All these years later
I still dream of you
A day in the park
Late spring
Under that tree
Hiding from the sun
Half asleep
You
Tracing secrets
In the palm of my hand
Whispering a universe
Of desire
In my ear

What is Love
but a deprivation
of adequacy and submission
of sensuality
may be smokes of sexuality

There must be genuineness of affection
love then becomes intimate
from friendship we switch to loved ones
now becomes it

One must dream
of those passed moments
when love was deprived
moment by moment
but then salvaged by some one
from those lonely occasions
of salty utterances
by some one

Then only real love oozes
as an ultimate outcome

I see too many as*holes every day
and every day they give me crap.
They stay a while then go away.
This isn't just a mere mishap.

Everybody shows me their worst side
and never turn their other cheek
be they codgers or blushing bride,
from beauty queen to circus freak.

They even sometimes piss and moan
but I stay here taking all of it.
They unload on me while on their phone
like I was made to take their sh!t.

Fairness I search in life's dictionary,
though unfair occupies.
splashy by surprise.
it's dusted of the happiness.
claiming is a pleasure,
but a torture.

love they said is blind,
but wisdom is wise.

the most she loves you
among the multiple,
the child may be yours,
but conceiving is contradicted
D.N.A will shout
and memory brings an update

resemblance neither the father
although the truth stands just
the affair breath the air
but unwanted drowned it all.

Cradle mountain - The twin deities

At close of day, I am in a hill house secret,
secreted in a room with lamplight, Latin primer and fatigue,
Another hill, far greater, massive shouldering it's
way onto the earth, unfurling the horizon,
disturbing the crust, engaging the locked admiration
of millions, for millennia.

I am Ngba, the game of Ndi Igbo.
Played by men of stone chest,
And stone skin.
Where legs will gather to gaze.
A trail of our culture, amusement, and unity.
Fueled with the aura of the talking Ogene and flutes.

A breeze of youthfulness to the old,
seated with horns of wine to gaze.
clamouring, clamouring.
if it were in those days of our youth,
When men were metals.

Targets those who ail
Making them tread deadly trail
The beastly Blue Whale

I wish to be a bird
soaring high
even though lonely
in the vast sky

the world appears
mad to me
greedy
gluttons
bloating
hoarding
all minds of
wealthy
and
sweeping virginity
ahead

all power is being misused
rapes galore
gals and guys lie
openly on the floor
with no respects
for elderly

take me far away
from this world
of madness only

I pray up there
to some Lord
may be

Love.
Where I come from; love is like rice.
No rice. No love.
Love, like rice doesn’t exist in a vacuum
Stew. Hate. Meat. Betrayal. Beans. Denial.
Above all; jollof rice. The height of infidelity.
Love is a moving train.
Who says trains don’t halt. Know your station.
Never jump out of a moving train
And don’t be carried away by the rail
“The rice farmer won’t say he won’t plant rice because after all,
It will be mixed with beans and meat and curry and thyme”
Above all, everyone eats rice. Everyone loves.