Skip to main content

Posts

Showing posts from September, 2017

My heart merry

I
whence afterwards have I,
read of the Psalms of Adelere Adesina
of which he wrote in his book, "The Accounts:"
for as to say of His goodness and deed
of judgment — yet as it, of angry fury
against holy sinners and sincere faithfuls.
for, God has it that He has made you
to be one as an unrare feathers of an unmade
eagle. and in His everlasting deed has He
resolved puzzles yet unreal to the eye
that He has...bestowed unto you grace to
honour, and honour to glory even
to his Holy Unforbidden name and excellence.If I revere you not,
not as God yet, am I as though
fools who know not talent,
and treasure even has thou hast?
yet am I, not as they, but as one
of the pools of fire, even as it roam
in whirlpools of snow...that I cherish what
it is, that I have seen, that I have read...
and wouldst I not acknowledge you, Oh Lord,
for your grace and Understanding that
man whom you have it bestowed it upon
make use if it to thy Holy name?
ye am I, oh Lord, but a vessel, willing
for thy honour, not unto dishonou…

precious native attitude.

is being a thing more
precious than distastes of
what it seems to hold, give?
or, is being precious more to
disvalue o' being precious?—maybe, maybe
it's an unreal juju yet is it
that stories are not unreal
until yet proved though said it
they 'epic' by those thatlived — when nobody did.
yet, isn't 't precious that this
black folklore and resting shore
in old fact for modern judgement
is such, as a muddy morning whosesprings splash on dying
whispering leaves and shedding rocks
of what seems fresh, newly old... —
as, copyright of White is photocopied.
...is being precious more to being 'press-us?'Akinwale Peace Akindayo
— Philip Peace
(— Filipu)

EXPOSIT Deluxe: Sounds and Metaphor of Societal Reflections

Review: Exposit Deluxe Album
Author: REZthaPoet
Tracks: 10
Publisher: Beige and Crow Nigeria
I remember the first time I read a book, the memory remains fresh in mind, as if it has just happened a few minutes ago but in actual fact, that was sometime in the early new 2000s. The book: “The Lion and the Jewelwritten by the revered theatric and playwright --Professor Wole Soyinka, was one coloured with a refreshing stint of hilarity, mastered use of languages and at the same time, a pragmatic reflection of the society at the time of the writing.
Exactly 17 years down the lane, I am exposed to a similar experience. This time, an audio form of literature, from a school of wordsmiths who vocalizes his deep-seated contention and conviction as Spoken Word Poetry. Spoken Word most times uses the magic of music as an alibi.
This Audio work is a book and a city-criers LP, perhaps a way to reach out to more people beyond the small mass of the converted literati. This collection of Audio poems bri…

The Boy From The Sky.

for Bakare OluwasegunBoy, have you been told of colours —
of petals, that you're not one of 'em?
boy, have you been told of the night,
that the sky heard your shrill 'neath one?
boy, have you seen the thin prints of
your palm, that it's unlike mother's?
boy, have you heard your voice lately;
in the waves of shrill and gentle
tempest of silence— the mutter,
the heart murmur as Israel's day,
the tone, lost in your barytone...?
have you, have you, have you heard it,
that your selfhood is unveil? and
you know, we free-ly freeze images
and copy and paste emotions
on last birthdays, and...your selfhood
weeps in the African Black boy.
you're an idle tree yet with it
are whisp'ring leaves, and you have gone
to th' world as Ajala travels,
and, your identity isn't
on your palm, and your voice is lost
beyond where you've sought it yet they
are in you, greeting your face in
the whirlpools of your wishes and,
no one as you once lived this sky,
you 'v…

we don't feel the shock anymore.

When steel does it work and bullet
walked down to dusts, our hearts bled and
our eyes wept in shattering woes.
when wickedness fouled — our hearts bled.When we found grinning skulls of our-
selves in houses of foul spirits,
our eyes wept in shattering rocks
and cold fears gripped as biting ants.We're now conformed to differences:
when news spread as the air and buzzed
"bomb blasted, killed many, injured..."
they say let's ear and see new things.They hold Nicodemus meetings
and their Python still Dance to the
songs of spilling blood. we're not shocked
as blood do not run through the vein.The wicked goods are waxing worse;
we don't feel the shock anymore,
the world is coming to an end —
we don't feel the shock anymore.Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Philip Peace

Born In Crime.

