HERO OF THE WEEK

HERO OF THE WEEK
POET OF THE WEEK: DAN DEDIVER OBODOEFUNA . "SONNET VIII (18th April, 2013)

Sunday 25 November 2012

GARDEN OF DREAMS



I see the reflection of the moon..
As I sat by the river aloof..
In my heart were reminisces..
Reeled in d moonlights mood..

I see the fireflies..
Singing by the oak tree..
In this garden of dreams..
I see the dawn of gleams..
Passing by The river beams..
My emotions streams..
As I walk through life's ills...
In humble glee...

In the chirping of the crickets...I see hope...
Restoring the years...sown in tears..
If the moon shine in the laughter of the sun..
Then let the blessings of childhood to me come..

Let the whispers of the nights' owl...
Whisper sweet secrets to my waning soul...
In thoughts to which my solitude bade me thus...
Being revealed in the haven of salient spurs..


ARMAGEDDON




Great day comes with fears
With much hurring it nears
Chariots soaring in whirling pace
White army storming like locust phase
Thus pours the seventh bowl
Ev'n earth's bowel tasted the bowl
Legion of angel drawn in wrath
Begun sails gallant star breath
Unsheated blades spirals and gust
So pours bloody flood like dust

Combatic conflict soars high
The last war hit here and multiply
Heaven weeps hail-fire storm
Aye cajoling coercfully our form
With God in wrathfull fury
We taste distressful fury
Clouds frowning in thick gloom bay
So darkness and gloominess bay
Blindlessly we ran here or there
Alas! No fotress here or there


LOSS OF HIS ONLY COMPANION



Behold thy sister - on a journey so long,
behold she leaves to return no more,
behold thy sister - thy only companion,
remember your times for there'll never be more,

wipe your tears 'for she's gone already,
no matter the wail she ne'er return,
begin to mourn - for your sister is dead,
oh this lad shall wail but the deed is done,

silence and seethe have crept in to stay,
to sharpen his pain and succor disdain,
he'll carry
 the load all - all alone,
just grief his psyche and spirit to maim,

A LONELY WALKER



On Earth,a lonely walker
To die someday,a lonely decayer
My heart in deep solitude
Pumps fumes with no praise
My life,an enchanted veranda
Were no one but my buttocks fit
I gaze at d weary sea
And compare his calmless to thee
A Lonely walker,i am
To soar life with my legs

A Dream Of Amageddon



Lucid Thoughts Wavering Amidst Blurred Images..
Spirit Drowned In Lethal Graffiti..
Spider Legs Of Confusion Creep Up..
Mortal Thoughts Mutilated Beyond Regularity..
For Ammased Yet In Burrows Of Sheol..
An Army Of Darkness..Numbered As Sand..

I AM ME



I come to you with word syrups of substance
So silent in texture yet so deafening in fragrance,
Rhythmic,ecletic and a simple dose in an instance,
Might be enigmatic cos it will set your toes on a dance.

I come to you with ink capsules capable of putting you in a trance
My style freeverse not always freelance,
I'm artfully worded yet simplicity is my stance,
I'm Nigerian,yet exotic as if from France.

I AM AWAKE



I am awake.
The gods i'll woo with the myrrh of my words.
With my bleeding pen Heaven will be upon me.

I am awake!
For gallantly graciously i rise,
In honey-sweet triumphant wails.
My tongue will rain brimestone of blazing truth.
They will hide their face.
Aye they wil hide their face.
Those whose fart pricks the nose of my folks.

THE SICK LOVER THOUGHTS



Is there a way to wich dis pain might go away..
For all i see is the weariness within..

If my heart be still, then let its breath not go astray..

For in it bleed the wounds of fume..
Wrought upon by the feelings of sheer gloom..

Why wud the moon be so conceited..?
To hid its brighteness from the stars..
Why would she delight in making d stars dim its light...


I GOT A STORY



My life sucks
Everything about it
My effort I see
Fizzling away
My dreams I see
Dwindling afar
“Sky is the limit”
They all say
But I wonder why the sun
Has gone beyond my reach
Many times I hit it close
“Not good enough” I hear.


THE PROMISE (IN LOVING MEMORY OF MY LATE MOTHER)




She has been acquainted with pain
She has out walked the dry land and rain
You can call her the bravest of heart
She has looked down the saddest light
She can say it’s alright
Even when I know, she’s breaking up inside.

