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From the high trees in Mexico;
On the way back to this Mexico,
The great-grand Monarch will stir
As she, this same time and there
Starts a migration of off-springs
At times winters meets springs.
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In flight onto the vastness of Texas,
They will briefly settle in Texas;
As did cows, boys and their wives,
Like an established glow of life’s.
Waving cloud of flickering beauty,
Floating yellow specks, so mighty.
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The first generation will here pupa,
Here crops feed and protect proper.
Well fed, they cover up and mutate.
These Milk-weeds they do cultivate
Dictates their site, flight and path;
After it, the caterpillars had sought.
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Another generation is alone and going,
Together following meals and dying.
Onward northeast with their destiny,
Eighty kilometers a day their mystery.
Their next route only goes on forth;
The generation that returns is fourth.

They had congregated in far Canada,
This generation is journey harder.
Their numbers much as to boast,
As they wait out storms at the coast.
At last in the Augusts’ clear season,
They sprint four thousand miles of ocean.
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If Human restlessness keeps its place,
Together like they left this place;
With earth where it was again in orbit
And nature its only possible culprit,
Southwest this living cloud always returns,
To the same trees the Monarch returns.
the poet in the poet


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Again it has come to pass that a century of geographical existence, including a progressive topsy-turvy fifty-five years of notable nationhood, hasn’t taught Nigerians to choose from among its best credible citizens to govern and manage its potentials.

Even when Nigerians unite, they still manage to select the option that divides them.

(Read the following excerpts from Romance of the Regions)

“That (cramp and constraint) very uncomfortable taxi ride isn’t ever taken willingly in Nigeria, but is has to be taken. The typical Nigerian would rather drive alone in his own personal car and boast of his status. The unchanging terrain of many faiths and allegiances dissipate the oversized ego bottled up inside the separate people and their diverse adversarial advances. It is a feeling they never actually renounce, even when it clearly consumes their vast intellectual capabilities. The renunciation of their quest to always usurp the next person, doesn’t remotely appeal to them.

“A majority of Nigerians would appear unduly worried for their lack of true unity, yet their very intimate thoughts remain lethal, without any of them really changing. Their relationship with each other doesn’t notably alter from the rudiments of its onset. They still hold the same aspirations dear to their own hearts, and that commonly entails still holding a low opinion of one another. Though they like to make themselves and other neutral onlookers think they don’t. But over all they were, are and will always be competing. This is obvious and evident in the overall failure of order in their joint existence, for there is never real cooperation in an atmosphere of competition. They are each forcing their ideals on each other with stealth and failing to conceal their subtle dislike for each other.

“They like to believe they would succeed in making non-existent the similar threat of dominance of their fellow competitors in the overlay lurking and demeaning their nationhood. They refuse to take the hindermost notice that bitterness is tastefully harsh as it comes across with a whiff of wicked aroma. It is impracticable for them to dispassionately observe fully that their competitive dislike for each other hinders their advances progressively, in complete irony to the unity they loudly profess. They hoarded up their misgivings and kept it compressed for that final inevitable huge unrestrained outpour of their noxious emotions.

“When momentarily the incongruity of their culpable situation hits their stupidly elusive hope forcefully, they still incredibly fail to firstly recognize and then secondly acknowledge, that they have completely lost their objectivity. Instead each renewed incident arouses more anger and fiercely the foolhardy experience only increasingly dissociates one social despot from the other. It makes them ever more abhorrent to the eccentricity they have come to be easily identified with, the resonant antisocial syndrome they have come to be contended with.”

This weekend’s Nigerian Presidential Election is a selection, being made from among two mainly subjectively perceived lesser evils, as deduced by a diversely oriented population, seeking sectional and fractional interests and not the nation’s. Period!


Federal Republic of Niger-area; The Old Matured Lie

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(excerpts from The Whore; Chapter 8)

‘Nigeria is like a wonderful lie a sincerely misguided old mentor told his protégé to placard his impatience towards doing daily chores he must learn to do. Problem is the protégé believed the lie because it was never disproven and the apprentice has since taught his own pupils to believe it to. Generations had grown used to loving the fable that was made off the huge living lie and complex relationships has since been built on this old aging lie. And because someone ever gains the most in every relationship, the lie remains true to those who gain from it.

