Texting

"Houses"-so the Wise Men tell me-

"Mansions"! Mansions must be warm!

Mansions cannot let the tears in,

Mansions must exclude the storm!

"Many Mansions," by "his Father,"

I don't know him; snugly built!

Could the Children find the way there-

Some, would even trudge tonight!

©Emily Dickinson

"Hope" is the thing with feathers-

That perches in the soul-

And sings the tune without the words-

And never stops-at all-

And sweetest-in the Gale-is heard-

And sore must be the storm-

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm-

I've heard it in the chillest land-

And on the strangest Sea-

Yet, never, in Extremity,

It asked a crumb-of Me.

©Emily Dickinson

"Heaven"-is what I cannot reach!

The Apple on the Tree-

Provided it do hopeless-hang-

That-"Heaven" is-to Me!

The Color, on the Cruising Cloud-

The interdicted Land-

Behind the Hill-the House behind-

There-Paradise-is found!

Her teasing Purples-Afternoons-

The credulous-decoy-

Enamored-of the Conjuror-

That spurned us-Yesterday!

©Emily Dickinson

"Heaven" has different Signs-to me

"Heaven" has different Signs-to me-

Sometimes, I think that Noon

Is but a symbol of the Place-

And when again, at Dawn,

A mighty look runs round the World

And settles in the Hills-

An Awe if it should be like that

Upon the Ignorance steals-

The Orchard, when the Sun is on-

The Triumph of the Birds

When they together Victory make-

Some Carnivals of Clouds-

The Rapture of a finished Day-

Returning to the West-

All these-remind us of the place

That Men call "paradise"-

Itself be fairer-we suppose-

But how Ourself, shall be

Adorned, for a Superior Grace-

Not yet, our eyes can see-

©Emily Dickinson

"Arcturus" is his other name-
I'd rather call him "Star."
It's very mean of Science
To go and interfere!

I slew a worm the other day-
A "Savant" passing by
Murmured "Resurgam"-"Centipede"!
"Oh Lord-how frail are we"!

I pull a flower from the woods-
A monster with a glass
Computes the stamens in a breath-
And has her in a "class"!

Whereas I took the Butterfly
Aforetime in my hat-
He sits erect in "Cabinets"-
The Clover bells forgot.

What once was "Heaven"
Is "Zenith" now-
Where I proposed to go
When Time's brief masquerade was done

Is mapped and charted too.
What if the poles should frisk about
And stand upon their heads!
I hope I'm ready for "the worst"-
Whatever prank betides!

Perhaps the "Kingdom of Heaven's" changed-
I hope the "Children" there Won't be "new fashioned" when I come-
And laugh at me-and stare-

I hope the Father in the skies
Will lift his little girl-
Old fashioned-naught-everything-
Over the stile of "Pearl."

©Emily Dickinson

Once a turtle, finding plenty

In seclusion to bewitch,

Lived a dolce far niente

Kind of life within a ditch;

Rivers had no charm for him,

As he told his wife and daughter,

"Though my friends are in the swim,

Mud is thicker far than water."

One fine day, as was his habit,

He was dozing in the sun,

When a young and flippant rabbit

Happened by the ditch to run:

"Come and race me," he exclaimed,

"Fat inhabitant of puddles.

Sluggard! You should be ashamed.

Such a life the brain befuddles."

This, of course, was banter merely,

But it stirred the torpid blood

Of the turtle, and severely

Forth he issued from the mud.

"Done!" he cried. The race began,

But the hare resumed his banter,

Seeing how his rival ran

In a most unlovely canter.

Shouting, "Terrapin, you're bested!

You'd be wiser, dear old chap,

If you sat you down and rested

When you reach the second lap."

Quoth the turtle, "I refuse.

As for you, with all your talking,

Sit on any lap you choose.

I shall simply go on walking."

Now this sporting proposition

Was, upon its face, absurd;

Yet the hare, with expedition,

Took the tortoise at his word,

Ran until the final lap,

Then, supposing he'd outclassed him,

Laid him down and took a nap

And the patient turtle passed him!

Plodding on, he shortly made the

Line that marked the victor's goal;

Paused, and found he'd won, and laid the

Flattering unction to his soul.

Then in fashion grandiose,

Like an after-dinner speaker,

Touched his flipper to his nose,

And remarked, "Ahem! Eureka!"

