Poetry

September 14, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Brent Stirton

 

By

Akeredolu Tope

 

 

The Underhand Journalist

 

 

Boom!….. Another bomb blast!

Blood everywhere on the television

Scattered flesh and shattered bones

But there you are glued to your television

 

Another bomb blast!

yellow tapes and red cross

Wailing kids and bewildered traders

Running commuters away from the scene

There you are glued to your screen

 

Another blast! this time

A little lass had worn the fire

Innocently she had meandered

Into the thick forest of busy heads

Again there you are glued to your screen

 

The men who sit to start the fire

Inside corrosive walls of great conglomerates

Men who shake their blood-stained hands along teary promenades

enjoy the television like you do now

They envy the sound of thier own voices condemning the fires they started

 

Abominable abomination!

Why do primordial souls enjoy the sorrows of sorrowful soul?

Since now a journalist you have become

Bearing blood-stained news like the gospel

You long to hear of another blast

 

Maybe yet another blast!

so you can feed the gluttony

Of your eyes and the vampire of others

So you can re-open sealed wounds and lace them with pepper

You tell yourself; the war is far away

 

But forget! Like light wars travel fast

This war would travel on the horses of your silent conspiracy

In the ship of tribalism across the ocean of innocent bloods

Haven’t you been told that war smells

That it stench chokes even oxygen?

 

Why do you think soldiers desert?

They long to feel the silence of the air

To hear once again as swallows sing suspended in the sphere

To hear the school bell tolling on a Monday morning

To see tutors spank treacherous lads

away from your blood stained screen into sober souls

 

For those who sow the giant seed of discord on the soil of our great field

Will hope to send you when reaping comes.

They, housed inside sealed walls,

Away from the booms!

Hysterically mock us; even so they scorn us.

 

How can you claim to know a city you have not seen?

You do not know how flesh is ripped-apart no!

Or how to bury broken bones and shattered carcasses of loved ones

Neither can you mime a dirge for burnt men of this world

But on this crevice of despair lies the biggest ounce of hope

Leave your television screen and go plant it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everywhere; My Poetry

 

 

Do you see that little girl over there

With her kinky hair

Skipping a yellow rope on naked soles

With her lazy mates?

Or that little lad moulding miniature mansions

Formed from chocolate toes in the sand?

He is poetry; she is poetry

 

Do you hear the wind whistling at harmattan

Do you see her lock away lazy bones in their beds

Or how she gives reason to new-weds to spurt

The sun and the harmattan in a coalition to cajole

And tie palm wine tappers under coconut shades

They are poetry; the sun and harmattan

 

The horn that you hear from a busy street

Shouting away the cruel time

And the goats defiling laced canes to snatch a ware

To the bitter commuter throwing tantrum at another

Or the beggars down the cross road bowl stretched

They are poetry; the beggars, the commuter; the hungry goat

Poetry all of them

 

Now if you move down south

To my land of the twin-mountains

Where hills engage one another in the battle of heights

Where velvet sheets had turned brown with age

Where masquerades combat to spectacle

Where lively monkeys skate on branches

There you’ll find poetry

 

From the lost stranger finding his way

To the pickpocket wrangling through the crowd

From the bell man showing is shores

To the school girl buckling her shoe

Or the court man selling justice

All is poetry!

 

Even when these men come like a sun in the night

To bury, buy and pillage our rights

With branded bags and bridled tongues

When reversed patriots come to preach

And fill our ears with packaged pebbles painted in gold

Poetry all of it

 

Even when life’s unfriendly friend

Knocks my door at odd hours

When the firm grip of fear

Holds me below my belt

I still see poetry in my fear

Since she knows the tune to every note

On the keyboard of life

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Akeredolu Tope

Akeredolu Tope is a Nigerian poet. He obtained his bachelor’s degree in English language from AAUA. He works as English language instructor at St Gregory’s college Oyinmo ikare Akoko Ondo state Nigeria. His works have appeared in African writer Indian periodical, Antarctica journal, ink sweat and tears, for Harriett and several other literary outlets. He lives and writes from Ikare Akoko southeast Nigeria- the home of the twin-mountain.

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