With uttermost regard for the honour and painstaking memory of their founding mentors, generations have flawlessly adhered to this lie. Decades passed and they are in too deep to ever surface again for the truth that their one ingrained belief is based on a lie. It is now a solid national structure and not a mere law to be simply abrogated or shredded confetti for the gutters’.

Nigeria exists as a national entity and it is the responsibility of all Nigerians to make the old lie an enduring truth. It is the dream of generations of the people of the larger Niger-area to actualize the ‘Will of Wishes’ their ancestors left for them to build on. Like the glorified bastards their obscure origins make them, the international identity of all Nigerians depends on it.

She is an old village;
Naïve, crude, not low in age.
She understood very little,
Wasn’t sure if trust was so simple.

From the refined distance he came;
With strength he showed his shame.
With feeble resistance she succumbed
And all that’s hers he well combed.

Because she paid well he kept her
And married her from leagues afar.
She never nodded or was asked
But remained his and tasked.

They got a son after a while;
The bastard was proud in his smile.
With time he knew mother and father
And truly had cause for bother.

Claiming justice the father withdrew,
His loyal son he let rule like he knew.
The complication wasn’t at first obvious.
As time tells, it also is very envious.

The mother weeps for her dear son,
For the father has the whole person.
Their bastard is what he knows
And in this nature all does grows.

Tomorrow’s sunsets come inevitably,
Carrying vague identity’s loyalties happily.
Nursing dreams of his father’s riches;
Their bastard made wills of wishes.


Disgraced into strength

(excerpts from Fever: The origins of fever)

Fallen men always have messed up eyes that say much more than they did when still propped up by the proud arrogance of affluence. As the only true instruments of communication for a messed up and ruined person, the eyes of a fallen person say they have finally seen pride as a tangible commodity that can be found and lost in a world that identifies and recognizes with material success and failure mainly. People mostly equate every virtue or substance in their selfish terms of elaborately ransomed pledges. This passes off as such a vain concept to all those who are yet to experience that implying divorce of real materialism from the physical object they have been in strong emotional attachment with.

Man hasn’t yet redeemed himself from this despicable existence of perpetual desires, needs and wants, sprinkled all over his manifesting hypocrisy of a normal existence. It is like the perpetually incomplete tower he is ever setting out to build, ridicules and teases him so that he shouldn’t complete it. Ultimately each man surpassed a simple respectable existence with forcibly contemplating political ideologies and shamefully endures their self-inflicted unpleasant consequences.

It is by surrendering its wool to shearers that the sheep still walks the earth free of the guilt it shouldn’t have had. It only lives on for this reason and can redirect its focus to again growing the wool it repeatedly owes its life to.

When You Thought I Wasn’t Looking Author Unknown

A piece worthy of every mother’s attention….

Madamsabi's Blog

When you thought I wasn’t looking,
I saw you hang my first painting on the refrigerator,
and I wanted to paint another one.


When you thought I wasn’t looking,
I saw you feed a stray cat,
and I thought it was good to be kind to animals.

When you thought I wasn’t looking,
I saw you make my favorite cake for me,
and I knew that little things are special things.

When you thought I wasn’t looking,
I heard you say a prayer,
and I believed there is a God I could always talk to.

When you thought I wasn’t looking,
I felt you kiss me good night,
and I felt loved.

When you thought I wasn’t looking,
I saw tears come from your eyes,
and I learned that sometimes things hurt,
but it’s all right to cry.

When you thought I wasn’t looking,
I saw that you cared and…

View original post 38 more words


(ascerpts from The Old Woman’s Maid)

As death wooed me for that brief moment in time, I was momentarily glad; quite selfishly, that I wasn’t going to see (my wife) leave me like I have always dreaded she would some day. In the quiet torment of the mazy-whirls of my mind I saw my father dying all over again and all my old unanswered questions came up for answers again, questions I have always wanted to ask him, especially after he died.

