Home: where hazy birds head to
In the dusky light;
Fogged rivers also, they
Blunder into the insatiate seas.
By these frigid fastened stones
A small smothering fire pesters the eyes like a volcano;
Something, it, steps through the gates of the body
And all running ceases.



Life is night – a sleep
I should imagine it’d be brief
Waking up is hard
The letting off of dreams
And no fervent promise of a better light
Would sufficing seem.


Leaflets and stems
Swish to breezes:
Sideways, vertically

A door, restrained
Groans on its hinges

Butterflies erratic
Float adjustably
If less predictably

Bees determinedly
Horn in on the waving pollens
Of the fickle flowerets.

Schoolyard Games

break-time yodel!
and gauging the decibels:
it is soccer
how the rubber ball must suffer!
my ears too, for
assaults from yells and shrieks
bodily rise and float to my perch
where hitherto
i had had for sounds birds’ melodious tweets
and for sights
the breeze-tickled-butterfly-kissed treetops
peace galore
until the bell brazenly knocked the lid off
the barrel of their brimming bedlam.

One More Night

Love we knew then, despair
Most of it a sprint in the loop
Flight from one flagpole of needs to the next
No finishing line.
Night hangs heavy
Treads ponderously on the sickled hearts
Frayed heartstrings waspishly snap.
Love we knew, then despair
Night hangs heavy, treads lumberingly
Hope renewed repairs to the air
Only it keeps faith with
Only it smidgens the sky with pebbles of smile
And frail and far
However Night hangs.

Or So They Claim

à la  Valérie Bloom 😐

The mother
She was on night shift
The man
He left for his mistress’s
Locked in
Three children slept on a mattress
Flopped on the floor
The torn linoleum carried burnt imprints
Of extinguished mosquito coils.
Like a thief the fire snuck in
Sparked and flared
The cold dry wind howling outside
Lent it health
Three children slept
On a mattress flopped on the floor.
The Mother
She was at her job
The man
At his mistress’s
In a city’s room
Locked in
Three children slept, slipped into eternity.





Schoolchildren’s New Year


From this far
They are like the pieces of a mosaic
But alive but motile
Erratic on the bald playground.
Some, tardy, would file like ants
But variegated but antsy
Through the seeming wall, solid,
Of the copse that rinds the old school;
Or else, at playtime, en masse
They are crashing waves
Tugged by tides of bursting excitements:
A fight, a cry of a snake sighted…
And dusts, like smoke, always fountain
In the wake of their latest interest.

Lament for the Son of Oyatoye

Is it true
You have refused the stew of this world

That you have accustomed
To the fare of the ancestors?

Is it true they have lacked for the zest
Of youth
And that why they fetched you into their silent halls?

Did they
The inhabitants of that endless plain
Lure you away with the sweeter taste

Of the wine from their palms’ fount?
Did they call you to hunt in the forest

Where games gambol uninhibited
Thoughtless of the instruments of mortality?

You sleep the deep sleep
Under a mound and
Have refused to rise

Have you netted in the heavenly Niger
That mother of all rivers
Àrògìdìgbà, the mighty crocodile?

For we call
And you have not answered

And we wail
Yet you will not be awake
And there in grandfather’s laughter
The broken mirth of your abrupt escape
As also in grandmother’s embrace
The gaping space yawning for your frame

I sniff at your clothes
Wanting to catch in their folds
The whiff of your soul

It is true then what they say:
Those that must go will not delay.



Eagles, earth-spawn, scour the sky
The compasses of their wings inscribe
Circles in the eye of its arc.

Dragonflies, lonesome, in the haze
Line up the bark of the electric pole
Their diaphanous appendages mirror
The dying sun in the spectrum of rainbow.

As it nights proper
A bigheaded moon rolls out of the East
Dodging the palm trees, it treads across
The spangled silver-chased face of the sky-sea
Without a splash and without wings.