And THE MORAL (lest you miss one)

Is: There's often time to spare,

And that races are (like this one)

Won not always by a hair.

A farmer built around his crop

A wall, and crowned his labors

By placing glass upon the top

To lacerate his neighbors,

Provided they at any time

Should feel disposed the wall to climb.

He also drove some iron pegs

Securely in the coping,

To tear the bare, defenceless legs

Of brats who, upward groping,

Might steal, despite the risk of fall,

The grapes that grew upon the wall.

One day a fox, on thieving bent,

A crafty and an old one,

Most shrewdly tracked the pungent scent

That eloquently told one

That grapes were ripe and grapes were good

And likewise in the neighborhood.

He threw some stones of divers shapes

The luscious fruit to jar off:

It made him ill to see the grapes

So near and yet so far off.

His throws were strong, his aim was fine,

But "Never touched me!" said the vine.

The farmer shouted, "Drat the boys!"

And, mounting on a ladder,

He sought the cause of all the noise;

No farmer could be madder,

Which was not hard to understand

Because the glass had cut his hand.

His passion he could not restrain,

But shouted out, "You're thievish!"

The fox replied, with fine disdain,

"Come, country, don't be peevish."

(Now "country" is an epithet

One can't forgive, nor yet forget.)

The farmer rudely answered back

With compliments unvarnished,

And downward hurled the bric-à-brac

With which the wall was garnished,

In view of which demeanor strange,

The fox retreated out of range.

"I will not try the grapes to-day,"

He said. "My appetite is

Fastidious, and, anyway,

I fear appendicitis."

(The fox was one of the élite

Who call it site instead of seet.)

The moral is that if your host

Throws glass around his entry

You know it isn't done by most

Who claim to be the gentry,

While if he hits you in the head

You may be sure he's underbred.

©gutenberg.org

Life may turn its cruel sides
Fence of confidence sometimes fall
Even our toilings can crash
And dreams seems twisted

All we want to do is scream the sorrows out
Weeping is allowed in times like this
Our tears is that part of us
That steadies the soul in the storm

But tears don't heal the wounds
They only glitter the shores of pains

Life is cruel to some and fair to none
It seldom gives reasons to smile

When the going gets tough
And it seems hardest to smile
Always remember this

Storms by nature don't last
So do every pain and worry
Hold your peace my friend
That sadness too will pass

DARK FANTASY

Dark Fantasy

The forest is of ebony

Night is moonless and starless,

sable and silent.

Air as sticky as tar

Sloughs on the road as dark as pitch .

On the horse, Nyx

With Raven , his dear katana, at his side,

the most ruthless servant of The Hand

rides quick and silent.

The mission is almost over.

The climax of the end is near.

The blood stains on him make him smell metallic.

The last kill awaits, sleeping,

oblivious to sounding of the death knell

... came these lines {for oluwamarc}

From where came these lines?

That strike rebellious mind like Jack the ripper

Whose beauty faded not, even across times

For from many lips came the testimony of this healer

From whence came these lines?

Cooked with life and lifes over times

Thats mirrors our life as prodigal sons

The words that scar us in tons

From he that wields the pen of the legend

The very amplifier of the gods

Whose lines will babysit unworthy lads to the end

Trumping over beautifully ugly odds

One who has the strength to pull the sword

Not with energy, but by great lines of words

From he that has reminded us of our heritage

Came the lines that does not age, even through age

Balogun David Tolulope

{drunk poet}

©️2017

To one of the guys that built me

#danke_bro

JUST A DREAM

I caressed a silvered floor

With my slippers of gold

On a mansion mounted in the deep heart of the sea;

Imposed the day upon the dull night

With the flip of my succulent fingers

When sleep became too afraid t be my guest;

wined with the wind

On a self-driven car

That flies and sails at will,

fathered countless parties

With endless spraying spree,

And registered my name

In the right corner of every mind.

Alas, just a dream in front of NAIRABET game-board!