She can hide pain under the sun’s glee
And the moon would hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew
All her bright ebony hair
Tarnished with rust
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust
The bread I broke with you
Was more than bread
Now that I am without you
All that was so beautiful is dead.

Letter From The W!zarÐ-þ£n


















I told myself
To g!ve !t uþ
The womb of wealth
Of vasted croþ.

I made a mark
I made my þath
I bade God's ark
To þlease my heart.

The grasses bleed
Off w!lt'd brown
To scr!þture-creed
I won't bow down.

Saturday 2 June 2012

NIGHTFALL

Award Wining Poem Of The WIN'A POET'REE CONTEST
May/June 2012 Edition.


Tell the traveller

Night must not meet him outside
The streets are bloodthirsty
Crawling up on unsuspecting strangers

MOTHER EARTH (by SIMEON ASIGBO- CASNOVEE)


many a time have your continents drifted and merged,

jostled like a twig on sea,

then cloven and sundered and slowly diverged,

while great mountains silently sank to thier knees.


Long and long were your eons of ice,

long were your decades of fire,

from time timeless has there been the bleeding of men,

and the darkness that cancels desire.



FORGIVE ME WHEN I WHINE


Today, upon a bus, I saw a very beautiful
woman and wished I were as beautiful.
When suddenly she rose to leave,
I saw her hobble down the aisle.
She had one leg and wore a crutch.
But as she passed, she passed a smile.
Oh, God, forgive me when I whine.
I have two legs; the world is mine.

I stopped to buy some sweets
The lad who sold it had such charm.
I talked with him, he seemed so glad.
If I were late, it'd do no harm.
And as I left, he said to me,
"I thank you, you've been so kind.
It's nice to talk with folks like you.
You see," he said, "I'm blind."
Oh, God, forgive me when I whine.
I have two eyes; the world is mine.

TELL THE AGED WIND (by OPETU EBIBOTE- SPILLING INK)


Tell my dreams to this aged wind

passing through with a force so weak

Tell him of my passion dwelling in the city's ruin

I have dreams that ache for reality

but live in the shackles of fantasy

Tell this aged wind

that my dreams are dead in sin

drown by the ocean and its dreadful beings


SONG OF THE EAST WILD WIND


Broken moon in a broken world
Lights shining scattered in a dark planet
Wisdom gone with the last August wind
Knowledge read only in myths and legends
Pity the crow, its years is many
Rummaging through a kingdom torn with glee
Glee I say in my deepest reasoning
But a world too many to be lighted
By that poor broken moon

AFRICAN DANCE



The Ikoro came to life with a roar
Dust and silent scream into the air and soar
The sun battles with the moon for a position in the sky
To watch the blissful movement of a charming sly
Birds of the air, perch and watch in awe
Captivated by the sight, they stare even her foe
She stood tall and firm like a goddess with grace
Beads decorating her bare chest and waist like a dress
Firm breast poised in an alluring position
Men lust after her like apes without reasoning
She moved, swinging her hips in a seductive manner
Dancing to the rhythm of the Ikoro like a flying banner
Her feet, a caress to the muffled grass
Filed with thorns and chips of glass.
Dancing and hopping with muffled shrills
With aching face in puzzling smiles.

LETTER TO HADES


Living in your dark solemn abode
As hot as a freezing burning furnace
I but wonder, does it not burn your bed?
An abode built with skulls of human
Painted with crimson blood of mortals
Soaring in the air are disgusting fragrance
From decayed body of souls you enslaved
Yet, you sit with ease, dining and feasting
On your rotten frozen meal, whilst living in
A hot alcove.

Friday 25 May 2012

WHY GO IN THE MORNING


I hear the distant wail, what is wrong?
Who has fallen prey?
Not mine I pray
I hear melancholy songs.
There lies my heart, there lies my future, there lies my better half
On me death spat, what to do so unsure.
Why go so soon?
Grey hair mourning

MY CREATION (by EPHRAIM AKPABIO- HIGH PRIEST)

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
He paced about like a wounded lion
great was his rage it shook his loin
his step vibrated the earth
his voice scared even death

gallantly he strolled to the battle front
with grace and glee envied by the gods
he moved swinging his sword graciously
like the waist of a maiden