‘Baba, mutuwa na da wuya? Mun amince duniyar ka da wuya.’
‘Father, is it hard to die? We now acknowledge the hassles of your world.’

I have since learnt that with life’s many diverse wards, there always lingers and roams a lie and that we all are ordinary reproductions and effigies of these many lies. We are all choking in the presence of the grip this glaring falsehood and still the inscrutable crux is never familiarized by us. Now that I know all fate is death and yet all knowing, I will love to know from him what is the best thing to do.

‘Do we sit out the stages of life’s ending trip, like you did in peaceful love for all that wasn’t recognized by those you showed real love or do we ignore it all?’

From the initial maiden cry each baby wails as it enters the world, to the difficulties of life it grows to experience as cruel lashes from mindless whips, these tastes we all come to know, own and inherit with time, age and experience.
‘But say oh father, is there better to merit?’ I would want to know this.

Baba, mutuwa na da wuya?
Mun amince duniyar ka da wuya.

Father, is it hard to die?
We acknowledge the hassles of your world.
With life’s wards always roams a lie;
We all are reproductions of its mould.

Choking in the presence of its grip,
The inscrutable crux not familiarized.
Do we sit out the stages of its trip,
Like your peaceful love that wasn’t recognized?

From the weep the baby wails
To the whip’s lashes life hails,
These tastes we own and inherit.
Say oh father, is there better to merit?


I am very old fashioned when it comes to a few things. I am the first to admit it. Most folks will think that is a bad thing, but soon everyone learns that being old fashioned is the most likely the proper, the decent and the safe option.

Of the few things I am old fashioned in, how sex is presented to young children in glowing language stands out. I find that improper, not decent and most certainly not safe.

In the most sweetish manner sex is literally preach to our little Angels, by certain persons, the unseasoned goats among us.

Singing whispers talk to the Angels,
The embers of dying souls yet float.
Smell and eat the matrimony of singles,
The adulterous flesh of the human Goat.

Beautiful, sweet, soft words speak to the good,
Firing up the hapless situation with much wood.
Enjoying fully ungodly coupling of un-wedded hope,
Grown up, unethical nature of the animistic dope.

Being single is likened to being married in modern times. There is no rule to coupling any longer in these days of civil rights and civilities. All of a sudden we are all grown up, unethical and no different from animistic Goats.



The Tale Of Gift

This a story we have been told by the oldest father anyone could ever have.
He said ‘It is blessed to give than to receive.’
But like most of you I forget this too often, so I try to remind myself as often.

I wrote TALE decades ago,
it was one of my earliest poems,
my Twinkle, twinkle little star,
to remind me when I am up above the world so high,
full of myself like a diamond in the sky,
that I am still just another speck of countless wonder,
that I must shine back some mystical light,
back to the world beneath me that needs just a tiny bit of my miracle,
before my flame dies out.

TALE reads;
The tale of two lives;
All one to a person gives.
A life of haves and receives,
Another of wants, needs and lives.
Living able and able who gives.

And then I saw GIFT and it gave pictures and voices to my written words. GIFT will speak for itself and hopefully to you too. – Singapore Inspiration Drama Short Film //


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Ever wonder what men grow up learning from other men about their bodies? No beating around the bush, have you ever wondered if boys/men are taught how to managed their sentiments, when it came to women?
Don’t lie, you had and still are wondering.

Any way, let me put you out of you misery.
You think you have figured out men?
Well, you never fully can.

It is very simply, really.
Because men haven’t figured out themselves yet and are constantly fighting their sentiments.

You think that is a whole lot of rubbish, don’t you?
Then read my case below……

“Daddy smiled and coughed light,
Understanding my explained plight.
Men are lonely and they know,
Yet they conspire not to let show.

“These women are assisted all through
By their very own sex, unlike you.
Firstly by mothers or sisters, then peers.
All thrust, show or coax their shares.

“Ladies understand the bodies’ world well
As they grow so guided, you can tell.
The boy discovers on his very own.
And thus, what he finds is his fun.”