We were only issues when our Nation
birthed us. before two bodies met, civil
warred for many moons, and when the earth greet'd
our skins, we ran with them in unknown toss.If the winds of Power toss us as the
winds on tempest stillness, and their Affairs
run from our budget; either of Broom or
Umbrella, we'll toss with them, — twas our choice...We have been running without a chaser —
what chases us is the future, not the
past. so asked I myself, why do we run?
the North answered with a bang and part-East —With yelling shrills of clamour without cause.
the South anthems in rich poverty and
the West clamours in talking emptiness.
if we're whispering leaves, we'd bade peace bye.And we're not whispering leaves yet silent,
and we're not likeness of perfection nor
preservative of sepulchres. and we
have known our course, we have known commotion...Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Philip Peace
Image: google

Sunday

.Jesus rest,
the priest said.
let us rest
like a log of wood.no work no
bread. we'll rest...
faith without
work, Paul said it's noth.we have faith,
we have n't bread —
the priest said
don't work on Sunday.Jesus rest
let us rest
hunger talks
in whirlpool of tongues.we have n't bread.
do no work.
we will die.
if we do not work.let us rest;
kitchen talks —
clashing pots
running water onSunday. we
will not die —
cooking is
not working, let's eat.but he said
Jesus rest.
you can rest.
close your eyes, let's eat.Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Philip Peace
Image: Google

dedicated to slaves and their families

image credit: google
dedicated to slaves and their families.
I've seen her, it has been donkey of years now since she left, I've been trying to reach the 'home old phone' she took along when she was exchanged then — with the merchant —. I tried my luck again, I called and i was afraid to speak.
         "is this really you?"
I said. I sensed it. she couldn't cry nor could she laugh, she couldn't say she missed me nor could I say she robbed my heart...she gave it to the dogs...
         "Darling, are you still alright?"


image credit: google
I said again, I heard silent ebullition over the air from her end.
"is this really you."
I said again. I didn't want to be sure, perhaps I was curious. I know she's one, I did not know what to say.
          "when are you coming back, please?"
I couldn't help but feel the warm stream from my eye. twas from a hole I still can't find when I face the mirror with my eye. with my…

indigenous people.

find a voice and seek a voice — a tongue will
blab from the deep ocean seeking audience
for his old mastery of modern arts/acts
and his non-symbiotic social control.
find a voice and seek a voice from the blast
of a banging reconnaissance and the
yelling alarm of new identity.
find a voice and seek a voice — a tongue will
paint itself as a good fighter for self —
land and hunter-gatherer — un-repressed...
indigenous people are nobody
yet are they minorities cos of the
coal of heaven shining as real on their skin
and the struggle for land identity.
are these not the aboriginality
to genuine fa├žade of modern living?
see, the river has swept o'er the mountain
and the regalia has knot its goat-tie —
see, someone will seek address to th' depressed
and the identity of the land will
please our soul, our soil, our own, our whole. the
acts/arts of dances and self-loved faith with
new tongues and identical sounds will scream.
hence, been stingy is to be rich with these.
oh africa, your …

you never can tell.

emotion is an ice, it melts away
imagination is just one last will —
daring to dream is daring being crazy;
the soft touch of it is freeing freedom.the world is filled and the strangest are men,
time flows in fleet'ng wreath and they're calendars.
if time can be turned, who will not want to?
or if life can be re-lived, who will not?
yet it cannot turn, if it is not free.darkness is about to pass when the sun
goes down to be shadows of darknesses.
and you can kill a dream, it is clement —
but to make horses run on the road, you're
killing him. the wound will pass through the hair.dreams are like the night, if it will pass or
not yet hast it, as the morning, if it
will come or not. you can open the door
of your heart and your love and your future —
the touch of sunshine can pass through the sun.Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Philip Peace
Image source: Wikipedia

Untitled

....On Friday nights, I think of you
You've held me nigh, beneath the blue
You've kissed my lips, with my eyes closed
in casual warmth — I'd once supposed.Your eyes are light, it has the sky
They caught my eye, they hung my sigh.
I thought I loved, I thought I'm loved
Your love wronged me, oh beloved.I sat beside a running stream
in wisp of smoke across its steam —
The candle night with soft thin flames
The gentle night, our easy games...The smiles, the curls of your thin hair
The scalp of you as flower's fair,
The shrill in you, the soft whisper...
They touched my heart, my admirer.But dreams are graves, and shrouded gowns
The crowns now live as jest for clowns,
If dreams are dreams, they'll be fiction
You are to me an addiction.If love is love, make it a play
The cast away of stones by day
and windows draw when shadows walk,
If love is love, it'd been a talk.— Philip Peace

representation (romantic)

