breathed first
And wish your day of birth were scratched by He with might.

I know. Same feelings have plagued my adult soul
And the wish for better home to make each day whole
Has been dashed by shameful news,
Where Hope, seeing Hitler, and 94’s Hutus,
Needs to hide its youth to stall the death toll.

But amidst pain, hate and bottled despair rife
There’s the rare love, innocent and hardly grasping to life.
For here, we can give our all
When we choose to keep you from a fall.
We really do it: humble, loving…just like the Lord’s life.

Yes, it’s easier to perceive the weeds in one’s garden
For the pastures beyond gleam in our myopia, hiding their burden.
And seeing that weed can cast a shadow
On all that’s sweet, but cause much ado
About the bitter parts, and it day by day your heart will harden.

Think of the evening breeze on the night grill,
Feeding the flames of a delicious family fish meal.
Think of hitting the unadulterated
Lands of hills where ancient rivers percolated
And happy goats skip, and cattle graze and one can feel

Life whizzing through rustling leaves of dancing old tree or reed,
Playing the music our ancestors learned to read,
Making your lungs touch their purpose,
Dazzling your eyes like a Jabbawockeez pose,
The music we’ve forgotten as we focus on some RSS feed.

Think of the youths wise with tradition re-enacting solemnly
The dances and music handed down from before when Ptolemy
Phrased ancient philosophical data,
To the time of the expansive empire of Sundiatta
Beads stomping the dust frantically in musical poetry.

Picture the pure darkness which crowds the silent night air,
Unveiling the marvellous dotted and scattered there
In the moonlit heavenly canvas,
Watching us from light years past,
And we fascinated by the sparkling magic they share.

So to sum it all up, I know it cannot be perfect,
And sometimes I rant and make massive graffiti of its defects,
But this home my parents chose
Still draws my spirit close,
For the bond is deeper, far deeper than human senses can detect.

(c) Nyonglema

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New Life

Hiding in mummy's tummy, kicking happily away
 I'm kissing you warmly, clapping and singing in play
 They say in a few weeks
 I'll be able to kiss  your new cheeks
 I can't wait for the morning I'll lift you in a sway

(c) Nyonglema

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A Dull Three - Aka Adultery

Love lived in the hearts of Him and Her,
 But distance shrouded fear over Her
 And to punish Her reluctance
 He gave another girl a chance
 And she brought triplets nine months later.



(c) Nyonglema

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Protection

Oh how awesome a condom, marvelous invention!
Stopping them from this direction and the other direction. 
But the risk when it bursts
More than just being bust
Is a disease riddled infant who'll need your protection. 

(c) Nyongelma

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A Baby's Smile

Can you describe a baby’s smile? Let me try:
 A breath of fresh air while the sewage tanks are drained;
 That momentary silence when gunshots fill the air;
 Cool palm oil on your tongue after your first crab curry;
 when you shut your eyes to stop incoming traffic glare;
 when a persistent cramp finally disappears;
 Taking off your blistering work shoes when the day is done.
 
The pureness of the lines, and the innocence written in an infant’s smile cast all my stress away.
 Unrestrained, untainted. The pure expression of appreciation that says: “Yes, you count”, “Thank you!”, “I love you” without uttering a word.
 Those 5 seconds where everything means so much more, where nothing else matters than how happy this human being is of the mutual expression of love, as you smile back.
 
(c)Nyonglema
 
 
 
In the comments, tell us what your baby’s smile is like to you….

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Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves - Aka African Governance

Standing in front of the hidden entrance

On horseback, with loud sacks

Clinking as loot hit loot.

With smiles of satisfaction adorning their faces

The chief said the magic words, and in went the team;

Safe from the spoiled, safe from the world,

Ready to go back out and lay misery on  poor souls

(C) Nyonglema

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The Irony of the Red Smiling Cyclops

It appeared on the doorpost as a Cyclops' smiley face
 For some Cyclops WhatsApp icon, but red-themed application
 Yes gruesome red, in contrast to the expectation
 You would get from a smiley face, even for a Cyclops.
 It quizzed my curiosity and I dug further on Google’s interface. 

It appeared on the search page as the queen Isis,
 Long told in Hieroglyphics, Cyrillic and Roman alphabet,
 Patroness, mother, queen, blessings with love met,
 But unlike these grim Arabic script in an ominous logo,
 And tales of death, pain littered with deeper crises
 
It told of “nuun”, 14th letter of a blessed script
 In which many beautiful and wise thoughts found life,
 A letter which told of blessing and not of strife
 Being in a position multiple of seven, a number blessed
 By God Himself when he Earth and Heaven in 7 breaths whipped
 
It told of the Magen David, a shining star, which should be a good thing
 Only that it brings memories of gaunt bodies piled in trucks
 And human experimentation, and as history at our door knocks
 And Isis or Isil opens to let in what we dread most
 “Nuun” is stuck in my iris with pain and scary sting. 

For I have seen the blank stare of heads painting in red drips the pickets
 And Leonidas’ 300-style gore re-enacted in modern city streets
 As heads are divorced from bodies and all around are scared heartbeats
 For even bloodied child clothes cover head-less bodies,
 As Christians are beheaded like one would roast crickets. 

It brings back memories of my ancestors up in the Samba regions,
 Fleeing the harsh choice given to them by the jihadists:
 To adorn the village picket or join the cause of the Islamist,
 Forced to create a third choice, which was to leave their homes,
 Friends and family to pseudo-Islam or lurid lethal lesions. 

Is it that time again for Iraqi Christians?
 Shall the world once again watch the Red Indians’,Tutsis’, and Jews’
 Story take gruesome form and hack through human sinews?
 How many litres of innocent blood, and kilogrammes of hacked Christian flesh
 Are needed to realise the vanity in the life of Homo sapiens? 

(c) Nyonglema

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African Seed

Terror lurks in the darkened eyes of a growing child

As each minute she dips into the shrieks from her mama, 25;

Marked dad curled in silence on the ground, wanting life,

Marked by another man who’d barely seen seasons 25.


She recalls how daddy cried out and fell silent to the ground.

Mum recoiled at many punches many staunch “men” had found.

She was 4 back then, and saw as men 12-year olds from out of town

As they ripped her mama’s clothes…she closes her eyes, counting each heart pound.


She recalls that red stream that slithered to her hidden corner

Soaking her skirt; soaking in hurt like staring at the sun’s corona.

Outside guns rattled, taking out all who could mourn her.

Lonely, the tears trickled down slowly, spelling “Were’t I wasn’t born, Ah!”


Slowly the tears trickled down that lonely jaw…

“Jane”, cried the professor, “What’s the result of this mixture?”

Jane knew not what was before, she stood there distraught.

She wishes she could do better, but her past sticks in the picture.


(c) Nyonglema