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#14 lines (Sonnet) for the choir girl

All at once
When she sings

She makes the snow fall
The hurricanes whirl

While the sun scorch
As the rain drops
In drips from heaven.

The admiration
Yes, is in her voice

But also in her moves
Yet, she doesn’t dance

Neither does she jump
But she bounces out admiration
From the heavens gate.

Cock: Molesters

I don’t care if you fathered Gate
Lie if you lie or say a gospel truth
I’m just an innocent babe
Blessed by God to be fine,

All am saying is:
Get your grip out of my hip
My lip, my rip and my zip.

I don’t care the sizes of your balls
Large, long, tiny or small
I’m just a little babe
Blessed to be a replica of God,

All am saying is:
Get the hell out of my sleep
My trip, my ship and my crib.


In the bus while heading away
From the light of the nation,
To the finger of God
After the battle; a normal occupation
I observed the feeling; a peaceful illusion
When I closed my eyes, calm I became an ocean
Free from worries and trepidation
Lighter and lighter I held imagination
In my head, a pen and paper illustration
Up and down the bus rolled-
Along the road my eyes still close
Not asleep but I researched
Never understand; never had a dream
Or taken the time to correlate this.

Unintentional Existence: Repository Cistron (Gene)

Every second on a call
Every words she says
And stores in cistron dust
Had been said days before
And days after by the same
Silence at the end;
… Now and then she calls.

Talking to a doll through a dull
Probably hearing all or not at all
Packing emotions in repository dust
That is shuffled and floating in air
Longer and larger than its container
Hoping for flesh or fresh start at the end
… Now and then she calls.

Tales Of A Wife: City Of Calabar

Mixed with the wind, still waters run deep
Coming-hell ears hear, hot love she drops
City of the clean, adorable and immaculate
A mouth that never runs her own lips
Nor heap a pad where there is or isn’t a hip
Natural overwhelming platonic expression
Philanderer addiction, the vortex of an ocean
Phone number to have, soft and fluffy downy lotion
Aphrodisiacs posterity and an erotic generation
Acoustic sensation of dreams come true on
Chilli bed of an unflappable function
Climaxing to hell beside the phrase maker
Mother library of potion, sex love voucher.

Expression Eruption: January

When will January die?
– Probably the day the earth is reformed
Or when it stops to itch and scratch
And no longer shows the now
And knows not what the future tells
Or the day wishes will kiss extinction
Infarcted by new or repeating resolution.

When will January die?
– Probably if no man walks before or
On its two-way valve, going in or out the time
Axilla worms down in thirty-one pages
And the mind worries not when it shall die
Otherwise January is a baby in every mind-eyes
Innocent foetus every year should be delivered of.

Sonnet Mamma

Every girl is a mama
So singing souls sing
She has two eggs within
O she is not barren
Nor a dead wood, the choice is yours
Choose both to call her a mama
With your “we don’t look alike”.

Choose one alone then call her mama It is yours to like or split
With your “look alike”
Failure to get in, each month
She bleeds
Every girl is a mama
So singing souls sings.

Don’t Call Me Mad: A Sonnet of good

When true love turns impossible
And wants to wait much longer
Simply go into cryptobiosis
Wait for love as long as it takes.
If it resist still, such sincere attention
Like the snails’ eye cuts off
Persistent attention shall re-grow.

If to be good on planet earth
Becomes negligibly senescent
Shall put a sincere kindness
In state of suspended animation
Wake it up in November
When and if
The world ever needs such good.

Me, A Song Written By God

More accurate than a chronograph,
Well analysed than a spectrograph
I’m a dancing sonogram
Gush! The sound is killing

Mimed by the Angels above,
I’m a song written by the hand of God,
Sang by his singing birds,
Life listens that includes you and you

Mind-blowing like deftly,
The errors in his write-up are defunct
Speakers boom ….
Gush! The lyrics is killing

Modal verbs, must, shall, will
These songs he writes about me
Are point-and-kill not a moleskin
Making mountains out of a molehill

Written by Onyeche Vincent E Onyeka
(C) 2012

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