If you kill the dead
they'll follow you home
no matter how large the moon
or small the fingertip.

Crop circles don't mean any thing
to the insect, regardless how intricate
the sign, I exist in God's delusion
and write poems about human petulance
in defiance of all the evidence that no one exists
but my choiceless thoughts,
I am dying into a Grand Canyon of words, what shade of India ink
shall I use to draw outside my lines
when I am breathless with awe and hopeless in the void?

Things are bad at home
Our mother
Nwa-Ozege Okoro died
Raphael Okpe please
Try your best to return.
Our mother
Nwa-Ozege Okoro is dead.

I am thinking of my life
To eat is hard for me
Matthias Okpe refused me food
Francis Okpe moved to the farm
Ifeoma, his wife helped sometime
To eat is hard for me.
Our mother
Nwa-Ozege Okoro is dead

You My Dears

You are poetic dear
I have to scientifically endear,
I do hope you all do hear

Albeit

I’d like to from you all individually hear...
The burst,
The tear,
The clouds,
the crowds
The thunder
the clap,
All are
and
shall be enlightened by poetry
Which undoubtedly you do bear
And
I dare say
I can ever at all compare...

I would sketch you with a stylus
your graceful curving lines
running through a new mowed field
bordered by blooming multiflora vines

Or maybe I should sculpt your form
in some type of classic pose
carved in clay or wood or stone
with the merest hint of clothes

Perhaps a water color painting
in impressionistic style
all pastel with blended edges
to best capture that fleeting smile

She was my old flame
I can never remember her name;

she often tried to bite me,
at times it did excite me,

she was my old flame.

My gal Christine
she was pretty, slender, and mean;

she was such a vamp,
in fact was quite the tramp,

she was but a teen.

Then came Shirl
who really made my life twirl;

when she left me I got sad,
She treated me so bad,

thought she was the girl.

Then came Anne
I feared she might be a man;

As I watch you my sweet Ma Ma sleeping in your bed,
so many old memories start flowing through my head.

Of times when I was little and you were always there,
giving your love so tender as nothing can compare.

It's so hard to see you so confused and so unaware,
of where you are or who I am it just seems so unfair.

But I'm sure the Lord is with you and keeps you in his care,
far from pain and suffering his love for you is clear.

QUIET PLACES

At times
I curl up into myself
head low on my chest
arms in my own embrace
my thoughts no longer run to dreams
phantoms of fantasy
or to memories of bygone days
hauntings of the dead

Instead
I steal myself away
to quiet places inside of me
and
in whispers I speak
an unholy litany
to keep th the beasts at bay
as they begin to devour me
my soul and my body

Creativity at its best

More will write

Freer verse

We all came with our own minds
Why be only followers?

But Neopoet is going slow
As it does grow
Older poets are read
Yes
But none know.

If you asked me what is changeless
I would have said nothing
once upon a time,
but clearly, on this morning of sunlight
streaming an early Autumn crispness,
one thing I know for sure,
(the rest of it is pure conjecture)
I know roots that grow love and happiness
never change, they feel the same no matter
the source,
anything else is its moderation and
banishment from the palace of light
within, the font that springs eternal
a well from which we draw.

like a flower;
in the icy winters,
awaiting it’s fall,

like a moon;
hanging overhead,
awaiting the inevitable dawn,

like a ball;
hanging by a thread,
waiting to bounce,

I fall.