Poetry

B.A.N photo

By

Nelson CJ

And they said we were free

Tell the tax-master to come collect my pay.

Tell him today is his lucky day

The pot maker has left for the day

So I am left with tons from my day’s pay.

Tell him though, that my house is in obliteration’s grasp.

My wine and meal, have formed with me a dissension

Tell him that the streets have gone tizzy

Because they said we were free.

Tell the tax-master to save me a tract.

Yes! That very one my father gave me.

But then like a sojourner, it left without my conscience.

Very much the streets are tizzy.

And they said we were free.

So this rain came down

The rain that washes pain afar

Fell on time’s stony soul

Fixing the past on my heart

Unbendingly tearing me apart.

The downpour that seeps joy away,

Told season to stick in place

Chilling my frozen bone

And sending the warmth fully gone

So I slump dead, my burdens I borne.

The drizzle that leaves me on the fence.

I seek joy, nor ruby, nor gold, nor pence.

But I’m still waiting uncertain.

The drizzle is noxiously undaunting.

‘Drizzle drizzle’ why on the fence?

I’d rather be aside nursing love, and a pence.

So when at last the rain came down,

I’d left alone, far out of town.

Nelson CJ

African fictional writer and poet. His works are under consideration in jalada fear transition, kalahari review, the atlantic review and the new yorker. Works have been published on Naijastories, storried.com, and dwartsonline.