OUR ROOT IS STILL ALIVE

The waves are indispensable sighs
From the seas to acquire the highs
Under the dark shadows of threats
Seashores nurse staggered breaths

To mariners it has been their sport
On their awkward locomotion spot
For the shores pegged waves away
Their domestic faith seems to sway

When the distance is dead at berth
And the common life is a new birth
Away from the foreign cargoes’ jive
For our communal root is fully alive

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RURAL COMEDIES

This indeed is the commonest of rural comedies
Seasoned with the scarcest laughable remedies
The self-styled slippery community talking thief
Now docked with a crown beaded with the beef
Having lost his final claims to the fairest carrots
He sings his melodious tunes like happy parrots
To celebrate the theme of the judicial melodies
With his long jail terms coded classical parodies

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THE DYED DAYS DONE

The fortresses of slaughters in the sorrowful forestry
Couched mad dogs to growl for high tensions’ flames
Tonal trials turned to torrential triumphal turbulence
For the sea deporting fully fashioned foreign cargoes
The sky is a page in the age of a rage staged on crags
They are fully branded for factionalised fiery frictions
To domicile days, nights, dreams and duties on board
The cheap ships groan with sheep like common floats
The prisoners in the rolling balls kicked by the key sea
To weave the flawed goodbyes to the dyed days done

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SO SAD SO BAD

It is sad hearing the warlord singing
to whom the corpses allude  wailing
with maggots on the beaches crawling
aboard the flesh with his medals sitting
and with his  cold blood guiltiness standing
for inner suffering is a costly mortal offering

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ON A SUNNY DAY

The entire clouds were friendly and patient
Their offspring roomed their cardinal lanes
Like lazy lettuces looking down ocean floors
To flourish in their mobile fragile bungalows

Frayed feathers fluttered the circumferences
They were like loaded coaches of swift trains
Roaring for thunders and racing like serpents
To train man on the arts of social frequencies

Beneath those joyful feathers’ baseless estate
Lie down the desert like the overfed serpents
The crippled sea crawls to his maternal shore
For palms to wave their celebratory fine flags

There was a lamb in the thick forest of wolves
Weaving fair languages for the naked tongues
And objects for naked eyes, dews for dry eyes
His pens and papers point all pilgrims to safety

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CHANGE OF GARMENTS

These are the ancient monsters
Imposed on the modern posters
Late flowers in the western rays
Declare the nativity of all vanity

The fields once beheld in full joy
Finally emptied of light greenery
Fall off the grandeur floral states
With pollen interred in the vase

The Creator of all my heart longs
To from the thin to tick the thick
With a faith that defiles carnality
To breast the tape to all eternity

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TALKING POINTS

The waves in their life threatening competition
To the skies they set off with their viral petition
The thunder clouds respond in their bold boom
To set mortals on the old lane to the cold doom

Clowns claw the town for villains to run a village
Sorrowful flutters of heartbeat in a single pillage
They cannot but embrace the long footed miles
There a late eagle reigns and a hungry lion smiles

Soundly and deafeningly, frail frogs wear the day
Nauseating cocks crack the nut for a brighter pay
Softly, softly the viral floods crawled downwards
Long shadows fall back like dogs poised onwards

A speed breaking brake at the ribs cracking curve
Ends upon the bearing plain of a whooping cough
To the minorities majorities a goodbye fully to bid
Like the promising bride weighed on a bridal bead

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(c) Adeola Ikuomola
Image: D Sharon Pruitt via Flickr