Nigeria is 58

Today is the Independence Day of my dear country, Nigeria.

And the following poem by Abdullahi Marcel E-dris sums up how most Nigerians feel today…

“So they gathered
Plotted nothing but pure evil
How much more to be murdered
This they planned and executed
Many times over

“It’s a tale of misery
The people wonder what they’ve done wrong
Killings and maiming everyday
The blood and tears keeps flowing
The bodies keep piling
The earth tired of swallowing

“Where are those we voted?
Where are the so called “leaders”?
Those who swore to protect the best interest of the people?
Those who blare sirens everyday…
Those driven in tinted vehicles…
Those whose children never face such harsh realities…
Those who take party issues more important than lives lost…
Those who fuel these crisis…
Those who careless who dies…

“Our worries deepens
Our cries louder
Our losses more
Our pain deeper
Our fears bigger
Our doubts fatter
Our faith thinner
Our laughter fewer
Our joy weaker
Our confidence in you almost dead

“The call
Is that of action
That which will bring lasting peace
Ease the pain suffered
Heal the wounds covered.
This we ask
This we demand.
Thank you.

#Nigeria@58”

Yes, most Nigerians are so sad & scared today…..

Where Four People Died

There’s a sign that says: Four people died here. A cascade of water tumbles over rocks into a pool. On the edges, it’s clear; you can see silt at the shallow bottom. The pool, though, is dark. It leads to a cavern hidden beneath the surface, undercurrents dragging the water there and holding it. […]

via Where Four People Died — J. W. Armstrong

Written by Jacob Ibrag ‘Why can’t you let me into your mind?’ Because if I did, you’ll know that you could never be mine. I’m no more than a cage and you were designed to fly. Photographer Unknown

via Mine — Eyes + Words

Life Is Not Everything — Bipolar by cola

Life is not everything, a shadow of me, exists out there somewhere in the sea. Breath is not everything, a slight tense, is making the waking dream come sense. Light is not everything, the new dark comes, for the lonely soul who think he has won. Dark is not everything, light burns the night away […]

via Life Is Not Everything — Bipolar by cola

5 Year Anniversary Achievement
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IT HAS BEEN SUPER AWESOME…. THANK YOU ALL

And Development Is?

czsxkum

There aren’t pinpoint developed or under-developed nations. The difference in development levels of nations are classed according to proximity to the best examples of the two extremes of the stages of development. Thus the term developing is firstly relative to both extremes. The seemingly endless process of developing is still quiet evident at both extremes. This fact is open dispute and debate.

Stagnation in under-developed nations isn’t permanent either, but the term aptly describes the state it appears to be in presently, just as being termed developed doesn’t describe the former. Development isn’t an infrastructural state, principally. Development is mainly attitudinal; a state of a culture and not the process it had under gone to get where it is. Development isn’t a stage a nation is but the state of the circumstances that surround the entirety of the national entity currently, not where it is at. Development isn’t a stage but a process, it isn’t ever finished but dynamic.

Here is a poem by Portia Nelson that might help us see that if we ever want this misconception of what development really is to end, we must do things differently not merely shutting little people up when they crave for true development.

There’s A Hole In My Sidewalk
Chapter 1
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in. I am lost….I am helpless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.
Chapter 2
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the side walk.
I pretend I don’t see it. I fall in again.
I can’t believe I am in the same place.
But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.
Chapter 3
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I fall in….it’s a habit…but my eyes are open.
I know where I am. It is my fault.
I get out immediately.
Chapter 4
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.
Chapter 5
I walk down a different street.

Some Days — HarsH ReaLiTy

Originally posted on Richard Rensberry, The Grumpy Poet: Some Days Some days are empty some days are full Some days are timid, some days are bold. Some days are broken some days unfold Some days are some days with no where to go. Some days are precious, some days grow old. Some days are happy,…

via Some Days — HarsH ReaLiTy

Feline — Lonely Blue Boy

Where does she go when her home isn’t her home? I am worried about her. This girl whom I love so much. I am worried that her home would one day turn into a dungeon where she would be tortured by the people whom she should’ve loved but couldn’t love because these people whom […]

via Feline — Lonely Blue Boy

THE REASON MOST MEN MARRY

simpsons-6

Most grown men were previously of the opinion that they should always have the major say in their romantic relationships. They realized too late that they had succumbed to female charms unconsciously. Like most people they discovered they aren’t built outwardly as they are inwardly. They lead themselves on with the false hope that they could blunt the sharpness that heralds the things they covet the most, like most women so pitifully do. Majority of men love the attributes of the women they end up with, not the women and that is their undoing.

Women aren’t on the same level playing field with men. A woman yields for the man to thrust himself into her life. When she momentarily refuses to yield and he persists forcibly, that is defined as rape. When she is coerced into giving in unwillingly, it hurts hers and she ensures it would practically displease him too in the long run. The woman wants favours and still wants equality, leaving her man with the vague decisions of what are actually his strengths, choices, rights and his initiated ideas. His admonitions and inclinations are shredded with all the belated unexpected outpouring that follows the subsequent sense of abandonment dimly registering in his complicated thoughts, when she gets her way as always.

Yet she will still hurl varied insults at his person, distorting and trampling facts. When the fragrance of the truth is confronted, it will always smell quite feminine. There are no legal statutes governing the woman’s natural strength sapping and ego violating antecedents, that always ends with a fuming fretted man.
strenght-of-a-woman
Strenght of a Woman
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Exclusive — Eyes + Words

Written by Jacob Ibrag I don’t strive to be different. Those who desperately swim against the current usually find themselves out of breath and lack the will to break free above the surface. Think snowflakes, short lifespans carrying unique purpose. Each inherently obsolete and exclusive. No identity crisis, no contempt for each others progressions. Rare and perfect in their imperfections. I don’t care about […]

via Exclusive — Eyes + Words

MARRIAGE IS THE WOMAN’S

charge-your-man
Women can not but accept that they make a marriage work. The nature of the man is too proud, independent and selfish to make all the compromises a marriage needs to work. In the most traditional setting the onus is on the woman to do all the work for a marriage. She would think that she couldn’t do much of it without the male’s maintained cooperation, but really most men never had actually cooperated from the onset.

It is clear that the more independent the woman seeks to be and the more independence she attains over time and exercises in her personalized wishes in a marriage and in life in general, the more the marital proverbially boat rocks, hit the rocks and sinks. Then only the woman really loses out because the marriage institution best personifies her. The man would only instantly lose the joys of the woman’s attributes, all those many attachments that were always only really beneficial to him. The woman loses the marriage she was wooed into. It will hurt the man’s pride, take away the brightness in the pleasures he enjoys for the while. Then his face would beam, his eyes gleam with delight and his lips blossom into the fresh smile of yet another blissful union. Women mostly seek face value like their much belittled gender, racial and regional orientation expects of them.

