Victim of Metamorphosis – Olaseni Kehinde.
Victim of Metamorphosis From my grandmother’s lips spills the story of my genesis, A home of beauty buried in time’s embraceLike a mother hen, protective with chuckling wings,Our home was peaceful when evil slumbered And fresh air blew with innocence, Cupidity flew like a whisper in the windHonour stood tall in the mountainsThose nights before love faded into memories How can I write an elegy for my dear land? Bristling in despair and gasping for breathA shatterer of hope in a ruthless whim,As a mighty flood rages my home with vices Today, I live in a terrain of predators, Hawks perch, eavesdropping on prey’s dreamsAnd some mornings, they swoop from the sky,To devour great dreams like a tasty meal Riffles serenade the air with dreadful melody, Striking out futures in cold bloodElders covet riches, honesty withers,On a sobbing land, wailing for aid. Contributor’s Bio Olaseni Kehinde Precious is a prolific poet,…
A Memory of a Man Drowned by the New Ways – Rasheed Ayinla Shehu.
A Memory of a Man Drowned by the New Ways I sit with my grandfatherWhile the half-moon illuminates throughThe darkness of the night.We chatter, like birds cherrypicking between cerealsWith their beaks rummaging in our lane of thoughtA memory to fill the gaping spaceA blackness in our white dentitionOf the generation between us.A night like this, with another half of the moonBuried in the belly of the ravenous sky birthsScores of memories – a bit of us dead in the past,Reincarnating in a form in the present.We do have a picture of a shark opening his jawTo house the drowning us in his belly for food:A period to unseal a pulsating wound,To seek survival in its yellowish pus. “I wish he had traveled in a caravan just like me,” Grandpa muttered.“Through the thickness of the forest, the heatsOf the sun, heading towards the Sahara;Balanced on a gasping camel with the height…
Shapes of no more – Osagiede Best.
Shapes of no more Victor Uwaifo said: you buy shirt shirt tears if God creates soul soul will go back to its owner the body that we use minimally would turn sands so i could not tell you to stay & if i break cascades down goodbye, goodbye handful of body-sands thrown to the teeth of a starving abyss i won’t cry for I know i could not hold back your slipping away not that this washes away any pain so many things i want to say to you just yesterday, Papa & i writing the biography of you you again felt the weight of those three tubers of yam on your head as you put the soles of your feet on the footprints of your father trekking miles away to the object of desire again you in your childhood backyard when the darkness of noon came with a 1947…