Shining city on a hill
Thousand points of light
Toiling to fill the till
For future sunset bright

Banal blatant brutality
Indecent insolent impunity
Civilian culled casualty
Iota-less indemnity

Massing poor, tired and huddled
Receiving wretched refusal
Shoreline, borderline muddled
Impenetrable walled portal

Mixed up dreams for many
Messed up nightmares for rest
Hoping for golden epiphany
Others for lives without unrest

The spirit of Africa
is in the thick skin that breaks the mosquito
married by the sun and bathed by the rain
Though dirty but lovely
with a hand-mould of Akpu for my hungry tummy

The spirit of Africa
is in those warriors carved in woods, Amadioha, Sango let’s call few
it’s in the talking drum and the metallic town crier
is in the green pastures
long ago robbed but yet stands
what a loving memory to reminisce

How could haze pave my days,
clouds ....doubts,
I'm so weak, worn in,
wandering and living in the old
everything is just a maze,
is there no way out?

Yes, I am old,
but still have stories untold,
(those I always wanted to tell to my grandchildren)
do you understand
how cold is this zone?

... that there's no way out,
please, stay close,
keep me warm
for my days won't be long with you.

Footfalls by drowning doldrums,
the moon hallowed, cruel, pockmarked.

By the bench a dark haired girl
sings this rite's flow, protean,
wearing a wreath of paper hearts.

The hitchciker circles the dead city
square, tying rubber bands
around locks of her hair,
his dreams lucid and fried,
medium, rare.

Staring at the Madonna,
he has a black eclipse,
fashioning old ribbon clips.

The Holy Hour. Drunk with wine
and picture books,
the moon's ambrosia
misses him at high volume.

Why is coloring in the lines pretty,
But outside it is not.
What’s the point in being witty,
If my lines are all I’ve got.

Those spring days where we lay in the grass.
Too old and progressive for picnic baskets,
The time of hunter and gathers renewed :
Our loot came straight from the shops.

With big Spring smiles,
we sat astride revision;
intent abandoned as we made daisy crowns,
pulling stems off strawberries.

We plucked grass absentmindedly,
our backs arched in laughter.
We looked stock-photo worthy
in the spring sun.

For far too long my nascent poems
have frosted upon my lips
craving to jump out of the window
for shedding their winter chills

they want to dress in Cherry Blossom blooms
swirl with the breeze and swing with the bees
meet their Robin in the meadows
then roll on the pubescent greens

Yes, they want to feel adrenaline again
pumping through their dormant veins
dance on goose bumps on naked feet
and play hide and seek with the Sun

A deep breath of spring morning air
near cold enough to bring a frost
yet dogwoods are blooming everywhere.
In seasons' battle winter lost.

The whippoorwill might sing tonight
and I might see a spotted fawn
just as an owl takes to flight.
His hunt will end with the next dawn.

The new year's leaves have finally
push dead leaves off of the beech trees.
New growth hinting of what soon will be
while thick pollen will make me sneeze,

Venomous blackguard
Abets aggressive diehard
Unbalanced retard

I never ever buy a brand new book
not that I don't like its looks
it may cost me just a couple of nuts
yet tattered ones I value the most

to me they deceives their tattered looks
with bookmarks and those folded ends
even stains of tears dried over years
as morbid remains of some emotion

I came across one with a missing page
which made me scratch my head no end,
till I read that page in blank mind space
with the lens of Mr. Sherlock Holmes