Truly black women are practically more racists in their preferences. Though they are very hospitable and more selfless, they are collectively personal and quite tribal, and trivial in their general choices; preferring outward values above all others. The twisting effect of religion doesn’t change this trend as much as culture has affected it over time, it actually worsens it. Civilization merely inserted a dent in the trend but not altered in fully. A whooping resounding domineering majority of religious people aren’t adult converts but are actually circumstantially religious by some original orientation. Thus it has never been the quest of religious people to seek the rightfulness of another faith ahead of theirs. They are always schooled in the desires of their immediate needs and desire to put other faith’s principle on a logical pedestal. To remotely glorify different teachings is not even entertained.

They would ordinarily consider all others faiths quite inferior to theirs and oddly that poorly or wrongly conceives subjective ideologies but not guide any sacred insight like theirs would. In this line of thought they linger in, their need of it engulfs their bias reasoning, which is to belong firmly and remain so in their tight fitting world of faithful make-belief. Their near misses are actually searches and they are never real losers in the end, but endless winners that out number their victories. It is in these all too familiar marriages that the lingering incompatibility of each separate union comes true and freedom from that inner human loneliness couples look for is ever elusive, endlessly so. Freedom from humanly imposed regulations is the spelled out thought that holds them captive with its one tracked biasness. Then as the birds of marital prey are spotted and stopped from perching over human heads, they stay out of reach and fly over head with their very own intensions in mind and never that of another. The presence of freedom has the propensity to be quite harmful eventually too, just as does the absence of it. The case in favour of true freedom is that it allows choice, and choice makes the man. It is the main difference in humanity’s tangible essence over its adopted civility.

WILL YOU MARRY ME?
These intimate songs we sing
Blend aged dreams into a ring
That weds our gendered stew
In matrimonial oneness not new.

strenght of a woman
Strenght of a woman
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383812

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The Poet in the Poem
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CHOICE IS LIFE

footprints
The complete absence of choice is the complete absence of humanity. In the absence of freedom is the absence of choice and in the absence of choice is the absence of reason, which creates the most ideal atmosphere for anarchy.

Suspicion breeds curiosity and inquisitiveness is the keenness kind of knowledge creator. Simple baseless faith tends to cloud reason and render the few designated roles of human senses useless to personalized existence. Choice keeps life bubbling with its common logic. It is after all fear that compels sensible caution the most, manages to preserve all kinds of life forms, irrespective of intelligence. That most naturally reflects choice the most. As surprisingly silly an assertion as it might appear, this facile truth dandled the length and breath of life in all is ramification.

Like the borderless hues of rainbows, chioce is the true reason for change and change is the sole continuum of all life. Choice is fully absent in the peripheries of the most emotionally touching incidences that concludes a life and in the most frequent basic incident that sustains it, but it is everywhere else in all of every lifetime.

CHOICES

Winning ways sought
Speak for their sort.
In their earliest thought
They very often do not.

From many we choose
With lots more to loose
And in all this huge fuss
We thrive more confused.

So with cares of lusts
We live out their costs.
In picking from lots
Best chances are still lost.

fever 4
Fever: Gentle Aching Fever (Book IV)
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The Poet in the Poem
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RELIGIOUS RUSE

angelmetatron
Most current leaders in the black race personify a notable class of people in the larger society that most profited from secular and spiritual corruption. Business men are successful because they are connected and got the most compelling undue advantage to enrich themselves. Clergymen would personify those that had become mythical in their every thought, speech and actions because of the prestige and respect they enjoy from the increasingly popularity of worshiping vague celestial divinities. It is globally the turn of black people to predominantly fear and revere everything termed sacred and the black race have since owned it, more than any other race or people before and now.

This divine slavery has advanced to such an extent that the state of superiority enjoyed by a revered deity is used only for personal advantage. Rogue tendency of being holy is currently more commonly exploited by all types among every brand of the darker races and their leaders. It is their turn to copy the old well tested antics of the white elite.

It goes to show why clergymen shouldn’t be secular politicians, no matter how many good men before had successfully done so. There are more harmful possibilities to it than there are good ones. The confessed faiths of clergymen can only be bias to their beliefs and where they must fairly administer over persons in a secular setting with competing diversely held beliefs, then they must be hypocritical in their desire to be fair, thereby failing to be true to their own faiths; the very basis for being considered ideal for public office in the first place.

pope francis

POWER IS AN AILED ENIGMA

skulls

One strange thing about the drunkenness of power is that it leaves no trace of a hangover because it never really intoxicates in the first place, instead it infects like an ailment. What it does is put the mind in a state of make believe stupor. It lies to the person, telling him he is indeed invincible and that he can walk naked on a busy road without being seen by the ever present pretentious crowd. When a mad man walks around naked, it is only because he doesn’t logically know he is naked until he is healed. This is quite unlike the drunk man who is always fully aware of what happens to him, if he is still consciously awake while drunk. Then by all intent of purpose, the powerful man lives in that state sandwiched in the mystical void between insanity and drunkenness, while actually being neither of them. So when this borderless state concludes its hazy mazy course, it still leaves behind a lot to rationally reflect on, unlike madness which leaves nothing of its past or drunkenness which leaves no immediate memories or vivid perspective of the past.

Power’s negativity leaves regrets, shame and disgrace, because it can be remembered as it was. In its selfish ways, power has an impulsive mind which with steady time has the tendency to become unwaveringly firm in its will to pursue a course it had lashed on to by its proud faith in its perceived abilities. It takes up a nature rightly construed to be initially foreign to its natural one and summarily makes it its own. Power denies its perilous positions because it doesn’t see it clearly like it ought to. It is an enigma that inserts a conjecturable attitude in itself.
snoopy-droops_c-schultz
Power is an attitude with an enticement induced with dubious intentions as the cost of most of its decisions are usually more than less not what it is personally prepared to pay for. The potentials of power are commonly not fully tapped and when applied unwisely, never really realized in its entirety. They almost never get fully achieved. The dubious craft of making power create wealth is thus never fully achieved when it is considered that wealth isn’t the attraction in itself, but what the wealth represents always is the absolute objective. It is predominantly such an overpowering desire.

Power craves wealth for the power it gives.

fever 3 - Copy
Fever: The Appetite of Fever (Book III)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/425271

http://authl.it/B00YUOGCTA
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/11390

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The Poet in the Poem
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CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT

she loves me not

The settings might differ from one case to another but generally speaking women are really like birds when hurt. They fall off the so many trees of their painful romantic memories and just any well placed fellow can pick up their flightless form, hold them, toss them, strip and grill them the way he wants before devouring them to his heart’s desire.

