March 7, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Marco Dormino/UN photo



Ogbonnaya Joel Nwanneka




What Leads Home



Thunders are of a million colours,

Each colour holds itself within.


She told mama she’s got no breast,

She smiled and bought her some.


Thunders are of a million colours,

Each colour holds itself within.


The sky is enough to fly one’s kite,

After a relay of sweats in our pores.


Thunders are of a million colours,

Each colour holds itself within.


Not only Jesus has come to save,

We are his shades to rest the saved.


Thunders are of a million colours,

Each colour holds itself within.


Heaven threatens a fall on us,

Not scared are we, for the earth’s fallen.


Thunders are of a million colours,

Each colour holds itself within.


A painter thus paints the outer,

In him are confused colours of the thunder.


Thunders are of a million colours,

Let the one that strikes you light your way home,

For dark thunders hold misery of another life after death.





A Cry From Hell



If torch were light,

Why do we


Why do we still

In the night light our touch?


Is the gong not enough sound?

Is it?

Is it not sounding enough

Enough for us to

Sound gongs of hostility?


If living were true of itself

Why does it


Why does it

Sound leaving again?


If there could be

If there could

If there could be a synonym

Just a synonym

For existing


Why won’t it be exiting?







(Lust, Love, Lost)



There is a language we never learnt to speak

From mothers’ sticked lips of lip sticked mouth,

Though they kissed a poet and speak in tongues of the gods,

For they’re wrapped ‘atwix’ the doubt of lust and love for father and us.


Mothers are never truthful witter they lust or love,

They never define their feelings while we suck and father does.

Their kiss, tantamount to the gift fathers had on their bed days & birthdays.

What feelings of love, lust, lost have mothers?


For Love is He, and Lust is She; birth of a mother of differed fathers.

Mother, lost with another man whose balls dangled on a soft graced desert,

Where light becomes a tale at night for kids who are blind like coconuts,

As he obeyed mother’s green lighted buttons beneath & above.


Love is lost, Lust is the love we harbour and signal.

For out of Lust, Love is bore, though lost ‘atwix’.

Father and mother never smile, think as they take ‘oathed’ kiss on

alters of flowers,

As witter they love or lust ,for each lost for another and love another

out there!!


Lust is a lost feelings of love amongst The wise,

Love is a tale told for mute memories of The clayed.

Lost is lust and love in our home where we are Aliens in our planet,

Lust, love, lost are lettered words from The Whites to kill our conscience.





Lifeless Life



All looks never wear a real smile,

But a fainted irony in a beaming sun.


Every Judas is named after our shadow,

For at dusk they kiss us on our cross.


Every bird sweats beneath their wings,

But the cooling air, its feather hide it.


Pores are never for soothing air,

But a bank, saving pains of the day.


Legs are not to trek to ones fortune,

But to a new home beneath the soles.


It never rains to sooth,

But to tell, how heroes of hubris fell.


Every Peter is a betrayal,

For before cock crows, our cross is never ours.


Goodbye is never a hope to return,

But a call to join a moving train.






Ogbonnaya Joel Nwanneka

Ogbonnaya Joel Nwanneka is a poet writing from Osun,Nigeria, an indigene of Ebonyi,Nigeria. He’s a student and a budding lawyer who believes in changing the world positively through creative writings.

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