Flowers sprout on my head

Rivers flow through the lines of my flesh

Men burrowed through my belly

To grow the substance of continuance

Men dig out my skull

To abduct the treasures trapped in the straps of my brain

They burn down my hairs

For their selfish reasons

But gladly I die that they may live

I had endured more agonies

Since when the dews first came from the sky

Everyday, innocent blood is splashed on my shoulders

Bones of righteous men are broken on my head

Hungry tears wash my shores

Many axed by the vikings of greed

Their graveless body decays on my flesh

Tell the owners of tomorrow

Not to forget the ways of their fathers

This long dance on the eyes of the earth

Will soon make it blind

Then the world will be reduced to darkness

And men will sink forever

The womb of the morning
Is the cradle of our creation
The bed of our existence
Is hewn out of the glass of the cloud
We are the mystery planted by God
We are arrows taken from His scabbard of magic
We are the flowers hanging on the trees of time
We are the stars scattered in the dome of heaven
Flaunted on the mortal mountain for a moment
Then fade into an endless oblivion
Never fully understood
Never fully satisfied
And who we are remains entirely a puzzle forever

Flowers sprout on my head
Rivers flow through the lines of my flesh
Men burrowed through my belly
To grow the substance of continuance
Men dig out my skull
To abduct the treasures trapped in the straps of my brain
They burn down my hairs
For their selfish reasons
But gladly I die that they may live

I had endured more agonies
Since when the dews first came from the sky
Everyday, innocent blood is splashed on my shoulders
Bones of righteous men are broken on my head
Hungry tears wash my shores
Many axed by the vikings of greed
Their graveless body decays on my flesh

Tell the owners of tomorrow
Not to forget the ways of their fathers
The long dance on the eyes of the earth
Will soon make it blind
Then the world will be reduced to darkness
And men will sink forever

When around the fat waist of dishonesty
He clads his hands
Stirring the soup of corruption
Joining the coup that dethrone honesty
We forget it was not wickedness but hunger
That makes the tigers crack the skulls of their preys

Hungers sometimes leaves the judge no choice
Than to twist the course of justice
And bend the paths of truth
The lawmakers are the law breakers

When the verdict is passed
The helpless officer won't go home
To his hungry children or nagging wife
He will go rather to the den of robbers
To make a pact with monsters
And the vicious dynasty of crooks is maintained
The laws of liars will make the reign of evil stronger

Only through memory

It was not far before long

When our stares would meet all night long

Your little smiles I would see, when my lips

Sing you a beautiful song

It was really brief before far

Together at the right side of our sofa

Sharing dreams of being called Mama and Papa

And our love be of this dream's ladder

It was not far before now

When our love began to go down

Like a stormy rain that receives a peaceful

Calm

It went puff like the smoke of tobacco

From the tender balm of our palm

It won't be soon after a long while

When salty rain from my eyes will follow this Last line

I see you only through memories, as days begot day

And it comes and go like menstrual pain

Balogun David Tolulope

(Drunk poet)

©️2017

Though I may walk in darkness

The light shines bright

Though am blind and cannot see

The light guides me

Though my problems could be as seven mountains

The light frees me

Though I suffer the guilt of sin

The light gives me peace within

Light! ,light, oh light

My mouth is down in your awe

My spirit flies to the top of the world

For I have been set free from misery

Though life may mock me

The light gives me hope

Though I may be small and weak

The light lifts me up

Fear be gone so long

Discouragement and disappointment be lost

The light gives me joy

From its from you my Lord

The dark knows not light

As we know only Christ

Our ways he has made alright

With his grace and mercy on our lives

©Tujahsuccess

Theadvopoet

Light

Save your tears for your next heart break

Kolade was my first love

My rainbow, oh my once true love

He came into my life not long after I lost my "ibale"

To brother Godwin our church choir master

Who called me his "tomato" and he my banana

But Kolade chased me away like a goat from a garden

He called a whore after he caught me kissing his best friend

And that was the end

Kunle came in very short after

He promised to put a calm to the tornado in my heart

We did introduction, but only to his half-brother

What we shared was the sweetest on earth

Until he saw me naked on his half-brother

Doctor Alade later chased away my tears

At the hospital after my last abortion

When he examined my nakedness without his flares

Love runs in my vein I felt like I was a nation

Till the day a woman with dangling breast called me "husband snatcher" paving

More gutters for my tears

But like sun you came, you tried up my tears

I swear it, you would be my bus stop

Life with you with long years

... So she said

Save your tears for your next heart break is now

Balogun David Tolulope

(drunkpoet)

©️2017

YEARN

{Soul Poet}

Do you yearn for

someone just as I do,

When he went to

The Trojan war for glory.