It is feminine’s most natural need to be loved always. It is the most vulnerable nature of a woman, one she does not really succeed in doing anything about. On the part of the man, he can only hope that he can belittle the strength of the woman by making it appear less the issue in his pretence that it is. The strength of the woman is always that very visible influence she has, but the man never appreciates and respect but habitually needs. The might of the naturally endowed woman is ironically most telling in the young lady, still growing and inexperienced, than in the much older, already experienced women. As soon as a girl first experiences the subtle gains in the influential might of her unique feminine attributes and realizes that she could literally downsize, cut and render worthless, to near non-existent, any age difference between her and much older lustful men with a little effort, she instantly ages further than them and momentarily own their emotions, repeatedly.
thinker
She grows not in age but in the more worldly rewarding craft of simply being a human being, that sole complex entity that personifies both men and women in the naturally naïve, emotionally weak but capably strong nature of humanity.

STRENGTH OF A WOMAN

Where is the bird that hatched this egg?
Flying above the world, up so very high.
And the monkey the farmer wouldn’t beg?
Laughing up a branch, he threatens not near.
Will they ever marry their ideas, so very big?
As always they steal, flock, eat and do share.

Flying above the world, up so very High,
The bird still returns down to hatch its egg.
Laughing away harmless threats if not near,
The monkey’s hunger for the farm will beg.
Their ideas created their world and it is clear,
That strength of the woman gave marriage a leg.

Strength of a Woman
strenght of a woman
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383812

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http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8963

The Poet in the Poem
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THE GUISE OF RELIGIOUS TRANQUILITY

pope francis

Many years ago I wrote “THE MASTER’S BILL”; I concluded my mutterings about the lonesomeness of human existence with wondering on how patient and tolerant the good lord is & reasoned that it is a price He must pay.

It goes……

How alone can one be?
Looking around, one can only see.
Life is one big school,
Lectures are missed by the fool.

Indeed the friend is in need,
Wisdom in the foe only bid.
The whole world could be wrong
And not hear a word in your song.

For fear hasn’t a say
Where bare hands cut hay.
The master’s wishes are His will
And only He writes down the Bill.

But then man created religion to identify with his style of worship….. And like with everything man starts, there is always some element of competition & the inevitable conflict.
photo_002

Religious conflict has a perception of sincere truth and righteousness that doesn’t circumvent its warring parties’ hypocritical egocentric desire to be perceived as simply being neighbourly. It instead forcibly and bluntly thrust the reality of the parties’ lustful differences on their pretentious faces, enforcing it on their neighbours in a manner that shows off what each faith wants as against what they claim to profess. It should be obvious that a religion that advocates peace needs to suffer for its submissive principle. It must pay a humiliating price it can’t even humbly mention. When a religion’s ideals and principles aren’t as principally evident as it advocates, it is actually only openly good natured for the sake of achieving its quest to be dominant.

Then it would have to result to violence to stress its misgivings or show off its disliked for other opposing religions that seek to be themselves and exist alongside it. Religions must co-exist because no religion ever exists alone, on its own. A religion that hides under the guise of peaceful co-existence to impose itself is thus quite superficial and only yearning for communal peace ahead of lasting personal inner peace that would ordinarily precede first.

Such a religion has not yet made a wraith of human trans-religious harmony feasible. It has instead rendered the most sacred personality of its loud attitudinal faiths nebulous. It turns each and every one of them to be more of wholesome fact-less histories, that can never be elucidated than the proven faiths that they each aspire to be accepted as. The fact that there is only one shared common principle the two main contesting religions of Islam and Christianity sensibly have in common, makes them ever more incompatible than compatible, and pushes rather than pulls them apart. Their common principle is expressed as a common faith in the existence of a single supreme deity.

Supremacy makes it a contestable divide and not an undeniable bond. The people argue and fight over their diverse beliefs in the archaic fate of a quite varied interpretation of the same original scriptural text and thereby murder the very essence of their religions’ being in doing so. They both miss the very point of having the single attribute they each ironically lay the most loudly admitted claim to.
Peace

It is so ludicrous and incongruous that the same dog barking aggressively is actually only chasing after its own tail in circles and not really going anywhere but racing against it own self.

FEVER SERIES

fever 4
Fever: The Appetite of Fever (Book III)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/425271

http://authl.it/B00YUOGCTA
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/11390

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The Poet in the Poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
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King of Sports

BB-29042012145 (4)

(Excerpts from ‘Sporting Chance’ in ‘Everyone hates the English’)

All sports are really silly juvenile play in a sense. Partakers and spectators alike, love competitive sports because of its semblance of a life of manageable fun and the larger human drama it samples. It is a sequence of testing controlled effort against visible resistance in established circumstances. The thrilling mysteries in the unending sequence of match ups and the unpredictability of the results of all games, adds to the fun. The fun in sports is not suppose to make sense, all kinds of play shouldn’t. Play is fun because it is illogical and only saddists empathize with the naïve old Indian village Chief who thought he had solved a perennial football problem by comically recommending that the twenty two players on the pitch are given a soccer ball each to end their pointless running around like a herd of mad cows.

The purposeful running around is what Vijay loves the most in football. Vijay is crazy about football, considering it the king of sports with the best all round athletes in every regard. He agrees football is indeed a gentleman’s sport, played by hooligans because it teaches manners and tests character. Rugby truly likens the hooligan’s sport, played by gentlemen because it alters character and in its very physical fashion, it emphasizes brute force ahead of skills and intelligence. Golf is a long walk on the grass, cattle do that. Polo is the kings’ sport and only the horses are really skillful. Horse racing is for servants of kings, with the royals ever present to observe their subjects and domain. It is unfair to call horse racing a sport, unfair to plowing bulls and the slaving peasants whipping their beasts into line, without their fellow impoverished brethren betting and cheering in the trees.

379744_239654669530018_1526297228_n
Then there is the similarity of the common footballer to everyone else in the world that wishes to excel in life. Footballers are typical average athletes, they are amongst the world’s most selfish people and their work is just doing yet another of the world’s selfish hypocritical jobs. They are talented and a bio-engineered reality that manifests as a combination of highly skillful performers and acting stunt men. Footballers have to make out they care about the billions of passionate fans who actually do care about them, their physical, emotional and healthy state. At the pinnacle of their careers, footballers are incredibly well paid to do what they would ordinarily do for virtually nothing in return. If they don’t get a penny for doing their jobs, they will still get the same jobs as unpaid players, until they can’t do so.

