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The Girl Is Not A Ripe World by Akinwale Peace

Akinwale Peace

The Girl Is Not A Ripe World.

Our daughters are small girls not rose flowers;
That wind can toss North to East, West to South.
Our daughters are rhythmic childhood songs;
Not pop and jazz of the smooth whistling lips.
Our daughters are early stream with cold blood;
Not the sea where the Golden yellow stands.
Our daughters are the morrow; like a seed;
They're the casted twig; a lone forest's tree.
Our daughters are the tree in a forest;
Many forest will come from a wild tree.
Out daughters are the songs of tomorrow
Not the weeping Bride of Morrow's sorrow.
Our daughters are the bridge 'twixt an ocean;
They're young wool and thin drops of emotion.
Our daughters are the sharp tongues of the snake;
The bleedings of a bite. Don't give the take.
Our daughters are not unwell for they're sick;
The bees hum and pigs grunt; your teeth still prick.
Our daughters are fools, they're wise to think,
Who won't learn from the moon tales? Let them think!

"words from the innocent mind"
              Philip Peace

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NIGHT SYMPHONIES.
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