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Best Poems Written by Sandison Jumbo

Below are the all-time best Sandison Jumbo poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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In Thrall

 In Thrall

I’ve scooped plasma from the sun
To cook meals and heat my bath,
Moved Mount Everest just for fun;
None can ever walk my path.

I’ve had dinner on Saturn’s rings,
Kicked the moon like a soccer ball,
Plucked light rays like guitar strings—
I should adorn the walls of great halls.

I’ve swum the depths of every sea,
Journeyed to the center of the Earth,
Drunk molten magma like green tea;
My mind suffers no dearth.

I am the Law, the Order, and the King,
Free! Only to my mind am I in thrall.
I relish the escapes its figments bring,
Finding ways out of my every fall.

I’m a minstrel with an unchained mind
Or some raving loony in sanity’s cloak.
It’s no matter to what you are aligned,
Life is easier if seen, in part, as a joke!


Sept. 23, 2018

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Thumping Hilary

Thumping Hilary

Hillary had thought trash of Donald Trump
And prayed him, that America should dump
She spent time on the jabber
That he was a ‘Pee’ grabber
The election came; Trump gave her a thump!

July 4, 2017

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Salted Kisses

Salted kisses

The ferocious rolling waves
Were broken by the shoreline
Into gentle caressing streams

Wet, fine, white sand grains
Gently scouring and washing with each new step
Left our feet spick-and-span

Glassy specks of sea salt crystals
Trapped in your jet black hair
Reflected the distant lights

In the glory of the full moon’s light;
A hundred tiny stars twinkling in your hair
The sparkle in your eyes; yet, unsurpassed

A black halo formed around your face
By your long hair, blown by the cold sea breeze
The longer tendrils gently brushing against my face

Your sweet fragrance gently wafted into my face
In my goose pimpled skin, I tingled
As our lips merged in a warm salty embrace

Tongues, moist and probing 
In search of each other's sensual treasures
My desired eternity, glimpsed in an instant

Such long walks on the beach
A lifetime in a pleasant beach house
Fill my dreams of you and I

March 4, 2017

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The Final Home Coming

The Final Home Coming
 
From where the sky meets the high seas
Talking drums rolled out endless eulogies
As we waited, with the shore’s mud up to our knees
Some even did dance to the rhythm - no apologies
 
The mangrove flanked aquatic expanse
Its inhabitants in rapturous excitation
Announced the regattas' glorious advance
Even monkeys from trees did swing, in celebration

The colorful seven made haste to the shore
Their paddling, sequenced and synchronised
Each propelled by the muscles of twenty and four
The music, all but the drummers hypnotised
 
The wailing and drumming crescendos
As the casket is hoisted by each pall bearer
Threnodies and praise songs devoid of innuendos
Rent the air, from those to whose hearts he was dearer
 
Each relative, the other did strive to outdo
And to this illustrious son, give for at least once
With one good deed, all transgressions undo
Impressing the dead - the mind of a dunce
 
Priests did read Christian verses and made recitations
His soul, confused and standing with arms akimbo
As witch doctors also did chant incantations
Knew not which way led to Heaven, Hell or Limbo
 
In this carnival of his final journey home
He’d also sailed the metaphysical realm
Maybe, on tranquil seas that do not rage and foam
His first and last without control of the helm

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Let Me Be the One

Let me be the one!

One glance at your face
Initiated the chase
I have therefore, joined the race
To determine whose arms, you finally embrace
 
Of gold I heard your heart is made
To provide for a weary heart like mine, a shade
For a love like yours, I've always prayed
And hope no other, would have you swayed

Seen beauties without measure,
Yet, none gives my eyes more pleasure,
Unequalled, in beauty and grace,
The emptiness in my heart, please displace

I am hooked, as I never have been,
To a beauty, who ought to be a queen,
With abundance of brains and elegance
And no quantum of arrogance.

So, bury my heart in your bosom,
And let our love blossom,
Display me to all, like a work of art
But, never be thrown at with a dart
 
Let your lips be mine alone,
Worthy you will be for my throne.
Let me live in a love that’s fair and true,
Not one that'll always leave me blue.

Let me make you my Tsarina,
And you make me your Tsar.
Let me be your one true boo,
Not some display animal in your zoo.

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The Storm

The Storm

Black rimmed skies,
Clouds with no lining of silver,
Gusts of wind,
Trees protesting,
With a dance on the horizon.

Rumblings of thunder,
Flashes of lightening,
Animals and humans,
Caught up in the melee,
While scurrying to the shelter,
Of their de-roofed abodes.

A deluge of wetness,
Spattering on the pavement,
Cascading into drains,
Loaded with the debris,
From a disenchanted metropolis.

Steering-happy drivers,
Punishing crying jalopies,
Meandering through the gridlock,
They almost knock down children,
Glorying in the rain.

But the end, was also the beginning,
The damage done: great!
Before any got home,
The sun was up smiling,
In adulation for the rain,
For a job well done.

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Song of the Sojourner

Song of the Sojourner

From far, far, away,
In this land so foreign,
Memories of you haunt me.
I pine away in craving,
For the feel of your breath,
Cool, soft and saline,
Fanning my face, gently.

Memories of our first embrace,
As I crawled on my belly,
Under chairs, tables and beds,
Crying at every obstacle,
Covered in your dirt,
In search of my beloved mother
My mind has clearly rebuilt.