Like millions of their less fortunate colleagues who don’t get opportunities and fall on the wayside, all footballers still don’t aspire for anything other than a paid job. Vijay always knew he wouldn’t do anything else but play football and when he discovers he finds little fun in playing football then he will get out of it. But the truth is, he wouldn’t truly enjoy doing it if he is not being paid to do it. The thrill of the game is sublime yet as addictive as the gospel to a Jesuit. The referees can go to hell with their calls and the spectators can chew their nails to the quick with tension, but the world of the footballer is his alone, nothing else exists. Families must wait, friends must worship for notice and religion is best handle like underpants, you might have one on or not, it doesn’t matter. Life is the game first.

SPORTS FOR PLAYERS

The Coach isn’t selfless but human too,
He is the person with a plan for everyone.
With abilities as experience all learnt anew;
He is an optimist, patient as sure as the sun.

The Player obeys the norms and urge,
Enjoying the dreamt up living, yet real.
Dancing to all songs with a new surge,
Blinding days are lit with a light to feel.

The Sport is heartless and demanding,
All companies it keeps are envious of it.
Consuming lust filled, never satisfying;
On its sure ride it will keep every bit.

The Game is simple and easy to chase,
Embraced in choices to choose and make.
Stages of gains at every level of the race
Made the whole thing Sports for players’.

EVERYONE HATES THE ENGLISH - Small
EVERYONE HATES THE ENGLISH

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The Poet in the Poem
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WORDS ARE WRITERS

words
When words are printed, with time they come alive like the people that were characterized in them. Soon they start to speak not like words but like living things that move and sense and feel and have minds and consciences that misrepresent and misinterpret in honest misleading ways too. Time gives words a life of their own, outside the initial reason for them. In well written forms, words become more plausible in the ideology they carry. In a weird manner, words have an uncanny way of making oddities into norms that would be subsequently manifested more in acts than in the people responsible for the actions. Strangely still the words get adored for all of the misrepresentation and the misinterpretations they inspire because they are construed as just words, innocent dangerously harmless words.

Heard James Peterson say he never waited to get published before he called himself a writer and that his first book was rejected by thirty leading publishers before it became a bestseller.

“Writing is a blast, but it’s also work. So forget about waiting for inspiration. Sit your butt in a chair every day and write a set amount of words. In a few months, you’ll have a completed novel. Repeat many times. Eventually, you’ll have a story that could pay the mortgage. If you do this long enough, you might be able to quit your day job.” –Vaughn Heppner, author ofThe Lost Starship

WORDS

O moody this moon,
Shows feelings soon.
Grown off wild oaths,
Filled with only doubts.

Words we will forget,
Said with hopes wet.
Their off springs return
Dry in memories’ sun.

Lost in mazes true,
Laid like brains do.
Words say its much,
Twisted to do such.

Fever: The Coldness of Fever (Book V)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451306

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https://www.createspace.com/5195619
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The Poet in the Poem
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MARRIED MEN FOR SINGLE GIRLS

Toilet visits can take a while when all your craps are like concrete...
Toilet visits can take a while when all your craps are like concrete…

To some young single girl, married men are ever comfortably understandable, matured and polite in their fair and unforced disposition. However the wanton desires of these young girls never warns them that the intentions of these much older men does not always look as fair as they are always pretentiously justified to be, in their deceptively natured maturity. The woman’s all-embracing monstrous natural need to be overwhelmed by a man, who aim to get the better of her, justifies her consanguineous attachment to her eternal older brother, the man.

The honourable older married man always has the most desire to be secretive in such relationships. While the younger single girl would likely show some pride in her bigger achievement, the setting would hurt him with an odd sort of feeling afresh with old emotions of being an unworthy person. His older and more honourable world would notice his failures, even if it identifies with his expression of it. When he is certainly found out and has to confront his critics, the older married man could simply hold his head high and be proud of his shameful freedom while the world he has conditioned will fall silent snugly, presumable out of interfering in his business, as the public end up secretly more embarrassed than he ought to be.

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

These intimate songs we sing
Blend aged dreams into a ring
That weds our gendered stew
In matrimonial oneness not new.

the poet in the poet - Copy
The Poet in the Poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332

COMPLEX COMPLEXITIES

selfies
The simple people are always confronted by the complex ones, who always seeks to tint their simplicity and make it more complicated. It is a tough struggle to remain simple, surrounded by a world of complexities. Personal lives have gone beyond live and breed.

Daila Lama
Man works to walk, not walk to work and he inevitably strives to out-walk the next man and the next, again and again.

And in all life, the most shaded lot are the people

THE COLOURED SHEEP

Bah, bah black sheep, they always point you;
Wolf in your clothing or something ever new.

Rainbow and gold pot in your closet is true,
If you’re concerned, skies aren’t ever blue.

The skeletons you cupboard are there for show,
Honeycombed for Bees, your Bearness will shoo!

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The Poet in the Poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

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The Suicide Dilemma

Baba
(Excerpts from the Fever Series Books II)

“As it is usual when talking with the speech impaired, the three of them ended up mostly loudly exchanging cheap pleasantries than anything else. It is simply hilariously hard to maintain any serious discussion with the old man. Aside from Baba Yafku’s insane love for veering issues towards his affection for nurturing plants and his natural gift for it, conversations with him is always an ever frustrating experience.

“Thomas had little difficulty in understanding Baba Yafku but it is hard for most others to comprehend what the old fellow is trying to say. Even when a discussion is about Baba Yafku’s favoured plants, communicating with him doesn’t get any better for most. Still the former gardener’s limited verbal communicating ability didn’t stop him from doing a great job of representing the interests of Thomas in Badagry. He supervised the delivery of agricultural produce to middlemen in Badagry and collected payments on Thomas’s behalf. The old man made purchases of essential items needed in Samiku and sent them over promptly. It was a brilliant arrangement and Baba Yafku lived up to his part exceptionally well.

“Baba Yafku managed quite well though he is hugely handicapped in speech and conversations. His repertoire of sounds assisted in making himself understood well enough over time. As the persons he dealt with grew increasingly familiar with his humming, clicks, hisses and coughs alongside his elabourate hand gestures as he expressed himself, the old man’s impromtu sign language easily served its intended purpose. Still most times his crude manner of expressing himself does not give him the seriousness and logical effect he requires to make salient points and make himself fully understood as comfortably or as adequately as he wants.

“That night, as Thomas and Sweet talked with Baba Yafku, the old man tried to tell them his pathetic story. He tried to speak of his worries and sufferings but in the frustration of his speech handicap he only struggled to say little that was comprehensible to the couple. He was emotional and it was a lot harder for him to make himself understandable. He told his personal story like he would a parable and the desired immediate impact of his tale was sadly missing, even though it was clear to see that he was hurting. That visible expression of pain plastered on his old wrinkled face soon got him the couple’s undivided attention and it relieved Baba Yafku to see this. He briefly felt a high sense of achievement. This was however marginal and it proved to be short lived because in the exuberance that it ushered, Baba Yafku hurriedly ended his story with a sudden unexpected request.

