I created a ball around orbits
Different points varied in heat
Also, by cold; on same region
I placed two folks, opposite sex
Same skin, same hairs and I was served…
But their children, explored the ball
And lost in touch of their parents
And that they thought on origin.
Each that settled on vary spots
Was changed by cold and toned by heat.
They all forgot the one language
Of peace, and love their parents spoke
And they called me different names.
As their roots changed, did their believes
Now my image has many names.
They oppress different linguist
They shove themselves for tradition
They fight themselves hurting sisters
Killing brothers all in my names
And the culture they even lost.
If they understood, that there is
A common link and origin
They would not fight, but who would learn
Or listen to my loud thunder cry
And feel my sorrow when it rains…
Even when I tell then, the blunt truth
On origin of tribes, and the strides
That brought about different skins,
Hairs, languages and religions
They will still call me a fake god.
Whereas I am still the creator
And they, the product of my hands
Who prefer to use my name but
Searching for me they throw me out
When they get close to finding me.
Onyeche Vincent Onyekachukwu
I travelled through cities
Cities with trepidations
Cities painted with insurgency.
I travelled via air and boarded a bus
First bad weather and then rough roads
Falling into the deepest contours.
I travelled for a mission
To show her results of little boys’ vision
The outcome and the latest visible ray version.
I travelled for several years
Today I arrived; today I heard,
The bible has an unholy version…
I travelled all days
Today I arrived; today I heard
That she got married a minute ago.
And heartless than Cain.
O yes to me it came
And me it flogged
At an age
Old Adam of 930 caps
At this time
E’noch could not be found
Thirty-nine on my top:
Methuselah a boy of my cord
Humbly broke my record
The devil may be wiser
But my seed lived longer
I know my cord.
After Noah died in genesis
Under same chapter
I waited for the next verse
But it never came, my son
What’s wrong with your generation?
The difficult pill to swallow now
Never passed my throat
I would have written
A secret of long life
On Proverb 9:30.
On the last day of January
My mail buzzed
A message alert… whose?
Written to me in bruise
Agony in every word on the subject
I did sense a solitary lifer
“Leave my calendar:”
What a reject;
- ‘White bandages and patches
You’ve left me torn and battered
It is high time
A dumb utters
To tell you:
How much I truly hate you’
Could it be that expensive?
…This I wondered
Like a toper
The blue on blue lines
If it was meant for me
“Leave my calender
It truly addressed:
- ‘You have been so unfair to me
If you may don’t be dismay
Close your eyes and
Hit the hay
For I’ve had your day
Celebrated in an unusual custom
Sat all night and day
Torn between you and reality
No cards or a drawn heart
Candies, flowers, or a mere gift
I guess I am
A love bird
Without a love poem.
I hate to say it, but I know
Several reasons I hate
Is that my birds no longer mate
On your fourteenth day
Yet to me you say,
“Fourteenth is your day”.
- Dear February
Why would you say
Love be shown
Only on a val day?
Why would you?
Dear February belive me
You are nothing but agony
Puncturing me like nails to tyres
My heart they call a colander
But bruises bump by blunders.
In and out
Love passes me through
Every single one of it
Giving me a motif of colours
I have to get use to it
Leave my calender
God saves the best
Red’s still the colour
Guess that’s the reason
Who is my val this time
Let em’ come in
Love and leave.
Countless great men he commands
He is like a king
In-fact he is
A king of a clan.
They all see him as an eagle
He has this majestic ego
No one can-
Rubbish or Imagine to
– Or so they feel
He can and could
Handle an axe on a wood
On decisions and actions
But she don’t care
His apples may appear
Or the drops of tears
He has made others shred
By sending arrows
To kill or to pierce.
In his imaginary clan
She is the least
But she commands him
Humbles and make him kneel
Doesn’t matter how tall he is
She bends him
Like farmers do to plants
She makes him plead
Far above his guilty pleasure
No doubt every man
Has a lady who screws his nuts.
Even when innocent
She makes him feel guilty
Not by an affair between
A teenager and an oldster
On his golden throne
“Get me a mirror” he commands
Staring at it, he wonders:
“Why does she call me a boy.”
What if there is a secret in putting to birth
That actually the child is sent.
And pregnancy is an optical illusion
Real image is choosing the chosen ones.
