Poetry

Cassie Boca

By

Pat Ashinze

A Weeping Earth

Maniacs rule our countries

Geniuses drive our cabs

In the abundance of honey,

The patriarchs are thirsty.

The beautiful ones are not yet born

For the ugly souls have refused to die

The earth moans irate like a raped virgin,

Her muffled wails strangled in wanton misery

For diligence no longer harnesses the respect of men –

Drunkards make the laws, sycophants head the courts

What shall we say of a nation?

Whose glory and future solaces in oblivious prospects?

What shall we adjudge of a country?

Where the reins of power are geared by senile brains?

Once a giant werewolf, now an ugly slime-slug

The beautiful minds no longer have wombs to carry them –

For the ugly filths have desecrated all fertile altars.

Mother Earth groans as mischief torments her treasures

She sulks adrift, meandering through the rivers of time

Her cries thrust deep, renting the quietness of space ajar

She regrets housing man – The cause of her eternal curse

The rules of coexistence were but simple,

Back watched backs, eyes sought eyes

Our first needs were just food and shelter

Where neither tribe nor race ever mattered much –

Until Greed swallowed us in its huge, odious jaws

And Hypocrisy drowned us whole in her weeded waters

The creator is silent in His Unseen Watchfulness

The weight of his quietness outwitting description,

He watches, as vanities impede great destinies

He pities the deplorable state of the weeping Earth,

As her intellectuals and heroes are exiled to the Grave,

An abode, where everyone is fluent in silence

Something For Her

the voice of my darling is immaculate,

swaying in the breeze as if playing a harp.

her melodies are symphonic incendiaries,

firing through the dark azure of twilight

her smile is like dewfall in drought,

massaging the cold sores of my heart,

her laughter is like a slice of Mount Zion,

feeding my soul with tranquil elixirs.

my woman is a resilient bloom of red roses,

a fragrance that defies garrulous winds.

i rejoice as her image forms in my mind,

raying like a sun rising out from dark clouds.

she is the imagination i pray to become real,

the damsel i yearn to deify in aura and grace

she is the unwritten psalm in my parchments,

full of flaws and awes, full of wows and ouchs.

Pat Ashinze

I am Pat Ashinze, a 4th year medical student at the University of Ilorin. Writing has always been therapeutic and habitual for me as a person. I write and read poetry and prose. I also am a good storyteller. I would do anything to have a relishing bite of roasted plantain and groundnuts.

Writing is the only way i can talk without being interrupted.