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Monthly Archives: December 2010

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.

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

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

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.

Old age

 

 

 

My Grandfather (†); photo from January 17.JPG

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

 

 

 

 

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

 

Mums’ Auto Fruit Cake

  • Fruit cake; crying out to be flung
  • Genre painting, from one fault to another

 

  • Never in full feather, singing jazz in melody
  • O wonderful singing shock-absorber.

 

  • “Help it get a leg up”
  • Far be it from it to start

 

  • From stem to stern; have a gander
  • Family and helpers unwillingly drop a pound

 

  • Bolt from the blue
  • Do the engine airborne poor witches all day;

 

  • Or has the witches dead beaten its efficiency
  • O mum’s water-gong engine!

 

  • “My car just parked me up”: she calls
  • I bet you stay-off mums aging car.

By Onyeche Vincent Onyeka

© December 2010, HttP://vinzpoetry.wordpress.com

Comments

Fruit Cake: Mentally Unstable

Genre Painting: Realistically Painting

Full Feather: In a real Good Health

Help It Get a leg up: Aid To get Started

From Stem to Stern: From one end to another

Bolt from the Blue: Occurring without warning

Have A gander: Have A look.

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