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Expression Eruption:Christmas Day
Santa Clues on a snowy course
Rides on all alone
To bring me a box of curse
A curse to shine
From a purse of smile
Knowing what day it is
Makes me feel so glad
From the way it smells
Trust me I can tell
December has met with twenty-fifth
Today is so fine
Noisy night tint so bright
Rhythm in pleasant sounds
I play not with sands and clay.
I dare not… on a Christmas day.
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Christmas cry
Christmas cry
A cry on Christmas day
Noisy day
Silent night
Sunlight’s certain,
Snow roller
Aid of Santa’s toil
Paper foil thud
Bay forever more.
Freezing Ice
Echo of a
Chilling tasty cream
Creaming ceaselessly
Weather is top
Perfect for celebration
Know no bay
On a Christmas day.
By Onyeche Vincent Onyeka
(c) 2009. https://vinzpoetry.wordpress.com
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Pooh-pooh judgment
Pooh-pooh judgment
His otiose lamp holder, my oblige law
On the off-chance True-me trails after her
My poppet, the oasis in the hottest desert
So convivial she is, but refuses to quench my taste
Oasis calm, her splendor keeps hunting my Goosebumps heart
Boldness came out and expression was it.
Love’s sour! Pooh! She said
Cold, my fire burnt deep inside
Pooh-pooh judgment; love’s a poetic justice
Love pongs; I became her lovelorn
She; an otiose, went after the other-me
Not even a postman’s knock; now True-me is forlorn
Sending loneliness to rest, I returned up sky a twinkling star
The adore of my Poppet now pongs and bitters
Exact words she said when I needed her
Now hearing it from the voice-box of the other-me
Boohoo, boohoo she weeps; no shoulder to cry on
Weather is hot, but she freezes
Lovelorn; Pooh-pooh judgment
Love’s a poetic Justice.
by Onyeche Vincent Onyeka
(c) 2009; https://vinzpoetry.wordpress.com
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Second String
Second String
O Nigeria
Built by noble pioneers
With ideas as Heroes
Aims, vision in every valued Kobo
Battling for decorative goals
Obstacles she now sees
From the bows and arrows
She aims…
The bull’s-eyes missed
O…o, where went she?
Injustice I suffer than commit
My justice is blinded in truth
From a pregnant tomorrow
I am that young Nigerian
Born in pains trampled by chains
Lead by fathers and mothers
Who intend to sole satisfy their families
O… pioneers I’ve so seen a rare-Devil
I’ve dwelled so long in its evil
To see an eagle turn powerless weevil
I am that young Nigerian
To strike while the iron is hot
In memorandum of understanding, I’m a second string.
By Onyeche Vincent Onyeka
© 2010 https://vinzpoetry.wordpress.com
The Closed Doors
The Closed Doors
Funny how these doors bang
Noisy as a Dunny-door in storm
Open and closing is the hallway
Along a billion room veranda
All lovers must have a gander
Or take a powder
Far from where I stand
Down the pavement I pound.
These rooms that is empty
Have no brain and mercy
To handle a possible emergency
Bolt down to efficiency
Maybe love has no pity
To get a stroke lucky
Along the long narrow corridor
These rooms have bitterly open doors
Invitation sent by these doors
Are either wile or wild
For a gentle-mind searching for a day-room
To love and participate in genre painting
I pound-the-pavement waiting-
Like others, knocking and asking
The closed doors to widen
But it yells: “Ga-out and Ga-night!”
By Onyeche Vincent Onyeka
© December 2010 Http://vinzpoetry.wordpress.com
Comment
Have a gander: Look around
Take a powder: Depart quickly
Pavement I pound: Walk in a regular pace down the city/town
Get A stroke lucky: Make Use of Opportunity
Day-Room: Reading Room
Genre Painting: Realistically
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Last Month of the year
White and scarlet fusion
A minute ago aspiration
After which is a New-Year
Calculate profits
Forget losses
Just like Santa.
We ’re ready
Santa clues red
Chariot of our days
The bay in my gifts
Plenty plenty toys
For you and I.
by Onyeche Vincent Onyeka
(c) 2009 http://Onyecheonyeka.wordpress.com
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Ode: Cause of Wills’ rubble
Agony in Will’
My most witty friend,
Barely suppress if he will
Ruefully face the grounds.
Elegy of a witty-man living
On the windy hills,
The witty birds
Winnow out.
Swine position
Now,
Even the witless
Rules his garden.
Error in his syncopated rhythm
The origin of the rubble
Rumpling his well bluff hair
Like dust in the whirling air.
My friend my friend
Lost his way home
In the rumpus’ rubble
Walls of cloak.
Woe betide inconsistency,
Slough, slouch, and stumbling block
For driving the plover
Away from the wet ground.
Sylvan surrounding;
An optimistic augury
To the barren-desert-lifer
Barrel of agony, my friend my friend.
Plover, please perk-up
Least he ignores the chameleon faeces
For coyness
And slouch are the bases
Barrel of agony
My friend my friend
No more fun in the drink we taste,
No more tact in speech we lay
It shouldn’t be the end
Sad when the brain
Forgets to stay up the head
Barrel of agony, my friend my friend.
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Old age
Image via Wikipedia
It Is just a figure they call in numbers
Had I have known had I have recalled,
My formation, my cries
All what it was growing as kid.
Didn’t know how I felt, ought to have remained
But I kept replenishing; development we think,
Happy I grew pubic hair, fine enough for the growing man.
Why the rush? When there is a time for every thing.
Perfect since I did my childhood impossible.
Years run by, years gone with different memorable events
Should have reached the space boundary
My brain has a limit.
As I grew older I picked the present memories.
Leaving the past for several glancing without a going back
Both good and bad, OLD AGE IS JUST DEATH
WHEN ONE PRECEDES IT,
LIFE IS NO LONGER ASSURED.
by Onyeche Vincent Onyeka
(c) 2009 http://Onyecheonyeka.wordpress.com
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South-South; on its last legs
Named by the River
Down South
Towards the River
The bitter taste of liberty
Young and sturdy tree
Grew by the River
But now that she is free
From white skin
And slavery,
She hijacks,
Mar and stains
Self wrecking her own black-skin
But now that she is free
From white skin
And slavery,
Where is the destination
Of the hot volcano she erupts?
Still on her homes;
Brothers in arm, sisters in South
Green-lands dried and withered
All for dug-wells and greed
Marred and stained
Death she set and freed
X-box she plays on another man’s life
Murdered by lawless-armed-brothers
Lawful brothers in arm
Battle of the rabbits and hippos
Withered are the green grasses
O, brothers and sisters in South-South
Let die the crisis.
By Onyeche Vincent Onyeka
© 2010 https://vinzpoetry.wordpress.com
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