The Grey Hair and the Gaberdine

8/19/2019 The Grey Hair and the Gaberdine

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IThe

Grey

Hair

and

the

Gaberdine

Adelere Adesina


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The Grey Hair and the Gaberdine

ii


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Adelere Adesina

iii

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may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or

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permission of the author provided it is not

modified, but remains in its original form.


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iv

to my grey parents


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Adelere Adesina

v

all glory to good God for this success

he hurried thence, on a night, in the pulse of the

cricketing winds… he found the staff of the walk

resting and the rusting skin wanting to rise and the

lessons falling of the head as the hair wanes of its

hold ― for wrinkled now is the head, and must fall

off like autumn leaves the strands of words


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Adelere Adesina

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young dusk meets the old on the hold


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Approaching Thuds

In the whispers of the breathing shadows

a tale told they who are hosts of life's load

May my hears ear the words sprung

on the skull of the wrinkled skin

May know my tongue the taste of their sweetness

bitter

the song of their heart beat pitiless mercy in my

blood

To here comes this sore legs

to the graves of blindly clear eyes

In the pupils should my soul pupil

to understand the words of soberly gay hands

In the whispers I must a shadow be

or turn into a vanishing breath will

Tell the tale of my ancent and descent


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Adelere Adesina

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the flesh I may not meet in the blur worlds

I pray you open your horn to write

your quill will then blow loud the lots

In the whispers of the breathing shadows

a tale told they who are hosts of life's load


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10

sweet welcome―

come crepuscules to learn


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Adelere Adesina

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Take a Bench

Enter my hut,

take a bench,

bring my staff

and a lantern

for

the house is wide,

the pew stands long,

the walk is far

and darkness dims.

Sit, dear young one,

behind my shadows,

before the northing of my gasps

where cardinals are pointless

to

learn how hair greys,

grasp all my image


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breathe in my lips

know all of dust.


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Adelere Adesina

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in life, all that is of man and his mind


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Life

Look, lo, lingering linen logging

the above blues with shades of grey.

See the person you see when calm

parents the glassy stream from beneath:

same eye, same ears, same mouth, same wear

unsame heart, unsame shadow, unsame world, unsame

thought.

Life is colourless as water,

free as air, soft as oceanic soil.

Life is full of stained colours,

bonded with breaths, hardened with moving rocks.

Life has no pain in its own; mention if you have gain.

They make pain of the painless, sell for their lustful

gain.

Let it fall on your wisdom, o guest,

like the falling clouds in watery spears;

so wound the venom and thought you have:

life has no form;

the flesh it lent water, air, soil to


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Adelere Adesina

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pounds its shapeless into shape.

Has hurt you your land? Is not dust it?

Has hurt you your air? Is not fume it?

Has hurt you your rain? Is not dirt it?

May know you the painful lurch of your heart

is the means another abounds survival by,

is the tears another sheds, is the titter another.

Like passion charred by ambition,

like cushion pressed by head,

like nostril touched by perfume,

like tongue blessed by sweet,life is the likeness of none,

tho' Like mentions the man.


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If Truths

If the sky roared like a jungle lord

and deluges from there washed

till land had no sand, ocean had no blood,

man 'd still stain the two with the two.

If the sky were oracles

and deluges were truths,

man would roof earth.

For rocks, even diamond, know you,

are softer than his heart.

If the sun bragged like a sea wave

and sunnyrays from there burnt

till trees had no barks, grass had no roots,


If the sun were oracles

and sunnyrays were truths,

man would blind earth.

For wood, even iroko's, know you,

is tenderer than his heart.

If the moon ruled like a king's voice


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and poltergeists from there haun'ed

till mounts had no stone, vales had no depth,


If the moon were oracles

and poltergeists were truths,

man would hide earth.

For stones, even agatees, know you,

are softer than his heart.

If the stars screamed like a gong's cry

and galaxies from there rained

till soil had no grain, air had no gas,

man 'd still stain the two with the two.If the stars were oracles

and galaxies were truths,

man would veil earth.

For suns, even thePolestar, know you,

are tenderer than his heart.


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The Soul s Hole

Let it burn your knowledge:

There are pores in the souls of men.

They can contain no goodness of fluid

till time it will turn solid;

they can't.

Evils are powdery; air blows them.

By the liquids of good they stick

to the walls of souls.

Wonder not if the walls are covered in grime.

Pores are in the souls of men,

but not all souls are porous.

Some by hard fires that can devour dragons'

melt the walls to fill holes.

Souls have holes:

why bother about the aconscientious?

Some souls have horns

some wings have souls.

Let it burn your knowledge.


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Adelere Adesina

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Tricky

When growth was my bone's food,

iron was the strength of the heart;

it was unlearned how cunning it was.

When the eyes saw the lady lingering

the heart insisted on a relook.

When the body shifted its love to lust,

the heart insisted

(when it tried to repent and reshift)

it lingered like she did.

It insisted a little touch would suffice:

so a little closeness, a little fall.

When the mouth said the gossip,

the heart insisted on a review.

When the ears folded for what it heard,

the heard insisted

(when it tried to repent and leave)

it gossiped like they did.

It insisted a little sentence would suffice:

so a little news, a little fall.


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When the littleness never did cease,

did learn the danger of businessing with the mind.

The little filth in it piled up

the great filth by multiplying deeds dreadful.

Tricky is the heart.

Cunning is the mind.

Playfully wanting of danger,

skilfully yearning for lifeless.


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M oon s Flavour

Greyness is the companion of the old;

silver grey the companion of the moon.

Like light from far off,

though night nears on.

The taste of sour thoughts

as dust in the mouth of carcass,

as rust iron in pleasant vegetables.

