Poetry

June 6, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Robert Harding

 

By

Amore David Olamide

 

 

MAMI

 

 

There are words for her that I will tell to the ears of Aresa

There are words for her that I will tell to the ears of Alara

There are words for her that I will tell to the ears of Orogun Ila

There are words for her that Ajero must perceive in colossal.

 

There are words that Olurobi must greed about

Regretting why she liberate Ela for demon’s sacrifice

There are words that will resent the ears of Efunsetan Aniwura

For her influence couldn’t protect the verve of her child.

 

I will tell these words to the gods and demigods

That rains has drenched our vulture for so long

I will tell these words to the ears of scary demon

That dearth has stained our white-bird with wild affliction.

 

I will tell these words that are filthy and irksome

I will tell these words that are perfumed and luscious

I will tell these words of upbringing tribulations

I will tell these words that made me a topnotch.

 

That there was no cradle bed to sit and watch on

For our mattress was made of weaved palm-frond

For our bedspread consists of aged and tattered wrapper

And some pale yards of Ankara and broad Kampala.

 

That she carried my paunch of pregnancy for nine months

That she struggles and whines for pain in grievous mourns

That she had scratch and throbbing gasp during her confinement

That she waist blood and water from the bed of my birth.

 

That she carried me tenderly with her rusty arms

Some rustiness ached from the peals of cassava tubers

That she dazzles around in her absolute prime

Singing lullabies in her moisture love that’s unconditional.

 

Why will I forgot those moments of sad memories

When she torn her clothes and made them for my napkins

With no dime to purchase pampers nor bulling currency

Still yet she looks into these eyes and absorbs those tears that wink.

 

That word will not be enough to describe her tremendous zest

Of those starving moment when she at a standstill feed me from her breast

Of matchless faith her flooding sweats behest

How she kisses my lips with endurance of perfect pest.

 

That she washed stuffs and grumpy clothes for my avail

Amid the trodden of hard and heavy rains

That she sings of her commitment and her mournful strives

Hoping for the sun to glisters for a better life.

 

That she told my ass the titanic vigor in their spirits

And trained them with flawless acts of sitting

That she told my hands the potency in its arms and wrist

And enlighten them with huge passion for crawling.

 

Why will I forgot her rose of courage that never withered

Of each of my smiles that she founds boom and profound

Of how thorns slash her nails from those wood that she gathered

And make blood drift from her hands as she prepares my first light pap.

 

That she buckled my shoes and took me to school

And in cloying suns she backed me home just to keep me cool

That she took me to church and taught me a propos of beliefs

And how to act and behave like most of scared cherubim.

 

That she fall just to make me steadily rise

That she mends my infant’s spines and entwine my broken heart

That she held her breathes just to make me inhale again

That she’s my mother; she’s a mother with matchless visage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amore David Olamide

Amore David Olamide,  is a revolutionary columnist and a poet that writes literally in parabolic style, orature genre and see scenes in epical dynamism of traditional epilogues, eulogies and captivating artistic poetry, in coded fashion.

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