Category Archives: Death

Roasted Yam: Hunches

Title: Roasted Yam: Hunches
Author: Onyeche Vincent Onyekachukwu
Form: 2-4 -6
Theme: African charm
© 2017,

African dish;
Lunch an evil hunch,

Home sick
The big full tummy
Hunger for a hot meal,

On kilns
Are the spiced yams
In other-worldliness.

African dish;
Made from evil hunch,

To feed
And bring vultures
Along bats, cats and owls.

A black man’s band
To his dire mother land.

African dish;
Made as gravity lunch,

That spot
Where the smoke fumes
Is where the dinning is,

With force
Hunches they pull
Off the turtle and bull.


It was June’s twenty seventh day
In twenty seventeen, so to say…
Night was cold for a soul to pray
In grave silence, heads were laid.

I heard a bark, so low and slow
In my slumber, it was a big blow
I did wonder, as the sleep flow
Into shadows silence did grow.

Shortly after, the low sound
Another sound was heard
Still in slumber, I mumbled
For few hours, I stretched.

I walked outside, only to see
Jasper lying still wet as a sea
With thick ticks escaping to flea
From its drying bloodstream.

It was June’s twenty seventh day
In twenty seventeen, so to say…
Night was cold for a soul to pray
In grave silence, Jasper did lay.

We will all die

Life isn’t well-defined
Love and hate experience
Life is time and chance..

We wish to fly high
We will but all die
Where we all lie…

Don’t spend your time
Dreaming of it and why
Day or night, we’ll all die.


Have you ever met Morta, in the forest,
Then you’ll know, life isn’t short but brief.
Her breath is what iron needs to rust,
All females heart beats, faster than men.

Here we float on her temporary crust,
Praying she is light, with a note or a pen.
Have you seen the heads inside her chest,
Medics are there, she’s everybody’s wife.

Hope she’s a beauty with milky breast too,
Death seductive, cutting the threads of life.
Her body must be large, hot and cold too,
Wired with a blade; from a dreadful knife.

Heaven knows, she’s an inevitable path,
That loves violence, conflicts and strife.
Her admirations are both dull and bright,
She’s a version of bad, domestic, wildlife.

However, she’s good to all beams and ray,
Rotating in clubs, as the life of nightlife.
Home she comes, when the blacks are grey
Then shall there be, a room for all of us.

My blind spot love

There’s a girl, at sixteen she’s a bronze,
Twentyfive; she’s a glittering silver in clothes,
Thirty; she’s as valuable as minas of golds
They say, her beauty and halo never folds.

Dam at forty; away she still steals my breath!
Deeply deep down, drowning dock depth,
Daring and violating, my lungs and heart,
Downtown with sexuality of natural fit.

Fifty, she’s an object of great astonishment,
Forever, she is a rising accomplishment
Flowing in Ocean, Sea, Stream and River,
Fluorescing; her presence blows my cover.

Sixtyfold, out of the nice ice cold shower,
She’s still that leaf of my cover and clover,
She’s my passion, red rose and flower,
She’s my crush and emotionally trusted partner.

Seventy; she’s snow white in my cold frost,
Sweet grey, a diamond in my treasure crest
So kneeling to her for a finger ring is no regret,
Since she’s still that rose with a pleasant scent.

Eighty; she tweaks her tenderness of sweet sixteen
Erotically sensational, so sweet and clean;
End to end, I see not through her lovely sight
Especially while reading her mind and heart.

Ninety; she’s still that lovely township girl
Nest of sweet rural pleasantries, hot as hell,
Now we sit, underneath the moon and tell
Nose to the skies, in melodies of jingle bell.

Hundred; she’s my ride home to snowy ice
Huge marginal figure, bride and apple of my eyes,
Honestly; she still have same sound and sight,
Her humour still rocks and shine so bright.

A hundred and fifty; we shall still hug and kiss
As the World spines; and rattlesnakes hiss,
Allowing shadows to know eternal flames
Along this allusion, I shall wish, to see how deep it is.

Author : Onyeche Vincent Onyekachukwu

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