“The old man implied he wanted to follow the couple back to their hinterlands home in Samiku. The request wasn’t expected by the couple and they reacted to it with what they considered as a moderately civil response. It seemed logical at that point in time for them to be mature and proper. So they did what felt right to them, for the sake of soothing the emotionally hurting man sitting right before them.

“Thomas and Sweet looked at each other before they took turns in speaking. They were subtle in the unintentional nature of the arrogance they exhibited. They gently declined his request and in their shallow understanding of what he tried to tell them, they had merely assessed his importance to them only if he stayed in Badagry to take care of their business and house. They wanted him to maintain his trusted vigilance over their town home and also keep eye on their other interests.

“Baba Yafku’s serious speech defect had failed him in his attempt to tell the couple about the sad events he had experienced. He wasn’t entirely successful in conveying the gravity of his second wife’s recent act of cruel betrayal when she absconded with her younger lover. Fuafa was the first woman to want him, ever. She was almost as old as him but he wasn’t conditioned to be selective. His speech impediment didn’t bother her and Baba Yafku loved her dearly for this. He didn’t mind the stories told about her past, of how she was said to have abondoned her old husband in the village years ago and returned to Badagry to peddle her body to construction workers and fishermen. Fuafa loved him and he loved her.

“He loved her more when in his old age, she gave him a son. She returned from a brief visit to the village with a five years old boy and a glorious story of getting the boy from amongst the countless orphans in her village. Then when their son was twelve she suddenly left with Baba Yafku’s savings. He was hoping she will return when the money runs out but its been a year now and no sign of her. Baba Yafku feared the worst as he has asked around for any news of her. Most people were blunt in telling him to be happy he is rid of her. Still losing Fuafa wasn’t half as painful as the more recent sudden death of his only son in a boat accident. The young boy took a liking to fishing and Baba Yafku thought it is a noble trade. The state of mind of the old fellow wasn’t quite clear to the couple and they were unable to properly identify the true value of his leaving Badagry for good. Leaving with them at that moment of his asking was his remedy to living the rest of his life all alone, in utter anguish for his losses. The thought of staying with Thomas and Sweet in far away Samiku felt like heaven to Baba Yafku. He would grow crops, his dearest passion. He would have a family and two lovely children to live the rest of his life teaching the splendid pleasures of agricultural wonders. It was a dream the couple was denying him.

“The nature of his unfortunate abnormality didn’t help in conveying this to Thomas and Sweet. As such his delivery of the painful loss he felt didn’t give off well and win over the sympathy he craves from them for his patient suffering. He had instead encountered what seemed like unsympathetic faces, devoid of the understanding he sought in his current crippling emotional plight. It was a hapless feeling for him as the couple showed the usual response of humour for his tasked communicating and not the sensitivity they ought to express for his predicament.

“This worsened things for Baba Yafku as he discovered the only people he had any tangible hope of understanding his difficulties weren’t offering him any solace. The couple appeared to hold themselves away from his inner pain by their own personal preference for his selected service. This realization hurt him so much. It hurt him with the rekindled feeling of emptiness, with such heartfelt pain. The old man’s emotions held him penned in, in subconsciously conceived hostility. It was suppressed by a judgmental hatred, the type that reveals in being found to be less agreeable and hospitable to denial and rejection, than being civil.

“Baba Yafku felt betrayed and disliked farther. For someone who grew up in the limelight of little value and had relatively succeeded in his struggles to put some value in his existence in the face of everyone who had belittled him, the old man still wasn’t prepared well in advance for the magnitude of these series of harsh rejections, from a wife he loves, from the death of his only son and from the people he respected the most. All of which came together, at a facet of his elderly life when he thought he was happiest and from the most important people in his life. The wife running off with yet another younger man, reeked of his failings and his bodily inadequacies. His beloved son’s sudden death hinted of fate not being tolerant of his happiness and finally the refusal of companionship from the persons he thought valued him the most farther cemented what everyont thought of him.

“Baba Yafku’s sense of overwhelming disappointment showed as they all went to bed, that uncomfortably night. Thomas and Sweet hoped he will shake off this moody spate by morning but they were unaware that Baba Yafku was determined to explore the only exit he felt was still open to him. The first sign of something is afoot was when there was no sign of Baba Yafku when the small family prepared to leave their small Badary house in the morning. Baba Yafku knew they had to leave early to catch the lorry but he wasn’t around to bid them farewell.

“The severity of the situation appeared out of the blue. It belatedly woke the couple from their revelry of quick early morning departure. Someone unknown to the couple raced down their street, like a serious contender for a sprints medal, to inform them Baba Yafku had hanged himself to death from a tree in the dark grey early hours of that morning. The couple’s shock was absolute. Their old gardener had only the night before confessed his struggles and problems to them. They had seen indications that he was losing grip of himself but dismissed it as merely a bad mood and they did nothing to soothe his worries. They were mainly preoccupied with their own selfish need of him and didn’t really help him. It was not so much the scale of their contribution but the seemingly lack of honest quality to it.

“In the annals of every sort of emotional problem, the inconclusive pages of remedies reveal that no problem is ever completely solved. No chosen solution to emotional problems comes with the most dramatic impact like suicide does. Its impact is everlasting and final. It leaves the successful applicants of its harshness permanently quieted by its unworthy experience and their hapless confidants feeling cheated and betrayed by the selfish worthless imps that thought they knew better. The framework of the human nature enables people to thrive on the unique ability to overcome almost every emotional challenge by just facing up to them.

49dead9ed352e9bba9deac6f541e2c65
“The naturally empowered person really has only his speech to make a case. It is certain that free speech always patiently unshackle and vindicate itself verbally. The guidance of common wisdom isn’t as available to the mind as it tends to appear to be in most instances. Hence the most literate and exposed minds will fail in drawing from their wealth of knowledge at times they ordinary should. It isn’t that there are physical or emotional reasons for this, it is simply because human shortcomings manifests in their expressed actions, showing off in their bias nature towards some of their superficial desires. This twists and mangles the unconscious preference not to be objective and with no hiding place for the illogical choices readily available, people are led farther astray on perceived higher adventure for naught. Nothing worthwhile is achieved from their pointless quest in the long run.

