NA MAI OWN?

A running tap

Needy of recognition;

Running incessantly,

When no one pursues;

Calling for the hunter’s hand

To close her junta’s trap

Ev’ryone’s aware

Though all beware-

Saying the rhetoric, ‘na my own?’

A pot hole

Greedy for attention;

Just a morsel of tar,

Can quench hunger’s pang

Passers-by snubbing

Wrecking more havoc

Adding common-salt to sore

Brooding the spirit of “Iku”

With the usual, ‘na our own?’

A homeless child

Languishing in cold;

Dying in the Kuramo

Beach of bitches,

His safe haven;

Sobbing softly- heart failing

‘Gainst terror of “gbomo-gbomo”

‘Na who go helep am?’

'Leave am jo, na your own?’

A hopeless generation

Recouping rabid revolution

Today and tomorrow-

Same old stories

Of dejection; frustration

No plausible solution

Leaders pretending,

ignoring;

singing the sour song

of the usual

“Wetin concern us, ‘na our own’?”

Copyright 2014.... Iyeomoan, Ehizogie...

OLD SOLDIER NEVER DIES

 

When I hear hopeless denizens
Hooting like night owls
Perched on frail branches
Of smooth-bark Iroko trees
Begging life's support
From crevices of rocky tablets
Painted by your seductive brush
That only flowed to calm orgy nerves
Of frustrated trusts seeking justice

...
When yester memories

flashback ferried films

Of fresh bloody scenes
Of Eight Ogoni men
Tied to a stake
Before the firing squad
Of capital punishment
For a lost battle
To save a sick sickled portion
Of landed inheritance

...
When circular flows of
Tickling trials and persistent errors
Result in vicious circles of
Unending throes, time after time

...
When all of these events
Strike major chords again
Replaying infinite symphonies
Of discordant melodies-

...
I see again motion pictures
Of camouflaged zombies
Spraying metallic poison
From the hollow pit of
The white man's destructive invention;

...
I also see the undying dream
Of a dead-man yet living
Hanging on the pavilion of hope.

© Ema Zogie

I SEE A NEW AGE

I see strange spirits
silent like dead carcasses
of our sleeping ancestors,
begging for blood
to quench punished thirst

…………
Save us from rut,
and the rot of tradition
  slimming away like glaciers
slugging under blight skies

………….
I see the waters breaking
to unite us without aim
of a rejuvenated blame
cast like an evil spell
…………..
What happens,
when the cloud stops sobbing?
What becomes of us,
when land stops yielding
to the strength of ploughs
and romance of harrows?

…………..
I smell a short age
of blood and her subsets,
donated to save today
from mean wages
of ester-years,
paid on a black Friday-
an Easter of wasted stars

………………
What about a morrow
we know nothing of?
We pray for an extension
of this oil-age,
to reduce the tension
branding our name,

to open the torn page

of our finished fame.
………………..

© IYEOMOAN  Ehizogie

MY CRAVINGS

I do not crave
for mundane pomp and power;
cos in the grave,
they are as sour
as unripe grapes;
and worthless to apes
like a banquet of flowers

I don’t save
for a pregnant ‘morrow,
whose outcomes enclave
the lasting sorrow
of short-lived joy…
I wish to enjoy
my today’s gentle toils
on rocky semi-fertile soils

I crave to die the death
of man in good health
with an ink’s flow wealth
to change the psyche of earth:
that black is blind
and white, better refined

I do not rave
for worldly treasures,
and all that pleasures
a stubborn goat to early grave.
I desire love- not in gold and silver,
but in a united world- now and forever.

Let’s stop racial discrimination today. "Black is gold, white is bold..."

IYEOMOAN, Ehizogie.

VOICE OF A SHANTY

The moving street spits
Her contagious phlegm
On our shy faces.
…………………………….

The birds’ gossips
Trucks strange hisses
Over our shadowy roof-tops.

…………………………….
The weary hands of trees
Wave us flaked farewell
In our paroled green, white, grin.

…………………………….
Cabled electric trees launch
Reprisal flashes of thunderbolts
To acclimatise light with darkness.

……………………………..
The gutters, our core neighbours,
Flaunt overloaded abortive debris
From bowels, bladders and bins.

……………………………….
The smell of wrapped “igbo”
Choruses the fresh air,
Merging biosphere with boitears,
Spoiling musical blues with reggae

……………………………….
At noon, our nagged nostrils
Are duck-webbed with dusts
From blistered tyres of “molues”,
Blacking the content of vision.

……………………………….
Our ears are blocked air-tight
By sand-papered voices of bus-conductors
Soliciting patronage from fast bodies.

………………………………
Our hearts are consoled
By the wary of jungle-justice
Unleashed under our very nose,
Causing skin-forest growth unseen.

………………………………
At night, we encounter
A synonym of daylight;
Of unceasing biz as usual,
And the vicious circle rolls on-and-on.

………………………………
What more can the poet say?
Than be a spectator,
Witnessing the unfolding journey
Of this time-series drama,
Till Lagos bid him farewell.
……………………………


Copyright of:
Iyeomoan Ema-zogie, 2013.