Selected poems
Weavers, leaders, and deceivers
Very unpleasant feeling.
Silently banging, dong ding.
The rust in trust,
From nowhere but dust.
See metal from the lumberyard,
See less need and much want.
To make a choice is one hard nut.
To decide and stand, to point and dot.
What if ... ? How will it ... ? rush!
... make a mistake, rush,
Give to who deserves it not,
And with it, he ties you the confusion knot.
Appearance may be preferred,
Attitude shown may to be accepted.
But in acts, all unknown minds appear,
Give different perspective, claims Ahitophel.
Funny he agrees, applies it without smelling foul.
He listens to all, taking good advice as dead.
And now I fail to understand,
Where philosophy will take its stand.
To blame the givers of power,
Or to the receivers who see not what is dear.
How come we own not a third eye?
To see reactions before our actions,
What they will do with what they were given,
See their pride and their selfish dictations,
See them leave us in hell while they are in heaven,
Living the life and leaving us to die.
But who will own a third eye and who will not?
And when afforded to all, we still will know not.
The wishes of the many that as a result, suffer,
Will easily be forgotten, as they shift to the receiving end of power.
Do we say that power itself destroys the humanity in man?
If not, then who, what and where do we, this blame, hang?
— Anuforo Goodluck Eziokwu
On the small victories of daily life
Hardly had the paint dried
On the newly furnished room of my self-doubt
When I found the sweet smell of tamed ambition
Chasing me.
Watching the sun set for the last time
And the love I lost taking its place,
The wind chasing the water,
The water licking the land,
The land embracing my step,
I realise: the wind is my breath.
So I breathe easy
And feel the night air grow cool
The stars stop their frantic twinkling
Naked wonder is the new rule.
No more felling stone
And falling for the stone-hearted
No more fearing death
And fearing for the dear departed.
This is the philosophy of now.
And forever.
The quaint ceremonies of hate
And sweet surrender.
So surrender.
And may the shadows of impurity
Never darken your doorstep again,
May you never run thirsty
Or run after thirsty friends.
No one pretends to be
More than what they see in the mirror
For people will always be
Only children waiting for a late dinner
— D.G. Yntiso
gang-based violence
I dreamt that you were a raging river
and awoke to find myself
in your memory banks
a blanket of doubt hugs me in the night
as i cuddle with