“Each passing day seems to constantly remind life of its impending certainty of demise, as it fans the flames of memory with the hopelessness of living an ever ending life. Humanity goes through its troubled times mindful of the unworthiness of its difficult unfortunate struggles. Ashamed that he had lost control of his emotions, which had kept him rational all this long while, Baba Yafku didn’t wish to live any longer. His most bitter thoughts couldn’t farther entertain such tasking times all alone. He couldn’t again recover to stand firm on his feet and keep his already grounded fears aloft, without any assurance of respite subsequently.

“Over the years, in his sustained push and search for respite, he painstakingly concluded that the only true respite is not in his final destination after his physical death, but death itself. Still with suicide, Baba Yafku got it woefully wrong without the slightest option or chance of reversing his bad choice when he subsequently discovers he is wrong after all, if he ever could.

“The crooked manner of suicide never really has truth in its comprehension, hence suicide is quite varied in its assessment. Its invariable judgment is greatly impaired by its mortally inconclusive rationale. The handiwork of this sort of very personal self-accusation, trial, judgment and execution, is unequalled in every other regard. The normally singled out nature of it appears to chart a course that clearly disagrees with the logic of it and its very own emotional compass.

“There isn’t any real difference in every kind of induced unnatural death, because all killers are basically only murderers. In the perspective of the only possible beneficiary of suicide; as sure as something is wrong, so is it right in its wrongness. Obviously this view isn’t shared by most. The essence of any thing wrong is in the absence of what makes it right, as in the presence of what makes it deemed wrong. So it could really get complicated to determine what is right or wrong most times than often. The marinated perspective of that lone suicidal person is excused by his emotional rapacious intelligence. Logic is handicapped at the instance of deciding to commit suicide, that it cannot see its own abnormality.
The simplicity and complications are quite liberally intertwined with the individual’s ego, or a lack of it. Their sense of purpose at that point in time is incapable of taking any other decision. It is more so, for such an important decision with far reaching finality implications. It thus appears incomprehensible from a detached perspective. Baba Yafku was grossly bias in his thinking for himself.

SUICIDE

From where comes all this dew,
Delighting thoughts with to chew.

Soothing pressures that boo,
But sound frightfully so lewd.

I grabbed the wind horn I blew,
For I alone do hear it so true.

A loss I think I’ll cause you,
The pains might escape a few.

My swift scheme hardly new,
Like good cheats daring who.

Life is the full pot of new stew
Emotional foot found with its shoe.

fever 2 - Copy
Fever: Rising Temperature of Fever (Book II)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/425270

http://authl.it/B00YUNKGK2
https://www.createspace.com/5195612

the poet in the poet - Copy
The Poet in the Poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332

WOMEN RAPE MEN FIRST

heavies

Men are indifferent to most trivial things and it is where the women prowl that they tend to do the most emotional harm, the real lingering kind. Women have a silly way of complicating the simplest emotional things and making them seem more than they ordinarily are. In their outward offers women actually do rape men emotionally, therefore by extension physically to. Women rape men mentally, they merely set the mood and simply wait, like a farmer buries a seed in the soil and waits. The damage they propose is easily blameless because its growth isn’t really a physical act. The achieved effect is clearly culpable because the victim is a hugely handicapped colt, deranged by his natural emotional deformity and his purely sexual bravado.

Men do not normally have functional automated braking systems and the will power to check their hormones are not natural and more or less mainly artificially trained. It is almost normal for such a system to collapse. Hence they are raped before they even start to conceive the idea of it and decide to retreat or retaliate. It is a weaken fabric men have in common, old or new alike. All their moral training and upbringing, their well-made and well-schooled contingency plans that teaches children to hold piss, loses its eloquence in the minds that originate it.

CHEATS

To a mass we wore those frowns again,
Webbing lines on our brows with pain.
These insects spanned and trapped we are,
Drunken hulks with secular cheats we Spar

Fever: The Coldness of Fever (Book V)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451306

http://authl.it/B00YUOYL7K
https://www.createspace.com/5195619

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The Poet in the Poem
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PRECIOUS LAND

grave-digger
Land has always been every man’s very own piece of the earth. What man keeps in store for the after-life is a myth on earth and every other acquisition are orgies that pass with their singular guided devotion, which suit the empathy that is willingly enjoyed at the very moment of their usefulness. But this is not always the case where personal land ownership is concerned and that is why it has a prime attraction. Land is always the first born of many others, no matter its place in the sequence of acquisition and ownership. It has a very distinct place of pride amongst all the other processions. And no matter how long land is owned, it always evokes the very same intense alertness that battles constantly within the spirit of its owner.

Land takes away the all conquering might of death. It blunts the weapons of war and quells the yearning within man for his endless lustful personal acquisitions like nothing does. Land ownership lingers till time ends recent history and starts another. But without the rightness of truth and the correctness in the lawful accords of honest justice, every executed act will disintegrate subsequently; no matter how ancient or how divinely branded it had appeared to be at its onset.

Oddly though, it all amounts to nought. The most precious land amount to nothing if it is not used ideally and like people, it could become utterly wasteful.

49dead9ed352e9bba9deac6f541e2c65
WASTELAND

The heart is deceitful above all things,
Beyond cure and who understands it.
Cursed is he, who trusts man or his things;
For man depends on flesh and the strength of it.

Man whose heart turns away from Truth,
He will be like a bush in the wastelands.
He sees not prosperity when it comes forth;
Will dwell in parched places of deserted lands.

Dwelling in salty lands where no one lives,
Not like that tree planted by the water
That sends out its roots by the streams it lives
And doesn’t fear; the heat will not matter.

With the Truth, his leaves are always green.
He has no worries in a year of drought.
Never failing to bear fruit in any season,
Not like the wasteland he has made his lot.

(Jeremiah 17)

Fever: The Origins of Fever (Book I)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/397851

http://authl.it/B00YULOCXQ
https://www.createspace.com/5195609
fever 1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Poet in the Poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
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FREEDOM IS THE BEST TEACHER

An excerpts from the Fever: Rising Temperature of Fever (Book II)

 

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/425270

http://authl.it/B00YUNKGK2

https://www.createspace.com/5195612

1491582_239654466196705_628916438_n

“When Daraba inquired why she couldn’t go to a school like all the other children they met in Badagry, Thomas paused before answering her truthfully. In her juvenile inferiority she was being quite reasonable as she points how humiliating it was for her, not being able to tell other children which school she went to. Thomas put her down and looked down straight into her clear innocent eyes, with a discernment that excuses the implied immaturity in her purpose for asking the easy question beleaguering her innocent thoughts. That lone question hadn’t imposed on him any condition but as if she had pulled on the clutches of the responsibilities he had taken on by firstly having her and secondly, making every important early decision for her, the girl forced her father to fraternize with the true reality of their relationship objectively. He felt the freedom of his parenthood turn ultimately into a sort of bondage. His scales of values drastically altered to suit his thoughts of her as his adorable young child and an inquisitive adult in the future.”