I still hear your music,
In a tongue rich and ancient.
Your pantheon of masquerades,
Deifying great creatures of your rivers,
Each, called to the center by name,
By the voice of your talking drums.
Dance steps, electric and eclectic!

Though I continue to sojourn,
In this land across foreign waters,
Your gods, I have not forgotten,
Your traditions, have never left me.
I therefore make this pledge,
That surely, I will return,
To you, oh land of my fathers

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The Forgotten God

The forgotten god
 
Whose rage should burn hotter
than mine; melt the noon day sun,
dry up all thy rivers, scorch the earth, that
thy crops may burn to ashes before
thine eyes, and the heat from the
very earth upon which ye stand,
make roasted beef of thy feet?
 
Whose anger’s eruption should be more
terrifying than Mount Vesuvius,
spewing kilometer tall jets of
volcanic ash into the atmosphere, that
the very air thou breathes into
thy nostrils, be as from bellows into
a blacksmith’s forge, cooking up thy lungs,
making thy tongue be so parched, that,
in thy maddening thirst,
thine eyes will be blind to reason, and
thine ears deaf to thy folly,  and in
thy desperation, thou would
make a complete jest of thyself, in the glare
of all, and wallow in the futility of attempting to squeeze
water, out of the dust of the Sahara?
 
Whose eyes should cry
more than mine, with tear ducts
unleashing centuries of pent-up tears,
enough to rain for a decade without ceasing,
and watch thy towns and
cities flood, until the last peak is submerged,
and thy children and cattle drown
before thy very eyes and make
a dainty feast for the fishes of the seas?
 
Today, “he was the god of our fathers”
thou would say. But, would thou
have been, if I had not kept thy fathers’ fathers
before thee?
 
When I looked away,
and thy farmlands lacked rain and nourishment,
the harvest was poor,
and famine overtook thy towns,
did thy fathers not
run to my shrines with offerings of: sheep and
goats, their slaves and even their children’s blood?
Did I not re-nourish the earth,
give them bountiful harvests
and make their paupers eat like kings?
 
Who led thy fathers’ fathers
into battles as Sango or Amadioha,
with the might of lightning
and thunder going before them,
and striking terror
into the hearts of their foes,
 bringing the enemies to their knees,
groveling before thy fathers’ fathers  and
offering their lands, wives and children,
in surrender,
even before thy fathers’ first arrows left their bows,
or before their machetes left their sheaths,
to draw blood?
 
By whose knowledge as Ogun,  
that from the dust of the earth, the hands of
 thy fathers forged iron
and shaped it into countless tools,
of both war and peace, and of
merriment and shedding of blood?
 
Who taught thy fathers the seasons,
Agriculture, what herbs healed what,
and what herbs killed what,
that in sickness,
they may also have health?
 
Who as Simingi, Akaso, or Finibeso,
 taught thy fathers the navigation of the seas,
the cycles of the tides, and
the language of the fishes?
 
Who taught thy fathers how to shackle the wind,
Conjure the rain at will,
tame lightning and thunder,
commune with the spirits and ancestors
and foretell the future?
 
Should I go on? All these are in
books of thy history- both those written
by strangers who knew not my ways,
and those written by thy mis-educated children.
 
I will not let my grief at thy loss
overcome me.
I will weep for thee and
chose to forgive thy transgressions,
appear powerless in thy eyes,
as I watch thee desecrate my remaining shrines,
 call me pagan like the white skinned men
from foreign climes
and forsake my ways completely,
as thou continue to glorify foreign deities.
 
Today, thou would say “his time is long past”.
Though that may seem to be so, but
I will sit here laughing mirthlessly,
and watch thy time go,
just as I watched it come,
and as I watched thy fathers times
come and go before thee, hoping that,
if thou does not remember the ways of thy fathers,
and return to me,
thy children after thee, will.
 
They will surely return to me……….
They will return to me……
They will return to me, the forgotten god!
 
June 28, 2017

Written for "Create a character" poetry contest 
sponsored by Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer.

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Beyond Reason

 Beyond Reason

Twenty great countries had gone to battle
Staking all, e’en their children and their cattle
Praying to their gods, each had kept vigil
Their flags, each with a different sigil
Hoping to, in supremacy, above the rest soar
Whether they quack, neigh, mew or roar
But the blue lion of the ruined Stamford bridge
A fortress; her roof, now with many a leaky ridge
Bombed in the last war; has now defied reason
And risen from the ash pile of last season
To each and every country, overwhelm
And again, reign supreme in the realm


A poem on the 2016/2017 EPL Season 

May 17, 2017

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Butterflies of Beauty

Butterflies of beauty
 
Today I beheld nature’s beauties in flight
As I walked to sit on a garden bench
Lost in absolute wonder and delight
I almost tripped into a nearby trench
 
Oh, what delicately ravishing little things
Coming in all shades of every hue
And how gently they do flap their wings
As they perch on flowers: red, green and blue
 
Flying so gently through the air
They pollinate  flower after flower
As they suck nectar from each without a care
And their hairy legs are bathed in a pollen shower
 
Oh butterflies of beauty
Little wonder the rainbow hides in shame
At the sight of you on duty
Or at the mention of your name

The envy of the world's most affluent kings
Shall be aroused at the sight of your beautiful cloaks
Compared to your intricately coloured wings
Their finest garments are only but jokes

Jan. 9, 2017