Every young boy searches on and what tiny bits he finds, picks up or scavenge along the way, he tries to enjoy and make the best of as much as he can, like a lone wild wolf out in his personal world.

So beware ladies.
Next fellow you meet, could have tamed his wild sentiments for real or not. He is at best, just keeping his urges in check.
No man is ever fully domesticated.

Good luck, eternal Spouse of Sentiments.

You owe me big time, ladies.
Gratitude accepted!

Read an Ebook Week 2015 Kicks off Today!

Read an Ebook Week 2015 Kicks off Today

Read an Ebook Week
01-07 Mar, 2015

The annual Read an Ebook Week celebration kicks off today.

Smashwords is again sponsoring the event for the seventh year running.

The promotion features thousands of free and discounted titles today through Saturday March 7.

Read an Ebook Week 4
Click here to go directly to the promotional catalog where you can filter by category, bestsellers and coupon codes:

Yours truly has entered a number of priced titles to include those on free offer already listed for the promotion….

Have fun!

Read an Ebook Week 3
Read an Ebook Week 5

The Proposal

Is it impossible to ideally explain one’s love with just words?

Read through this excerpts from ‘Fever: The origins of fever’ and see if you identify with the emotions & concerns registered by the couple.
The sparkle went out of her eyes and returned as quickly as it left. A child would easily realize that she had actually paused in thinking as she unconsciously held her breath. Her lighter facial complexion took on that glossy oily texture that belied the held notion that dark skinned people don’t blush.

Then she exhaled with a loud audible whizzing whoosh. She consequently turned and looked away with that pretentious awe that the suddenness or a lack of it, always seems to demand of most puberty weaned women in similar circumstances. It was indeed pretentious, but not remotely hypocritical.

She wasn’t blank in her head, that solitary place of the mind’s earnest thoughts was busy celebrating that he had ventured into her loneliest coziest secret thoughts.

As she remained silent for that briefest while and looking away, it encouraged him greatly. She was sure making him say more would rapture any bag of beautiful lies he would try to hide with the elegant beauty of so many sweet words.

The much she knew about him said he is a very analytic young man. He uses all the space he has wisely, so she used up all the opportunity to observe and comprehend the genuineness of his intention fully. The marvel of it appeared simple, as she refrained from speaking for a prolonged while but even as she tarried to let him say more, it didn’t deter him.

His confidence waned just a shade. So he went ahead to recite most of the niceties he had grown weary composing all night, for every night since the idea had come to him, and that is almost for as long as he had known her.

He had made up pictures in his mind of both of them in fantasized romantic closures and slowly he lost control of this most secretive activity of his mind, as it forcibly crept into every single one of his nightly dreams and daily thoughts.

Right there on the vast lawns of his large coastal home, that stretched onto the piled sands edging the ocean, bordering yet another end of an endless expanse of mostly calmly unstable salty water, he mumbled his thoughts out loud with the hopeful prayer that she would let her compassionate heart speak and not her wise mind. That her heart would be mindless of what her mind would warn it of and she would let his dreams come true.

He attempted to prove the truth of his love for her in as many words, as best as he verbally could, but realized it is quite impossible to ideally explain one’s love with just words. Still he felt with the so many words he was able to cramp into that brief, he had said enough not to have his sincere intention summarily dismissed by her. He hoped the much he said ought to convince her that he was only bent on making her happy and loved.

The young lady had her very own fears of not being perceived to be merely a very good act. She had hoped that the courage he showed in being so blunt with her hadn’t come from something she did or said. It was important to her that her true feelings towards him did not come across and show off so easily. He is a very wealthy good looking young man and that ought to easily make him attractive to every young lady for so many wrongly deduced right reasons. She was worried that he didn’t draw the wrong conclusion about her.

As he waited for her response with tensed up repressed emotions, she failed in her effort to disguise the intensity of the relief that overwhelmed her, as she decided to gamble her trust.

They knew they couldn’t possibly loathe themselves and must fill their minds with enough knowledge of the honest nice feelings that ridicule them. She exhaled and sighed silently, then also fulfilled her six months old wish by wordlessly embracing him in her simple sincere act of acceptance and submission.