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.

TEASING AN HUNGRY ROAD

I.

She is black
and tanned with black darkness;
tho’ she glitters like diamond
exposed to the hot breath
of a snoring sun.

She is bold
and wears an aura cold
from traumas’ grieve,
and the restless spirits
besieging her day and night,

seeking cheap freedom
from her curse:
The potholed prisons,
and the poisoned dry cup
of her last supper feasts.

She’s inanimate,
but a cannibalistic savage;
a zombie of high repute,
drinking from her chalice,

The careless red-water spills
of bashed and dented autos
propelled by impatient pilots
for quick coins and notes
that fades into oblivion
in the morgue of no return.

II.

I pity her,
cos she’s accused
of a crime not committed.
Nay! She’s a prime suspect:
cos she witnessed these calamities.

These “mber” months
would be remembered
for more crimsoned pints
freely donated
to her blood bank,
by those willing volunteers,

whose fate must end
on high speed;
on somersaulted trucks;
Or, from highway blood pressure.

I still must praise thee
for traveling me
to a destination
of wits and great feats,
on your highway to the grave.

Tho’ you are to blame
for not sucking the holy juice
of your infidel husbands;
but that of innocents, who
never made you so.

I’m awed
at the size of your bowels,
and its reservoir
that never goes dry,
even at lengthy summer seasons.

When will your hunger quench?
When will your bowels
constipate of excess
belches of spilled blood
on your silent turf of tar?


Iyeomoan, Ehizogie
Nigeria.

TO A SUN GODDESS

Dear Saturn,
feminine finger
of the snoring sun,
standing still
like Lot's salty pillar...

Dear Saturn,
spotless skin
sprayed with shinning sheen,
glittering like silk
smiling
at heaven's smothered stars...

I send to you
free flowers
from Jupiter-
son of sugary soils;
flowers cowries can't buy...

Don't show me your back,
kissing my face
with distant smiles
that fade into thin air...

Dear Saturn,
with eyes closed
milking many missing memories,
I shall dream fresh dreams again
to break the China wall
that separates us...

Iyeomoan Ehizogie

FORT OF HOPE

Brave prophet that thrives

In turbulent waters of Baal

You coaxed adamant ears
To rescinding dark decisions
Of daylight treacheries
-Bulwark of the common mudman-

Songs reign, songs fade 

on the lips, you’re evergreen-

The chorus for all songs

You’re the multiple-choice answer
To myriads of begging pending questions
Streaming this cave of unequal prop
-Bulwark of unborn generations-

Songs reign and songs fade

on the lips, you’re evergreen-

The chorus for all songs

 

Your noun marries the blistered lips
Of unknown pronouns of the street
A father to headless, homeless shrubs
-Mouthpiece of dumb dupes on dunghills-

Songs reign and songs fade

on the lips, you’re evergreen-

The chorus for all songs

Brave prophet that thrives
In the turbulent waters of Baal
May I
For posterity’s sake
Hastily join
This moving train
Lighting our many dark paths,
Granting priceless amnesty
To grace our ignorance
And her many branches,
Equaling unequal yokes
That bridles the ascent of our valleys
On untold mountaintops

Seasons come, seasons go!
Yet, you remain evergreen-
A season of forgotten memories.

Songs reign and songs fade

on the lips, you’re evergreen-

The chorus for all songs

 

 

Iyeomoan, Ehizogie (2013)

         

PROLOGUE

That I may be heard
From the convention of false-truths
Rewriting histories in chalkboards
Of revamped archaic traditions
……………………
That I may be heard
From the burning coal
Littering the foil of hope;
Thru the mouth of stones,
And thru the bones of buzzards
………………………
That I may be heard
In these ego-renting times
Where minors are strapped
With baked fear
On the pastel of major struggles
…………………………
That I may be heard
From the blood of my pen
Piercing the hearts of kings,
Oxygenating dead-ends
Of weak olive branches
…………………………..
That I- the truth may be heard.

Iyeomoan, Ehizogie

DEAR NENE

None like my grandma

Dear Nene,

I have tasted the warmth
kneaded on papa’s lap,
but I’m still in dire want
…of the milky pap
that drips in ticks and tocks
from your waggy twin puppies-
the one I call “bobbies”,
still standing at attention
like soldiers on guard.

I’ve rocked papa’s shoulders;
sandy counts have I
mounted on it like
a cowboy on horse-back;
but I still miss the back
that wrapped my fears
and tied my cares
when small mum was away.

I once lay in a womb
different from yours;
for seven premature months
battled I with still-birth,
just to have your name
tagged to my many names,
but in all of these, Nene,
have I wished the inverse:
that I lived in you-
that sty of a manger
fit for rare species like me.

Nene, now I dream!
that one day,
my visions shall live
in that womb of yours
that hived kings and kingdoms.

I dream!
that this surviving half moon
shall swim into your honey-pot,
conquering millions of rivals,
defeating nations, just with a pen.

© Ema Ehizogie 8|03|14

THEY MURDERED SLEEP

All to what holds the soul intact

When things begin to fall apart

They filed en-masse with candle-sticks

To murder sleep that murders freaks

………….

I too followed the jacking spree

For sudden fear that I may spill

Another wasted year to be

A laughing stock for all to see

……………….

Considering this and many more

I chose the route traveled afore

By sandals fitting legs like crowns

On monarchies ruling our towns

……………….

But then I thought aloud a while

If all these things are world the miles

Of sleepless nights that stole my days

That precious part of youthful days

………………..

As time went by I carved a niche

To hide my fears at least an inch

From what must be even if I try

To cage the minute hand of time

………………….

Alas! With joy our lips were bound

To taste the honey sweat has found

And now we’ve got no cares to keep

When others slept, we murdered sleep.

©Ema-zogie

LULLABY: TO A SLEEPING CHILD

Pencil Art by Ehizogie

Sleep child!
Sleep from the beasts that chides;
from the terrors that besiege the day,
keeping your foot outta the way.

Sleep!
From the preying eyes of hawks,
and vultures that seek your blood to suck.

Sleep!
For in your nightmares,
you are shielded from the snares
of busy-bodied foes,
who only seek your woes.

Sleep babe!
Cos in this, you are free
from hunger and her fee;
from denting you kneels;
and from sores that kill your skin.

Sleep, sleep on.
Sleep, baby sleep on.
Forget your sorrows for a while,
And enjoy the dreams in their pile...

Ehizogie, December 2013.

EHIZOGIE, THE WORD CASCADA

Eminado,
I like what I see-
sages and commandos
on duty, taking over the sea.

This poet is so good!
his words salty,

quenches taste better than food
served to lower the haughty.

I’m stark naked
by his word puzzles-
crosswords merging t-junctures
to create easy flyovers,

settling thirst’s quests
with watery lines
merged for witty guests
awaiting vines from his cranial-mine.

He’s more like Sango,
spitting fire on paper
to dry the Limpopo
off our rumbling matter:

Our land stressed-up by
polity-crises; rickety-mices
leveling blames on yesterday.

He is just like Osun,
the goddess of fertility,
irrigating sterile hearts
with humour as his armor;

fostering symbiotic biomes
with rhymes and rhythm
splashing like “the talking waters”
falling from lake Victoria.

He has met the mark,
the sky-standard
set by sages in the cult
of creative symbolism

Now,
may his words
strike the fulcrum’s balance,

bringing healing
to the broken fellowship
of real prophets thriving
in the poets’ domain.

© Ehizogie 2013