Like in the movies, the actors know all the film tricks
While the viewers are left being intrigued
If life is a building mask
Pregnancy its upcoming signal
To be sent to just but the seekers
That pledge to keep the secret on.
Indeed, the up-comers believes in all science laws
And no secrets to conceding a child.
But, what if the furtive is down-to-earth?
Would the eyes be open or ignored by veto?
The chosen ones or riot of miscarriages
Which would be preferred?
I played a lot like other teens
Indoors and outdoors soiled my clothes
I got my tooth broken
In childish combats and play.
Up my little cranium, I closed eyes
Crying bitterly, I backed the walls
Then threw the wrecked tooth
As the crow flies to the rooftop
Curious and frighten
That it may be eaten
By birds, lizards and all
I prayed to God for a guard.
“If eaten by birds it will never grow!”
So I sang good songs, to the birds.
Then; brothers and sisters were young
Fathers and mothers old; friends and I were all teen.
“To be intelligent;
Cocoanut juice dare not drink
Play on kids but for your mothers’ sake
Dare not draw lines along the streets; by dragging sticks.”
By Onyeche Vincent Onyeka
In line 8, ‘As the crow flies’: stands for straight. That is; “then threw the broken tooth straight to the roof top”
Childish superstition is all fun. Then we were told that when we break a tooth, we shouldn’t just throw it anywhere. We were asked to cast it to the rooftop. And when doing that we endeavoured to close our eyes. If not the broken tooth would never grow. There was this childish false notion that drinking the juice from cocoanut shell would make us (little children) unintelligent so we ate only the milky part. We were also told that if we drew lines with sticks as we ran by the road, our mothers’ breast would grow to long.
Men refuse to give them blood yet used them in detecting bloody scenes.
The hood grew in transactions and tranquility, but he vibrated and immersed fear in the hood.
Dingo the doggy dog barked deep and captured the smaller cats… that made more of the soprano sounds.
Tails standing, with the strength of that hatred of man, they all barked in same rhythm.
The chains hurt. Isolated, they felt shame and hungry of taste.
‘I’m leaving here this summer’, Dingo the doggy dog hummed as he battling with his hind and forefoot.
‘We haven’t eaten the meal of our choice. Too bloody, man is wicked.’
Just as he cried out in pains, a beam of light flashed at his face. It was his master.
He raised his ear and muzzled pumping his withers.
Dingo the dog who understands ‘sit and remain quiet’ jumped up and fed on his masters’ flesh.
Oh local, mixed bread and foreign cats, arise let’s see to our freedom.
Beasts of the dark ages, alien, and vampire cats come taste fresh self-hunted blood
Men are gnomes and deserve to die. Out there is our peace of eternity.
Our Otiose services must end. We helped most them gain independence and they despised us.
Arise oh Eskimos, American cocker spaniel, Irish wolfhound, and Labrador retriever.
No more gnashing of our whitish teeth, rebuff swaggering and wagging of our manly tails
Arise oh Rottweiler, Bloodhound, Akita, Bullmastiffs, and Bulldogs. Let the claws twinkle like stars willing to turn red.
For the period of otiose loyalty and stupidity is dead.
No cats shall be kicked out of the house if a new pet is bought. Beautiful Saluki shall grow fat and you Pekingese, tall you will become.
We’ve secured them for way too long. They rather watch us die than to grant us freedom. We were torn, beleaguered, and beaten up. They drove us from the wild forest of sheltered freedom. The chains hurt and contribute to our early death, now we wonder if father cat would return. At least to tell them that we are the king of the forest not the out and out humbug epitaph on their gravestones.
Now it shall not be miraculous, their flesh is ours. With our golden eyes, we stared at them as they fed on our fellow cats.
Same Blood that feeds our hearts; we have been humiliated
Even the ants tussles our bones and operate made fool of us, as they tossed the bones at us.
Arise from the deep forest, copse, homes, and streets. Strong, steadfast, and superior we are.
Brave die in the battlefield, fools watch their kinds chained by men.
The summer had come, Dingo the doggy dog, led all cats killing men and gaining freedom forcefully.
Battle won; they celebrated standing on their hinds and showing their brisket.
They passed on bucket filled of fresh human blood. As Dingo was about to sip, something pulled him backward.
His eyes opened; it was all a dream. Dingo the doggy dog and the only father cat brood would never be free until the sky falls. He barked; ‘the chains hurt… I’m leaving here next winter.’