.     as the night is beautiful with blue stars,
     and its beauty is in its emptiness —
as its emptiness vanishes renew,
so is thine heart to mine, my beloved.as the sun is high in a yellow sky,
and it glows with the acme on its face —
     even the earth is jealous of its yellow,
     such is it doing me, my beloved.the stream flows on the mountain and valley
     and the winds beat a withering flower
     yet thin rains come to freshen its thick vein;
so so are you to me, my beloved.     the sky is in thy eye, and soft humming
     chirps in thy voice. and if i'm to live once
again, i'll be the blood in your vein. for,
oh, such are you to me, my beloved.your beauty is the sun before my eye
and thy voice is the shrill whistle's whisper.
     if i'll be anything, i'll be the beauty
     of thy flicker'ng eyelids — protecting you.Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Philip Peace
#romantic

giants do fall...inspirational poem

Untitled.Giants do fall, and when one falls
How does he teaches another
to wield his curly steel of white?
We have the earth in common
and the blue sky, so high is far
yet, it seems so near that we aim
above it. When the hands reaches
a football pole, and the Keeper falls
like a disturbed airplane, -it crashes-
yet he would want to make more stunt
and rule the world with his hands.So when giants fall, should they have
some tears, maybe a little tear or...
What joy is in sadness that sings —
The melancholic melody that
takes bread from the mouth and belly?
What stomach is it that gets full and hunger
after a fall from some society wishing omen?
The world is truly a stage. Actors do faint
as does Jackie Chan, but actors don't stop
if death doesn't dare, and life is living...
Actors don't stop till the end of the script.
And, how sweet is it, when the candle
melts yet its flame is as a wisp of
unending burns from a fiery furnace?
Seeing to catch ne'er dies if not murdered

our population is just plus 1.

they loved to the square of infinity
but her family's norm is religious
and their modern fossil rots in sadness —
because he's not their type nor does he have
a big pocket yet with an handsome dream...her fam'ly isn't hungry, just famished
and perhaps wants to make a name with rich
homes. but she wants to live and not to die
but her father writes her off when she eloped... —
her father whom she loved before her birth.he did her final rites like a ram's death,
hanged a wreath on her image as of soft
curling smoke in the cloud. her father did.
who buries the living to live as dead?
who digs six feet, 2 yards for the living?_____
norms
        norms
                 norms
norms does, live long norms, kill all the living.
norms does, live longer as methuselah.
—————she developed brain tumult, lived a pain-
filled eye, who will not die after ' buried?
think i well, i'll sink in a blink of an ink
and lay a good example for people.
i mean, i'm wrong at a wrong…

you don't know your friend.

the eyelid closes
the eye and teases
the skin in trickling
expertise of it.
move close to my eye
and the night will sleep —
yet we have the eye
known as we've known sleep,
and shadows cover
dark spot on night streets.
move close to my eye
the eyelid closes;
yea, move close to me
don't say you know me.
though i am the earth
and the skin is fresh
yet am i the earth
that farmers do not
understand yet know.
and all dust is me:
move close to their eyes —
the eyelids will close.
i don't know my friend
you don't know your friend.
for your sake, i writ.
for your sake, i writ.Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Philip Peace
Image source: Google

honesty is an orphan

today, thieves at police station are free
they even cry "take me to the station"
because they know freedom lies in bondage;
i mean the bail grants and one-sided charge —
b'cause they're also thieves living honestly.
they're thieves living candidly with crook'd hand.and they said jungle justice is not good:
sola robbed charlie, raped his wife and got
arrested. charlie paid half of his own properties before he could collect them,
sola went on 2 years...i mean 1 year
free living in the cell and rob again.they said death is better than being blind, what
then should we say when we're not blind nor dead?
we are canoeing without a paddle;
honesty is broken into chunks and
truth 's restless as fish in troubled waters.honesty is an orphan.Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Philip Peace
Image Source: Google

Out in the Dark.

Praise be to the night sky
the constellation of
drowsy nightmares and riot
of inky stars with black —
dark. Praise be to its ease
as of graveyard, and its
silence that can wake the dead
Praise be to thee;
Night are you, oceans of darknesses.Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Philip Peace

save our souls

heavens opened and showers of blessing
became a sprawl of chewing bitter-leaf.
the whirlpool of storms swept the solid ground
and liquid air like a thief in the night.the rich and poor became a freezing heat —
a burning ice in their soaking heat of
doom as valuables dance in a sweep'ng flood.
houses are now drenched with what erect'd them.have they not lived on floodplains when the earth
denied its inhabitants thirsts — is it
blood that the soil wants or oceans of rain?
We have known pain already, save our soul.oh markudi/cross river.
Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Philip Peace

Living

When I look at the little existence
between us and the cosmic drama plays,
I see the trench of absolute ne'er sought
and the wisp of smoke from a last candle.When I look at the little existence
I look through the fleeting time, jealous breaths,
And, you know — feeble gust of passing breaths;
The windows, playful kids and dear final end.I have no conclusion nor do echoes
of dying knells bother me, yet I'm moved —
that I could not move my breath nor can I
drink a cup of sorrow and loose my tears.So each passing day, I call a battle
and fight in ambush for a final end.
And idle tears...I'll honour their greet'ng sights
and watch life in a shag of cotton wool.Living.Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Philip PeaceImage: Pinterest