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Best Poems Written by Theophilus Ekpa

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Details | Theophilus Ekpa Poem

The first hour after Christ's day

In the first hour after Christ’s day
When we may still think of silent nights
My room on the outskirts of Ojo
Endures the steady groaning of the “I pass my neighbour”

In the first hour after Christ’s day
Lagos throbs
We hear the bombs you know,
Fire crackers and fire bombs

In the first hour after Christ’s day
I sit on my mattress
And I travel the Arabian nights
From Yemen, to Cairo, to Baghdad

In the first hour after Christ’s day
I let the mind drift afar
To great dreams and big hopes
Feats becoming men who strove with gods

In the first hour after Christ’s day
I give reason to my days
And thought to my waste
How shall the end be?

In this first hour after Christ’s day
I cast, foretell
I dream of beauty I’ve never seen
A heavenly place

Copyright © Theophilus Ekpa | Year Posted 2016



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Remember your Creator

A poor hired labourer,
Or a wealthy contractor;

A road sweeper,
Or a civil engineer;

A biscuits hawker,
Or a business mogul;

A hungry, unkempt and unknown beggar,
Or a well fed, finely turned out and renown president;

Reaching for bright, limitless heights and prospects,
Or groping for dark un-bottomed and hopeless lows;

Remember your Creator
For eternity waits.
This life is not for ever.
Nay, it is but a pilgrimage.

Remember your Creator
In the days of your youth
Before the old and worn traveller
Lays to his rest and reward.
Good or bad, his reward is his just share

Remember your Creator.

Copyright © Theophilus Ekpa | Year Posted 2016

Details | Theophilus Ekpa Poem

Without

What is life without help or company?
What is this journey without friends?
How... this pilgrimage without people to love and love you?
What a misery without any
But those to watch and judge your every twitch?
How much more profoundly miserable
When these people ought to be your family?

Copyright © Theophilus Ekpa | Year Posted 2016

Details | Theophilus Ekpa Poem

My Homes

I wake up in an old, worn out hostel with three of its siblings close by
And I remember a penthouse with similar storeyed buildings around
And a bungalow of five rooms forming a quadrangle with thatch and mud houses

I walk unto an old eroded road leading to a tarred one carriage way
And I remember a street and a road both flooded but leading up to a jammed expressway
And continuous gravel and dust roads unfolding for many miles

I go to service in an uncompleted auditorium meant to have a gallery
And I remember a church building expanded and decked
And the small church in Ezekobe with hardly enough members to fill it

I walk on hills and slopes
And I remember walking in vast lowlands and watery depressions
And walking on flowing hills, hanging valleys and plateaux

I see old golf cars used as shuttles
And I remember new Siennas used as taxis
And a place unconquered by the taxi

I eat ‘Okpa’
And I remember ‘Agidi’
And ‘Ligbo’

Alas, I am caught between three lands
Three homes in three strange lands
And I am forced to redefine home
When none of my homes is really my home

Copyright © Theophilus Ekpa | Year Posted 2016

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He's a liar

It is said of him,
that he speaks
of things that are not
as though they are

It is said of him,
that he is an artist
he can re-paint a story
to that which he imagined

It is said of him,
that he is talented
at sleekness of lips,
and dribbling human minds

It is said of him,
that he can transform
he remakes situations
certainly only in his speech

It is said of him
that he is a liar.

Copyright © Theophilus Ekpa | Year Posted 2016



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The fighting man

In his armour
of knowledge, brains and mind
He goes off to the bloodless wars fought with salient words

Infantry, his words
Artillery, the wits
Sarcasm, the sabre
Bombast, the cannon

Diplomatic innuendoes
philosophical crescendos
are not mere statements
but victory bringing elements

He fights on and faints not
The fighting man strives on
for himself, family and nation
for his ideals, morals and God

Who knows,
He may just win a victory
Maybe more important
Than any victory of guns and bombs

Copyright © Theophilus Ekpa | Year Posted 2016

Details | Theophilus Ekpa Poem

The Fighting man- rewrite

He goes out armoured
In knowledge, brains and mind
He goes off to the war of no blood
Fought with the steady word

Infantry his words,
Artillery his wits,
His sarcasm bayonets,
his bombast cannon blasts

Diplomatic innuendoes
Philosophical crescendos
Are not mere statements
But victory bringing elements

He faints not and fights on
For himself, family and nation
The fighting man strives on
For his ideals, God and axioms

Who knows
He might just be victorious
In such importance
As to be more than that of guns and bombs

Copyright © Theophilus Ekpa | Year Posted 2016

Details | Theophilus Ekpa Poem

Fighting for my stars

In the dark of night
My way leads up to class
Books and electronic lamp make my pack
To study I say
Or at least try

Before dawn, I arise
To the King I call
That I may get my daily bread
So fight I my battles
Or at least try

From the room,
To the old reservoir I rush
Not forgetting the bath queues to overcome
I must be punctual at lectures
Or at least try

Afternoon, I trudge
Faculty officer to dean
HOD to academic adviser
I must resolve other problems
Or at least try

Evening at Carver or NSLT
Praying the word
I eat my fill from His abundance
I renew strength
Or at least try

The chorus of faith
I sing with my mouth
Of it my words make melody
I live it with my life and sing of my heart
Or at least try

In all, I fear no hope
And dream, not really trusting any dream
For hope or dream or neither,
I am fighting for my stars.

Copyright © Theophilus Ekpa | Year Posted 2016

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No bets

 Here in my quiet corner
Jesus culture seeps out of the phone at my left
The day isn’t young
The late pink of December’s evening gently informs me that evening is here

I think and rage,
I read and boil
How dare they?
I have known only one Way
I have ever judged by only one standard, supreme above others

Truth is:
I realize that I share like thoughts
As the fictional Kofo Ebaje
And the very much real Moses
Because I need to separate fact from its significant other

Things we learn in ecclesia
Do they really count as fact?
Or are we held at the mercy of a spinning yarn?
Are they just stories to soothe the heart?
To hype the mind?

In heart’s deep
Bubbles up from that chasm
The more sinister proposition of
The eternal joke like Saeid of Cairo
‘Tis a frightful and pitiful thing, such thoughts

However, I hold to the Way and I’ll see it to end
Saving the rest for the next not-following period
Something like the forever gamble
But some part of me says: all bets are off
While the other says: No bets

Copyright © Theophilus Ekpa | Year Posted 2016

Details | Theophilus Ekpa Poem

C'est bon anniversaire

We took the bus together,
And arrived to a weather,
It seemed cold as space,
And hard to find a sleeping place. ‘Twas post UME.

Again from the same purse,
We boarded the same bus,
Took the shuttles,
To our hovels.
‘Twas registration.

To a dear friend,
And cherished,
Loving elder,
Beloved sister,
‘Tis bon anniversaire.

Copyright © Theophilus Ekpa | Year Posted 2016

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