About...
Do I call this my poetry album -
Or I could say - compendium?
H'm... is there such a word as “poemium”?
O please! don’t mind me sounding so dumb.
If you like call me a word bum
Or say “rhyme-tom”;
I love words in the right form
yet I define my own norm.
So you say where do I get that from?
Certainly not from mum
I mean she’s kind and warm
But words are not just her plum
While for me they are yum-yum.
Really in my head words just strum
With steady beats like from a tom-tom
- That’s a kind of drum.
And when I all these words sum
Ideas turn over like waves of a storm.
Now if you’ll come
Right here I have some.
Tee Akindele
Poem: A Christmas dream
I dreamt that we had church in a place so bright like it was in heaven
The large site had gay decorations and teemed with a cheery gathering
Mum led a choir dressed as white-winged angels
Which sang of a great joy born to the whole earth
Read the full article here …
Poem: True heroes
Let the square roar exultantly
Let taut drum-skins boom flatteringly
And skilled dancers throw themselves like dust in the air;
Let’s lift our voices in high spirits, in the manner
Worthy of receiving our warriors when they return victoriously.
Let mothers now take the floor
let them mount on our admiration with their accustomed grace
Let them ride with the poise of veteran warriors
Because they took on evil at the gates
And licked our enemies before they could learn our secrets
Let them pride! let them make ako!
Poem: World without redemption
[Culled from an ongoing work: Justice is not man-made]
How do you judge the betrayal of a body that not only survived the assault but prospered the seed of rape? Or what kind of redemption is in the healthy birth of such a child that reminds the mother of being ravaged by a beast? Apparently to my frail mind, such redemption may be as evasive as justice is elusive.
Poem: These big suits (false prophets)
Dazzling in their mystic garbs
Apostles of a late testament
They shield their faces inside a veil
And bear an emblem of a serpent, leprosy and blood -
All three signs of Moses.
These prophets carry strange fire on their heads
Noisy blinding firecrackers, unarmed,
All I make of them is a big suit full of hot air
Beclouding others with the pomp by which they discharge flatus
Poem: Pop in the night breeze
I remember that night
We took a leisurely walk around the estate,
The dim street lights and soft shadows
Crafted by effect, a flirty twilight.
Occasionally, I took your hand,
Swinging to the gentle harmony of our mood…
In the park, while we rested on a concrete slab
Close by a fruit tree
Surrounded by stout flowery shrubs,
Do you remember the bliss of that night?
Beautiful, enchanted by the mild harmattan breeze
Read the full article here …
Poem: The red eyes of Lagos
I’m the rough voiced civil servant
Collecting my wages on the street
The public utility Landlord
Keeping the peace and collecting rent
I’m the government of roughnecks
Enforcing law and order underneath the grassroots
I’m an eccentric citizen, so what?
Make no mistake, I know my rights!
Read the full article here …
Poem: Mortals playing at God
Primeval is the lust to close the gap between man and his maker
But man is hardly satisfied for God to be the reconciler
Man ignores his debts and presumes he is his own savior
Than God’s Word, crucified, they decide they can use more
They have learnt how the spirit rules the physical
And so they study to be mystical -
Through extreme exercise to enter ‘the spirit’.
Today scientists research on how God is a lie
And mystics try by assorted rituals God to demystify.
Since the garden, man has challenged God’s knowledge
The desire to be His equal has thrown them over the safe edge.
Poem: I look to The Cross
I look at the spot, where the worst of Criminals died
[Golgotha’s place of a skull]
Save the case of the innocent man who himself sacrificed
For all transgressions to take the fall
Poem: Free as a bird
Whilst shafts of pain may transfix my soul
In the six by six of uncertain questions
Of this void and vague life-prison,
My heart, free as a bird
Will trace dawn’s golden streaks
Up my cell’s iron bars
To greet God’s grace in the morning.
Poem: The Savior’s love call
Come O suffering wayfarer
I Am the Bread of Life
To the wells of salvation draw nearer
And quit from wayward strife
Come and be relieved of your guilt-burden
No matter how dark your taints
Come and find rest from vain laboring
At the fountain that births saints