You must have hated Odyssey

For becoming a hero leaving you

Abandoned all alone, all days.

Could this war bring you back to me?

@nwllbardin, a fairy, you're beautiful, you're extraordinary woman. I'm thankful!

A poem I inked from legendary Trojan War, it tells the loneliness and agony of Odyssey's wife when it took him a long time to return home.

Odyssey was in a war in support of Greeks fighting for honour and glory in Trojan War.

After the Trojan War , Odysseus made a ten-year journey to reach his home, Ithaca.

Drunk Poet

Only if I knew what love could bring

I would have made it my everything,

It would have been my whole

You came to redefine the meaning of love

Although it was late and still when you came

I have found the meaning of love

A reason to be lost on it again

You bring unending joy with your presence

My wounded heart is healed by the love

You brought.

You filled up the emptiness in me and

Loneliness no longer exist

Who else could love me this way when

It is just you for me.

Blow upon my garden that the spices may flow out – Song 4:16

Some of the spices mentioned in this chapter are quite suggestive. The aloe was a bitter spice, and it tells of the sweetness of bitter things, the bitter-sweet, which has its own fine application that only those can understand who have felt it. The myrrh was used to embalm the dead, and it tells of death to something. It is the sweetness which comes to the heart after it has died to its self-will and pride and sin.

Oh, the inexpressible charm that hovers about some Christians simply because they bear upon the chastened countenance and mellow spirit the impress of the cross, the holy evidence of having died to something that was once proud and strong, but is now forever at the feet of Jesus. It is the heavenly charm of a broken spirit and a contrite heart, the music that springs from the minor key, the sweetness that comes from the touch of the frost upon the ripened fruit.

And then the frankincense was a fragrance that came from the touch of the fire. It was the burning powder that rose in clouds of sweetness from the bosom of the flames. It tells of the heart whose sweetness has been called forth, perhaps by the flames of affliction, until the holy place of the soul is filled with clouds of praise and prayer. Beloved, are we giving out the spices, the perfumes, the sweet odors of the heart? —The Love-Life of Our Lord.

“A Persian fable says: One day

A wanderer found a lump of clay

So redolent of sweet perfume

Its odors scented all the room.

‘What are thou? was his quick demand,

‘Art thou some gem from Samarcand,

Or spikenard in this rude disguise,

Or other costly merchandise?’

‘Nay: I am but a lump of clay.’

“‘Then whence this wondrous perfume—say!’

‘Friend, if the secret I disclose,

I have been dwelling with the rose.’

Sweet parable! and will not those

‘Who love to dwell with Sharon’s rose,

Distil sweet odors all around,

Though low and mean themselves are found?

Dear Lord, abide with us that we

May draw our perfume fresh from Thee.”

Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me – Mark 8:34

The cross which my Lord bids me take up and carry may assume different shapes. I may have to content myself with a lowly and narrow sphere, when I feel that I have capacities for much higher work. I may have to go on cultivating year after year, a field which seems to yield me no harvests whatsoever. I may be bidden to cherish kind and loving thoughts about someone who has wronged me—be bidden speak to him tenderly, and take his part against all who oppose him, and crown him with sympathy and succor. I may have to confess my Master amongst those who do not wish to be reminded of Him and His claims. I may be called to “move among my race, and show a glorious morning face,” when my heart is breaking.

There are many crosses, and every one of them is sore and heavy. None of them is likely to be sought out by me of my own accord. But never is Jesus so near me as when I lift my cross, and lay it submissively on my shoulder, and give it the welcome of a patient and unmurmuring spirit.

He draws close, to ripen my wisdom, to deepen my peace, to increase my courage, to augment my power to be of use to others, through the very experience which is so grievous and distressing, and then—as I read on the seal of one of those Scottish Covenanters whom Claverhouse imprisoned on the lonely Bass, with the sea surging and sobbing round—I grow under the load.—Alexander Smellie.

“Use your cross as a crutch to help you on, and not as a stumblingblock to cast you down.”

GRACE IN THE MORNING

Come up in the morning ... and present thyself unto me in the top of the mount – Exodus 34:2

The morning is the time fixed for my meeting the Lord. The very word morning is as a cluster of rich grapes. Let us crush them, and drink the sacred wine. In the morning! Then God means me to be at my best in strength and hope. I have not to climb in my weakness. In the night I have buried yesterday’s fatigue, and in the morning take a new lease of energy. Blessed is the day whose morning is sanctified! Successful is the day whose first victory was won in prayer! Holy is the day whose dawn finds thee on the top of the mount!

My Father, I am coming. Nothing on the mean plain shall keep me away from the holy heights. At Thy bidding I come, so Thou wilt meet me. Morning on the mount! It will make me strong and glad all the rest of the day so well begun. —Joseph Parker.

Still, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh,

When the bird waketh, and the shadows flee;

Fairer than morning, lovelier than daylight,

Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with Thee.

Alone with Thee, amid the mystic shadows,

The solemn hush of nature newly born;

Alone with Thee in breathless adoration,

In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.

As in the dawning o’er the waveless ocean,

The image of the morning-star doth rest,

So in this stillness, Thou beholdest only

Thine image in the waters of my breast.

When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber,

Its closing eyes look up to Thee in prayer;

Sweet the repose, beneath Thy wings o’er shadowing,

But sweeter still to wake and find Thee there.

—Harriet Beecher Stowe

My mother’s habit was every day, immediately after breakfast, to withdraw for an hour to her own room, and to spend that hour in reading the Bible, in meditation and prayer. From that hour, as from a pure fountain, she drew the strength and sweetness which enabled her to fulfill all her duties, and to remain unruffled by the worries and pettinesses which are so often the trial of narrow neighborhoods. As I think of her life, and all it had to bear, I see the absolute triumph of Christian grace in the lovely ideal of a Christian lady. I never saw her temper disturbed; I never heard her speak one word of anger, of calumny, or of idle gossip; I never observed in her any sign of a single sentiment unbecoming to a soul which had drunk of the river of the water of life, and which had fed upon manna in the barren wilderness.—Farrar

Give God the blossom of the day. Do not put Him off with faded leaves

WAIT PATIENTLY

And so, after he had patiently endured, he obtained the promise – Heb 6:15

Abraham was long tried, but he was richly rewarded. The Lord tried him by delaying to fulfill His promise. Satan tried him by temptation; men tried him by jealousy, distrust, and opposition; Sarah tried him by her peevishness. But he patiently endured. He did not question God’s veracity, nor limit His power, nor doubt His faithfulness, nor grieve His love; but he bowed to Divine Sovereignty, submitted to Infinite Wisdom, and was silent under delays, waiting the Lord’s time. And so, having patiently endured, he obtained the promise.

God’s promises cannot fail of their accomplishment. Patient waiters cannot be disappointed. Believing expectation shall be realized.

Beloved, Abraham’s conduct condemns a hasty spirit, reproves a murmuring one, commends a patient one, and encourages quiet submission to God’s will and way. Remember, Abraham was tried; he patiently waited; he received the promise, and was satisfied. Imitate his example, and you will share the same blessing.—Selected

ONE DAY IT WILL ALL MAKE NO SENSE

One day
We are born into a world at the scree of death
We crawled and staggered
Before we find our footing
We build empires on the rocks of anxiety
We become errand boys to our fears
And slaves of our toilings

One day
An angel emerges from conflicting darkness
Tweaking the wind to sing
And the trees to glee
That's when we say we have found love

One day
Cloudy darkness will sweep across our paths
Silence and gloom our dreams
The heart stops beating
Like dead smokes in thin air
We will sigh and it all ends
The same way it began

One day
Everything will make no sense
We'll wish we had less worries
About all the things
That had wrecked our poor souls
We will place a sighing hand
On our wrinkled jaw
Wishing we had known this earlier
That life always finds a way to take care of itself

The lust of men is a charming flame
It burns to cinders a drippy tamer
When our affections fly in any direction it craves
It leaves unfixable pieces behind
Those who own the mines gold of life
Hassle for the fritters of the hill
Let man become god
He will still be hungry for fame and power
Of all the weaknesses of man
His inability to be satisfied is a mystery
But those who are strong enough to live for others
Are not always easily forgotten

Perfection of Suffering

The Lord will perfect that which concerneth me – Ps 138:8

There is a Divine mystery in suffering, a strange and supernatural power in it, which has never been fathomed by the human reason. There never has been known great saintliness of soul which did not pass through great suffering. When the suffering soul reaches a calm sweet carelessness, when it can inwardly smile at its own suffering, and does not even ask God to deliver it from suffering, then it has wrought its blessed ministry; then patience has its perfect work; then the crucifixion begins to weave itself into a crown.

It is in this state of the perfection of suffering that the Holy Spirit works many marvelous things in our souls. In such a condition, our whole being lies perfectly still under the hand of God; every faculty of the mind and will and heart are at last subdued; a quietness of eternity settles down into the whole being; the tongue grows still, and has but few words to say; it stops asking God questions; it stops crying, “Why hast thou forsaken me?”

The imagination stops building air castles, or running off on foolish lines; the reason is tame and gentle; the choices are annihilated; it has no choice in anything but the purpose of God. The affections are weaned from all creatures and all things; it is so dead that nothing can hurt it, nothing can offend it, nothing can hinder it, nothing can get in its way; for, let the circumstances be what they may, it seeks only for God and His will, and it feels assured that God is making everything in the universe, good or bad, past or present, work together for its good.

Oh, the blessedness of being absolutely conquered! of losing our own strength, and wisdom, and plans, and desires, and being where every atom of our nature is like placid Galilee under the omnipotent feet of our Jesus. —Soul Food

The great thing is to suffer without being discouraged. —Fenelon

DEEPER

Not much earth – Matt 13:5

Shallow! It would seem from the teaching of this parable that we have something to do with the soil. The fruitful seed fell into “good and honest hearts.” I suppose the shallow people are the soil without much earth—those who have no real purpose, are moved by a tender appeal, a good sermon, a pathetic melody, and at first it looks as if they would amount to something; but not much earth—no depth, no deep, honest purpose, no earnest desire to know duty in order to do it. Let us look after the soil of our hearts.

When a Roman soldier was told by his guide that if he insisted on taking a certain journey it would probably be fatal, he answered, “It is necessary for me to go; it is not necessary for me to live.”

This was depth. When we are convicted something like that we shall come to something. The shallow nature lives in its impulses, its impressions, its intuitions, its instincts, and very largely its surroundings. The profound character looks beyond all these, and moves steadily on, sailing past all storms and clouds into the clear sunshine which is always on the other side, and waiting for the afterwards which always brings the reversion of sorrow, seeming defeat and failure.

When God has deepened us, then He can give us His deeper truths, His profoundest secrets, and His mightier trusts. Lord, lead me into the depths of Thy life and save me from a shallow experience!

On to broader fields of holy vision;
On to loftier heights of faith and love;
Onward, upward, apprehending wholly,
All for which He calls thee from above.
—A. B. Simpson

Free Through Suffering

Thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress – Ps 4:1

This is one of the grandest testimonies ever given by man to the moral government of God. It is not a man’s thanksgiving that he has been set free from suffering. It is a thanksgiving that he has been set free through suffering: “Thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress.” He declares the sorrows of life to have been themselves the source of life’s enlargement.

And have not you and I a thousand times felt this to be true? It is written of Joseph in the dungeon that “the iron entered into his soul.” We all feel that what Joseph needed for his soul was just the iron. He had seen only the glitter of the gold. He had been rejoicing in youthful dreams; and dreaming hardens the heart. He who sheds tears over a romance will not be most apt to help reality; real sorrow will be too unpoetic for him. We need the iron to enlarge our nature. The gold is but a vision; the iron is an experience. The chain which unites me to humanity must be an iron chain. That touch of nature which makes the world akin is not joy, but sorrow; gold is partial, but iron is universal.

My soul, if thou wouldst be enlarged into human sympathy, thou must be narrowed into limits of human suffering. Joseph’s dungeon is the road to Joseph’s throne. Thou canst not lift the iron load of thy brother if the iron hath not entered into thee. It is thy limit that is thine enlargement. It is the shadows of thy life that are the real fulfillment of thy dreams of glory. Murmur not at the shadows; they are better revelations than thy dreams. Say not that the shades of the prison-house have fettered thee; thy fetters are wings—wings of flight into the bosom of humanity. The door of thy prison-house is a door into the heart of the universe. God has enlarged thee by the binding of sorrow’s chain.—George Matheson

If Joseph had not been Egypt’s prisoner, he had never been Egypt’s governor. The iron chain about his feet ushered in the golden chain about his neck.—Selected

God Bless My Father's Land

God bless our noble fatherland,
Great land of sunshine bright,
Where brave men chose the way of peace,
To win their freedom fight.
May we preserve our purity,
Our zest for life and jollity.

