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Lament of a creator

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.

©2018 https://vinzpoetry.wordpress.com
Onyeche Vincent Onyekachukwu

Expression Eruption: Married a minute ago

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.

Adam’s Story: 9,30 (Death2)

Death!
More cruel
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

9:30
But it never came, my son
What’s wrong with your generation?

I wish;
The difficult pill to swallow now
Never passed my throat

I would have written
A secret of long life
On Proverb 9:30.

Dear February

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:”
Arrh!
What a reject;

    ‘White bandages and patches
    You’ve left me torn and battered
    It is high time
    A dumb utters
    An expression
    To tell you:

    How much I truly hate you’

Could it be that expensive?
…This I wondered

Like a toper
Reading aloud
The blue on blue lines

Rechecking
And soliloquizing
If it was meant for me

“Leave my calender
Dear February”,
It truly addressed:

  • Verse II
    1. ‘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
      Wondering why

      No cards or a drawn heart
      Candies, flowers, or a mere gift
      I guess I am

      But
      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”.

  • Verse III
    1. Dear February
      Why would you say
      Love be shown
      To me…
      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
      Retains nothing
      But bruises bump by blunders.

      In and out
      Love passes me through
      Battered yet
      Cupid patches…
      Every single one of it
      Giving me a motif of colours

      I have to get use to it
      Leave my calender
      Dear February

      God saves the best
      Of all,
      Red’s still the colour
      Guess that’s the reason
      I bleed
      Dear February

      Who is my val this time
      Let em’ come in
      Love and leave.

    Tales Of A Wife: Iyawo

    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
    How reddish
    Or greenish
    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
    If ranked,
    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.”

    Don’t Call Me Mad: Pregnancy

    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?

    Native Fly: Childish Superstition

    Childish Superstition

    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

    © 2010 https://vinzpoetry.wordpress.com

     

    Comments:

    In line 8, ‘As the crow flies’: stands for straight. That is; “then threw the broken tooth straight to the roof top”

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    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.

    Dingo the Doggy Dog

     

    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…!’

    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.’

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