He pondered the suffering in his life,
Imagined colored piano keys.
Did he become wound, or was he the knife
That cut off dry branches from old dead trees?

He could still hear words from an old school house
Where inside there were books and learning things;
He could picture his granny's old worn out blouse
While he dreamed of poets and queens and kings,

There is a Fire across the Amazon
in the far North Arctic
ice is melting
despite the ensuing cold

what is nature doing
ask me not
I don't believe in Global warming

man's mind should not grow old
what is Global let me know
all is seasonal

Have you forgotten the ICE age
and the fires that often rage

yet Global warming you say
I ain't going to anticipate

Global let it be
to me more Political
it appears all can see

Love leaves me on an island with dried waters
remaining the fall of my eyeballs.
I have wept still weeping like the rushing- hour
of a stubborn rain.
Plateau griefs alongside my plight
for its love ones, painted on bloody walls
My love for you keeps me percolating between
choosing your warmth for this Kwashiorkor Naija.
You are the happiness, the one whose desert I will survive.
Let African shrine be your feet, I
will pour libation to appease your hair,
naked my words at the sight of your complexion.

first of all
rest in peace brothers

but this is not a poem
this is my heartache
and I want u all to reason with me

the gentility of a lion does not mean stupidity
you should cut your coat according to your size-
you SOUTH AFRICANS

enough blood had been shed
and is like your fathers didn't educate you enough
or history is lacking behind
these same NIGERIANS that delivered you from apartheid

is now bush meats
not worthy of life
but rest assured this is an act of war

I rest my case

running wild still at the edges of eden
where deep caverns open to let in more dark
and then heat of a sun
makes its piercing way in
igniting a light that began with a spark
branches on trees reach like arms who wear leaves
where are the seeds of similes
all always away ahead alluded
rules from men's minds sometimes polluted
split personality one on one
one on the couch one behind the desk
where dogs can talk, cats snidely smile
where we feel the tear of a crocodile
where poor are rich and rich are poor

This summer is nearing its end
with My summer being far behind.
Winter is now an old friend
yet autumn occupies my mind
as flocks form preparing to fly.

In this time of such discontent
I find my peace in rugged places,
the kind where Cherokee once went,
the remote isolated traces
beneath a chill and cloud chased sky.

Give me birch and tall oak trees
on a hillside right beside a creek
just as puddles start to freeze
and bucks seek does willing and sleek
while coyotes sing their mournful cry.

Feel the pain
Passing through
Growling with each step
Making a mockery of you
You can’t even pace
Maybe a potion will help
Heal your heel
Hang your head
It’s only a passing itch
That you can’t scratch
Try new shoes
Try the towel wrap
But never stop marching
Even for your precious ache

Entity Me
You must remain an entity
Oh what a pity
even God needs an identity
If only we could mastermind our arrival
what time and day
would you or any one chose
may I ask of you

We all ply about in veiled masks
in search of
rest I will compose
when other poets
do in me their faith impose
let them feel the burdens of life
till will still
remain one long strife

come what may
What choice you choose
destiny can't be written
as you shall remain confused

Heredity

An accelerating shadow pushes out,
inflates the universe in wild array,
all solid stones become so slippery
reality can find no warmth of clay.

Uncertainty’s law dominates the world,
motion's position in space/time unsure.
Infinity inflates the physical
to clothe my heart and soul in cloth so poor.

The new instructor gives me all the rules;
on hard and solid stone his laws secured.
I wonder why he does not seem to care
or see the pain my heart must now endure.

there are violent storms
on each side of the sky
pure resurrection
and rotting of worms
behind that third eye
where grow the roots
of metaphor.
where curious alice
takes a tumble,
and stones with hands
fuss and fumble.
what lurks inside
a dimly lit mirror?
hell, hidden, or heaven
within should be clear.
childhood repressions,
adult repercussions ,
emotional, volatile
mental eruptions.
sometimes,
psychotic corruptions.
sometimes,
depths of vessels: