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What Are Years? By Akinwale Peace

Akinwale Peace

What Are Years?
The pains of old grief and sour taste
of sourness? or little oil of
lantern, burning dim ashore? Baste
of loosed, looped lace ashore thereof?

The dimming deep probs of wet eyes,
Of watered clay through knitting drops?
The fading changes face of skies
and half of twilight, moon that cops?
The walking away— heard by walls—
Listening walls and names written– such,
Such of white ink and black blood, alls
or red-black thick boil in pale clutch?
The beginning of an end, pain
of a touch or flash of old ages–
gone, flown by air as birds of reign
fly from fed prey in calm rages?
Or colours of blank white, defeats
of dumb dead; speaking,- heart-throbbing
like caging of souls and the feats
of trance, has it clusters of ants?
Has it a boiling stone of coal
as air of time fleets on the air?
Or has it as colds of cajole
with clad of sane with dropped hands spar?
Years are fluttery wings of sorrows
and pain by years, by and by of bye.
Years are winds struck by hooting owls–
Night hoot'ng owls on starry nights by.
"words from the innocent mind"
            Philip Peace


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For Ikeoluwa.

I have sailed in the ocean — on
your body's warm drenched spot axis,
and i have felt the touch of your
freezing burning hands and cold words:
you said some soft words gently in
my ear on a cold night. and my
body is a tree, it rustles
when winds beat. winds like your mutters.

I have a whirling desire
that we are over the 9th edge;
grabbing, rocking, licking, tasting —
and the passion flows 'n' action shows.
your whole body defines a lot
even when i see nothing but
the voluptuous pillows of a
tired bed, calling me to sleep.

Slowly, this pace beats rapidly
like a running fire. and i'm
burning coldly on a meet with
your whitish round thorax muscle.
glorious! your body is a bike
and i'm good at riding roughly.
slide and glide, make a symphony
of our salvation on this cold night.

Akinwale Peace AkindayoPhilip Peace