“The blunt instructive strokes of fate continue to paddle behind every living swimmer. The earthly powered chariot that carries forth the living person is dragged by the indomitable horses of destiny. They pull him along almost gamely in leaps of momentary progresses and failures. They take instructions and veer left or right, but are dependent upon to pull on until the ride ends. The horses of destiny will rather keep their hooves than have horns because they can move on only freely but cannot pierce and create a route. Time would show how ideal the couple’s choice to personally instruct their children is. Surely the nature of the character thrown into the knowledge their children had readily acquired has proven to be good at its earliest stage. Desire for personal freedom is found in every human heart, but it has to be identified and made functional by the sort of tutelage the person receives initially, from the children’s earliest time of existence.

1479164_235902523237918_1047007564_n“It is most often a neglected responsibility of the parents to point out freedom early to their children. That is mainly because it suits the easier form of instructing the child under subtle duress rather than appealing to the child’s blurred and yet unclear sense of fairness, priority and selfless reasoning. The child must be relied on as a grownup, to ensure he or she is lifted beyond all the sorts of pettiness and confusions of temporal life and its ever present pressures of suitable choices. When the child’s individual attributes grows up into its final form, it maintains the basic ethics learned. As adults near most answers, they conclude their choices for sincere good or lustful bad not by drawing from lessons of their personal discoveries. Instead they gain from flooded tides of released strife and confusion which intoxicates with hatred and malice they hadn’t been allowed to conquer as kids.”

“Out of everything that transpires in a child’s youthful process of choosing, comes that enduring compromise, waxing eloquently about in the real virtues of freedom. The popular notion admonishes that perseverance erodes the quality of time spent at it, but the chastening factors endured are by no means mere acts of discipline. They are in fact instructive instruments, perpetually caught up and retained in the reins of necessary human hope to exist quite admirably. A child’s growth should not be bathe in a one sided intercourse with life so that it is controlled. Lessons beaten into the kid’s psyche shouldn’t be actuated by the child’s willpower being trampled on. A child of such creation stays back from the rest of the world like a heckler, criticizing others for the mere fun of it only.

1383694_393265510803191_2035379127_n“Such children will be wholly dependent on the hardened eccentric tendencies with so much vicious temper and a wicked loud attitude. They would function as if they hate their own bodies and life itself. While in the child that had fewer restrictions placed on their childhood choices would develop that great boldness in dealing with life and its many tasking hassles later on. That pretext of shielding away the hurting effects of a richly rewarding life that comes with sincere knowledge from childhood, only impairs the adolescent’s choice even further.

“Parents who do this only plot in vain for their children because the pressures of external origins will end up misguiding their children and confusing them even further. But when the guided children make their own choices, regardless of the many impediments associated with doing so, then their achievements aren’t ever exceeded in their overlaying importance. It is the parents’ responsibility to hold onto the child at their early time of need. Support them until they are able to stand on their feet and walk. Then they must quietly withdraw and allow them freedom to begin to learn. It isn’t the parents’ calling to shackle their child’s decisions.”

acid.. duct tape

FREEDOM IS NOT FREE

Faith abounds and is free,

Freedom is force being absent.

Force is ever there to see,

Freedom has force not faith;

Freedom is faith and not free.

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The Poet in the Poem

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

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https://www.createspace.com/5195332

 

SEASONS

Jewel

Seasons come and seasons go. None is first and none is last, for they come and go in their mild and in their harsh, as a loose fitting circle, which is reflective of the daily striving continuous spiral spin that rotates round and round. The timeless survey of natural logic doesn’t give it stature, even if it identifies a form for it, because no single day start a season or indeed end one, no matter how melodramatic it turns out to be. Season build gradually into what it must be.

On different occasions, with one glorious dawn or a hideous evening; with a frightening spectacle shrouding the day, one season melts into a void that cocoons into a state of anticipation and sense. One season would caterpillar about in lethargic walking days, then it timely folds in the secrecy of yet another. Suddenly it flies out in beautiful open splendor, with its refreshing breath of colour and life. In between is a mingled confusion of silent insolent void that is none but yet both.

Monarch butterfly
Life feels like it is indeed a continuous spade of senses and seasons

THE SENSES OF THE SEASONS

Cold, harsh and hard winter.
As skins feel and muster,
The senses repel this monster.

Water, green and breed spring.
As tongues taste and sing,
The senses eat everything.

Warm, lazy but busy summer.
As eyes see and shimmer,
The senses ponder in wonder.

Windy, dry and dead autumn.
As ears hear and minds fathom,
The senses prepare the burial drum.

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The Poet in the Poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332

salam_cat

Stories are teachers, they are molded to have an impact on young lives. They register morals that impart on character and norms. If they give off a trace of the forbidden in fair light, then culture and its future may suffer for it.

As the young grow, their paws seek everything. Their teeth playfully bite the soft or the hard with innocence and very little comprehension. They attempt to caress fire until it burns them.

Everything is attractive to their naïve and simple curiosity.
Don’t you wish you could be young again?
Sleeper

 

 

 

 

 

 

YOUNG AGAIN

You are only young once,
Blossomed to take your chance;
To scent the world’s spring
With the fruit kinds you bring.

Nigeria is a Fever

ojukwu

“Through eventful years the sticks ever pile,
Hopes with the trunk that vomits emptiness.”

The recent loudly revisited agitation for a Biafran state from Nigeria calls for another look at my poem “Fever” and excerpts from my Fever Series (Books I-V), where I told a somewhat fictional historical tale of the Nigerian state. I am currently rewriting the series and almost done.

the poet in the poet - Copy
The poem
The Poet in the Poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332

FEVER

Through eventful years the sticks ever pile,
Hopes with the trunk that vomits emptiness.
The mighty broom swept so long a mile,
Still dirt abounds as its proud fruitfulness.
Mourning tears leave this feeling of numbness.

Eras of evolution has not changed the egg,
The needs of man same and ever will be so.
Maybe a broom will kill lizards on a clay keg
And not break it too like the stick did before.
In this concoction only soluble particles’ temperatures soar.

Promise of the lands are all pointing,
Yet the future is hot food in the mouth.
Bodies buried and alive, had and are, waited and waiting,
For the joy in swallowing and satisfaction they sought.
Over hard filled years waiters without appetite rot.

The dogs in this story are the traitorous pigs,
Their patriotism is fake like sweeping grains with a rake.
Locusts that plunder the field leaving tiny dry twigs,
Their determined whispers stir reasoning ideally fake;
These dishonourable gentle heads that ache.