God bless our noble countrymen
And women everywhere.
Teach them to walk in unity
To build our nation dear; Forgetting region, tribe or speech,
But caring always each for each.

By Obi in Achebe's No Longer at Ease (Page 78)

God bless our noble fatherland,
Great land of sunshine bright,
Where brave men chose the way of peace,
To win their freedom fight.
May we preserve our purity,
Our zest for life and jollity.

God bless our noble countrymen
And women everywhere.
Teach them to walk in unity
To build our nation dear; Forgetting region, tribe or speech,
But caring always each for each.

By Obi in Achebe's No Longer at Ease (Page 78)

On the hilltop of ancient Idanre kingdom
Where mama once swung are maiden waist
To the thundering drums of Owa dancers

Doors are knocked
To keep snakes and not men away
Their smiles were real
And trust was in the love they shared

I look over those mountains
With satisfactory jealousy
But she look back those years
With careful anger and disgust
Those were the days of darkness, she says

I live in the present loving the past
She lived in the past loving the present
There are evils in this age I resents
There are wickedness in the past she also laments

It really does not matter which age we live in
This world is incurably cruel

Last night I rode on the chariot of history
Down the memory lanes of distant centuries
Into deep unknown past

There I met the great and small

Some consumed with lust for honour
Some satisfied with rags of hunger

Some burning outrageous vanities
Some humble enough to accept an uncelebrated fate

Alien was I among the dwellers of forgotten ages
But this journey into the untold tales of humanity
Had made me richer and wiser

The best grave is not hewn in graves of gold
Or sepulchres of silver
But dug in the hearts and memories of men

We will die and so will our names and fame
The bad we've done will be forgotten
The good we've done will not always be remembered
But the consequences of who we are
Will always be there to make the world a worse or better place

Death had stopped the heart that dreams
Shut the mouth that prays
Broken the strong arms that toils

The darkness of the grave
Had quench a special star tonight

I do not know where the elephant had fallen
But this sound
This sound shattering the silence of dusk
But this echo
This echo carried in the mourning pouch of the evening
All speak of the end of another legend

How many more people has to die
With dreams unfulfilled and prayers unanswered?
How many more tears have to flood
Over the graves of the young brilliant ones?
Is there still justice and fairness in the world?

In my naive days of evening sailings
I had gazed with anxieties into the sky
With fascination into the waters
Exaggerating the possibilities of life

I think ladies have magic in their wand
And men innocence in their smiles
That love makes the world go round
And life is all about
Bright dawn and gay dusk

Age has given me a bigger lens
With which I see the world differently

The world is cruel but not a hell
The generation of saints has never been
The race of angels will never be
And the best of men are either gone or unborn

Agbogungboro
You who sleeps on the mat of war
And sits on the throne of revenge

Agbogungboro
You who tames the thunder in your beaker
And hold the wind in your goblet

I have come to summon you

My king has climb the tree of power
Beyond its leaves
He now says the eagles should clip their wings
And quit their homes in the sky

My king is drunk with the wine of pride
He now says lions should pluck their teeth
And shave their claws
That they starve to death in their dens

My king has worn the ring of oppression
Whose father has the gut to remove it
He now says the fishes should vacate the river
And find shelters in the thicket

Agbogungboro
Should I go back to my castle of pretence
To Endure the flame burning under my skirt?
Will you come with me to the palace of tyrant
And remind him death is greater after all?

Agbogungboro
Until you come with your remonstrating axe
Let peace be far from to the land
And life from the sea

The Murder

Her lifeless body lay in the cold

Like a fallen tree

Her soul by now must have crossed the great river

Perhaps resting now with the ancestors

Or maybe wandering aimlessly in the wilderness

She too confused like we are

Her body at the mercy of vultures

Her soul at the mercy of God

The grass reddened with the stain of her blood,

Her throat slit open

Knife on her belly

This is a pity!

Another damsel has been murdered

By unknown spirits of this age

Torturing her to surrender her soul

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