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Chris Agbiti Poem
THE PUPPET GAME I PLAY
When you are imbued with the uncanny ability
Wherein you can see beyond the shout of hosanna
To the dormant volcano
Of agitation, smouldering "crucify him"
Yet lurking within the inner recess of the well-wishers,
A great gift you already have.
When you can see through the veil of "there is no problem" Mouthed to you from them in your inner circles,
To behold the unspoken maledictions against you,
Seethingly seated in their outwardly bedecked sepulchre
Called the hearts,
A great gift you already have.
When you are so gifted,
All with these knowledge of the desperate animal called man,
And you were me,
A puppeteer you'd better become
To play the puppetry.
The Puppetry of the very ones
Whose shout of hosanna is but a re-echoing sound of their malediction;
Whose mouthing of "no problem" is but a heap of evil desires Deceptively interred in the sepulchre of their hearts.
Against such, offer no sacrifice of sincerity,
For a pearl counts but no sacrifice to a swine
But play the puppet of them
And bother not whereth comes the resource,
For their evil but hidden desires have already hoisted them
On a petard for the Puppetmaster's show.
Copyright © Chris Agbiti | Year Posted 2018
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Chris Agbiti Poem
In the dead of night,
I heard the cry of death;
A shrill cry it was,
But a faint cry,
As of a heart fainting of strength.
It oozed out in a steady stream
Of soul-rending shrill
As of unending wail and groan
From a house lately frequented by the grim reaper.
"Owailo", mother had muttered in education,
Was in travail!
Her own slice of cross she must bear,
Of the divine curse of travail appointed
To all eves.
Owailo travails unto death!
The divine malediction of travail
Becomes for Owailo,
The inevitable appointment with death
For her offspring she must never behold
Even as the offspring lives.
Oh hapless Owailo!
The ill-fated reptile of the shrubbery,
Who else has beheld your fate
To plead your cause before the Law Giver
Before whom mercy and grace abound?
Copyright © Chris Agbiti | Year Posted 2017
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Chris Agbiti Poem
In the dead of night,
I heard the cry of agony;
A shrill cry it was,
But a faint cry,
As of a heart fainting of strength.
It oozed out in a steady stream
Of soul-rending shrill
As of unending wail and groan
From a house lately frequented by the grim reaper.
"Owailo", mother had muttered in education,
Was wallowing in travail!
Her own slice of cross
she must bear,
Of the divine curse
Of travail appointed
To all eves.
Owailo travails unto death!
The divine malediction of travail
Becomes for Owailo,
The inevitable appointment with death
For her offspring she must never behold
Even as the offspring lives.
Oh hapless Owailo!
The ill-fated reptile of the shrubbery,
Who else has beheld your fate
To plead your cause before the Law Giver
Before whom mercy and grace abound?
THOUGHT OUT BY
CHRIS EDACHE AGBITI, ESQ
Copyright © Chris Agbiti | Year Posted 2017
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Chris Agbiti Poem
THE MATRIARCHAL LOVE PROTEST
On such a time as this,
When the faithful air
In the cupid enclave
Becomes vulnerable
To the fouling presence
Of the all intrusive diffusion
Of the strange breath of the foreign god;
When the dreaded local deities
Could no longer curb the patriarchal excesses
Of the men;
When the regulatory safeguard
Of patriarchy is wantonly let loosed,
The big masquerade, who hitherto had been in her full elements of shamefacedness, leaves the background,
To claim her territory in forewarning
To the accompanying goddesses
In the temple of the visiting cupid god of Valentine.
Chris E. Agbiti, Esq.
Copyright © Chris Agbiti | Year Posted 2018
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Chris Agbiti Poem
‘Oh God the provider,’
My voice re-echoed back to me
In the dead of the night
As I went on my knees in supplication
To present my petition
To the Great Provider.
Even in my innocence,
I besought Him,
My better half to provide
To meet the attributes I’d supplied,
Ignorantly unaware that the attributes
Best suited to me are in Him to give.
Now as I lie still
In meditation,
And behold His responses to my supplications,
I cannot but marvel
That though, wrongly I asked,
Yet my desires He rightly supplied.
And I wondered still:
How could this be,
Seeing that I asked amiss:
For the attributes were not I to give?
And I heard a gentle but still voice, saying,
It is the Amazing Grace.
Copyright © Chris Agbiti | Year Posted 2017
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