The locusts ate the grains, the rake wasted the rest.
The broom was left so little in its fold.
In this farm, pigs serve dogs for it’s their best.
The egg will likely shatter in hands that shouldn’t hold.
They chest indifferently the agony of the rest in the cold
nigeria

Excerpts from Fever Series Books I
“Through eventful years the sticks of time ever pile, just like the people, what they represent and what represents them. The people have become a loose fitting collection that isn’t a strapped up and bonded broom, just like their land that is rich and rife with such inspirational promise.

“Nigerians are willing to be bonded up as one unit but they couldn’t possibly give an ear to the assumed wisdom in the words and experiences of their past. The people have since learnt the hard way that the sweets they have are actually sour and the sour taste is soon made bitter by their refusal to swallow their constant rejection of dependence on any sort of bonding.

“Though Nigerians are reflectively one and their historical past the same, the people can only remonstrate together over trivial issues, reminiscent of their ancestors and their quaint past that they endlessly repeat in their infantile present.”

FEVER SERIES
fever 1

Fever: The Origins of Fever (Book I)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/397851

http://authl.it/B00YULOCXQ
https://www.createspace.com/5195609

Fever: Rising Temperature of Fever (Book II)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/425270

http://authl.it/B00YUNKGK2
https://www.createspace.com/5195612

Fever: The Appetite of Fever (Book III)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/425271

http://authl.it/B00YUOGCTA
https://www.createspace.com/5195617

Fever: Gentle Aching Fever (Book IV)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/432470

http://authl.it/B00YUOGDFS
https://www.createspace.com/5195618

Fever: The Coldness of Fever (Book V)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451306

http://authl.it/B00YUOYL7K
https://www.createspace.com/5195619

2014-10-27-14-36-47

Victors don’t flourish if their vanquished had perished and death can only lose. If the fear we bear of death doesn’t give death peace of mind, then what has death? Death can’t have us or keep us for he passes on only, going through us for the briefest of moments. Death tends to reveal the two most important lessons in our limited lives and these are firstly; Where there is a life, there are always lies. And secondly; Every road leads to the same place. Death’s power ends where it starts.

Death is always an unexpected familiar guest that steals from all.

DEATH

Cruel, cruel death
We have never met.

I only just heard
Of the fear in tears you said.

You’ve been about the herd
And oh the wonder you fed.

Who tells if you’re sent
When you only just left?

old woman's maid
The old woman’s maid
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383830

http://authl.it/B00SPMJXJY
https://www.createspace.com/5277712
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8763

the poet in the poet - Copy
The poet in the poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332

THE CHILD’S WORLD

Ba5JM7EIIAA_vnI.jpg large

The tiny fetus that had been robbed of its life shouldn’t know regret for not ever living it, but certainly its murderers should know of it for its sake and their conscience.

One of the most treasured ingredients of the earliest part of life is in the lack of the full knowledge of it. It is an ingredient that feels like mist over the head of a blind man, who senses its thick moist presence but doesn’t determine it by sight.

FIRST PAIN

When I felt it happen too;
Like I heard and saw it too.
I died that day that I knew;
I was just me and not new.
Then alive I sprout out again;
Living as all do, after their first pain.

tears (1)

The child learns to be his own person as he ages and develops his own ability to endure life at first and its worries next. But when he gets accustomed to enduring life and learns to numb out most of the sorrow he feels in it, he then acknowledges that living thrives out of form, if it discards its ordered laws and professes its rebelling need for rules. Otherwise that early instant knowledge of life and its subtleties would render a child hapless to a situation it hasn’t as yet mastered and make life appear pointless from a very early age. Just like a shooting star sighted from earth appears to hit no target, life will appear to serve no purpose but only serve a steadily distressing experience by all logical human estimation.

baby_shoes (2)
YOUNG AGAIN

You are only young once,
Blossomed to take your chance;
To scent the world’s spring
With the fruit kinds you bring

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The poet in the poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

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20 YEARS TO THE DAY

IMG0175A

Twenty years today we lost our father and we suddenly aged beyond our ages.

FATHER

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?

Rest in peace Baba. We miss you so much, more now than ever.

the poet in the poet - Copy
THE POET IN THE POEM
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

https://www.createspace.com/5195332

HONESTY

bird in hand

Honesty is not seen as it should be anymore, it is not seen as a wholesome noble act of justice, and not even measured and scaled properly or ensured or indeed insured. In its place is an insatiable quest for a luxurious life style that guides a preference scale of needless priorities.

Only the human conscience has the most taming influence on the excesses of people.

TAMING AS THE CONSCIENCE

With this thought comes the word
That a taught mind does afford.
From the heart’s thrust for action,
The spirit reveals its intention.

Creeping up guts and spines
Of the anguished, as he pines.
The real is seen not as before,
For requests never ever bore.

One thoughtless act or yet
Another rehearsed and so wet,
Could afterwards be active
And securely hold any captive.

Days go by written with them,
Hours pass mindless also then.
As minutes and their seconds
Of their pain’s mocking bonds.

the poet in the poet - Copy
The poet in the poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332

AA-Boko Haram - Cover - Copy
Boko Haram
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/496472

http://authl.it/B00QAGQ872
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http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8480

FAIRNESS IN SUBORDINATES

girrafe

The self-centered uncaring nature of the generality of people with advanced mental intellect is revealed in the way they treat their subdued and resignedly subjective subordinates, who are always less endowed. This unfeeling attitude is characterized with ignorant arrogance. It is too demanding to be civil and most certainly not effortless to be cruel.

There is always the need to be bias in being so, especially when treating or interacting with such perceived lesser persons. This is the case in every respect where there is identifiable superiority and inferiority, when physical disability is visible or intellectual disparity evident. Economic and social parallels, tribal and ancestral linage, religious and racial symbolism, and even age, form a basis for these perceptions.

The world breeds cheat in this way and it is so hard to tell who is true to their words or action.

CHEATS

To a mass we wore those frowns again,
Webbing lines on our brows with pain.
These insects spanned and trapped we are,
Drunken hulks with secular cheats we spar.

the poet in the poet

The poet in the poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332

Right the Wrong

chick
The desire to right the wrong of another by embarking on the very same quest they had undertaken usually ends with behaving exactly like they did. It may be best not to criticize those who criticize you, instead give yourself less reason to, if you could manage it. Living as best as you can is more than often the most suitable remedy to handling unfair criticism.

But the world is full of lies and people living their lies.

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HYPOCRITES
Those who curse the dog’s wet nose,
Let them please cast the first stone.
It can’t wag its tongue mouth close
As they commonly do on their own.
It barks its reason like all of those
Who do but wouldn’t leave it alone.

the poet in the poet
The poet in the poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332