The moon has a flavour;

the tongue knows how sweet

to taste the airlessness of mind,

the euphoria of a stinking heart.

The moon has a passion,

to shadow the robber in the dim,

the owner of the heart is blind

for a little while in the luring night.

Silver is the worth of the fool;


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priceless the wise cost beyond.

Grey is the companion of the old;

silver grey speaks the whispers of grave moon.


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but grave will be the last to die, after the lastpetal bleeds away


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I Shall Come

Dear guest, I heard from him

as lips broke silence

in breaths pulling tornadoes,

those silent whispers,

I shall come.

I trembled;

I quivered;

I shaken;

I wonder'd,

When?

He shall surely come;

he surely came then

for the father that spanked duty into the brain,

for the mother that screamed pity into the heart,

for the brother that showed city into the eye,

for the sister that left witty into the mind.


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he surely came then

for the children running with flowers precious,

for the flowers strangled by his cold hands,

for the foetus's trampled in his hot mouths,

for the richone folded by his poor words.


he surely came then

for the witch murdered by witch,

for the wizard killed by wizard,

for the ghost silenced by ghost,

for the death erased by death.

Dear guest, I heard from him

as lips broke silence

in breaths pulling tornadoes,

those silent whispers,

I shall come.

I trembled;

I quivered;I shaken;


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I wonder'd,

When?

He shall surely come soon:

soon is between now and then.


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O Death

O Death, you've the passions of kings

within the lines of your palm.

Princes have put to safe their wealth

when your hands of love feed them unlife stare.

Beggars find perfect rest from mice and rot,

on your cosy bed they lay with steel delight.

O Death, your name makes tremble the killer and the

killed.

The cricket ceases a song; the bird teases a tweet.

The solemn covers the cascades of leaves on the

forest's flaws.

O Death, your compassion is merciful:

its testimony is the orphan, the widow, the widower,

the bereft.

O Death, you've the mansions of men

within the plains of your country.

Common men keep their dreams

in the vault of your kind banks.


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Lords and slaves all alike

for their wishes to you submit.

Their flesh serves your belly,

for dust, no other, is your meal.


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Rag o f All for All

In the furnished wardrobe of life

(furnished with air, water, fire, earth)

there hangs a clothe in tatters,

in peaceful smile of perfect unawareness.

All in the house of world

with dust

must wear.

See the gaze of the ole begging bowl

with the resemblance of this piece on him.

In night he looks without sight

mouth shivering, nose drippy,

body bony, muscles stiffened –

an appearance of the wearers

who must maintain great posture

as dust

in wear.

Behold the beauty of those who's worn

as sky's vigour through moonlight's silence

and stars' silence and night's silence –


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ears deaf to gossips of Nature,

eyes blind to filth'ness of Nature.

Skin portrays its beauty in the clothe –

the befitting regalia of the destitute,

the befitting ragalia of the wealthy.

All will have this of all for all

with dust

must wear.


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Silence Speaks

The tunes of winds from the yard in the church

louder than orchestra of the hairs of trees in forest.

The tunes of winds from the yard in the grave

louder than orchestra of the hairs of trees in forest.

Silence of the still speaks louder than the living.

Listen!

The cortège wept for our lost mouths,

but not for our wealths left behind.

The hearse honked for our lost legs,

but not for our fleets left behind.

The eulogy spoke our weird praises,

but not of our great sins behind.

The catafalque raised for our sunk bodies,

but not for our risen ghosts behind.

Listen!

The buzz of worms eating us disturbs our still;

the creeps of dusts leaving us disturbs our fill.


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Listen!

We cannot raise hands to shut their mouths;

we cannot shake our body to disperse once.

Listen!

We have little air from generous soil

than we had from mean world.

Yet, our lungs cannot take the little of it.

Listen!

If the songs of this wind plays in your ears,

think of love, think of solve,

think of more of your works.

When you opera with the windas we do in our steel silence,

they will be of no use

than beautiful fallen flowers to us.

The only comfort is not the remembering wife,

not the lamenting husband,not the wailing children,


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not the dirging poets,

but the silence of life

loud in dead ears.


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W hen Dawn N ights

When dawn nights,

the owl cries,

the tree dries,

the wind flies,

the sea lies...

he is drowne'

as was titanic

in the town

like in oceanic

...the flute flutes,

the loot loots,

the light falls,

the dark crawls,

the mane roars,

the wane raws,


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the ice warms,

the grave forms,

the path shuts,

the sky shuts,

the eye blinds,

the blind finds...

no sun may shine

no rain may fall

no boil may wineno toil may call

...the son cries,

the tear dries,

the wife flies,

the wail lies...

he is crowne'

as was atlantisin the clown


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like in atlantis

...the friend flutes

the foe loots,

the song falls,

the dirge crawls,

the king roars,

the chief raws,

the worm warms,

the case forms,

the lung shuts,

the soul finds...

no light may litno cloud may clap

no cup may fit

no wing may flap


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the earth is hearth to purest emotions in the

heart, and the old knows love


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I Loved

When locks locked my gaze

who stopped locked on blaze

in face hot in days

I saw much in maze

I got all of craze

who dured the days.

When it was then,

I loved.


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If Love Were

If love were a song in the freezing harmattan,

I'd raise my harp of love and play melody,

whose resonance'd make shiver darling's cold,

whose echo would vibrate through your heart's walls.

I'd sing till infinite carpets away and time another

lays.

If love were a drop in the rain torrential,

I'd hose the clouds of love and pour downpouring,

whose rainsonance'd make river darling's heart,

whose tacho would outspeed through your sert lands.

I'd rain till infinite carpets away and time another

lays.

If love were me,

I'd be I for love,

whose hands remould'd the heart that beat in me,

whose soul resoul'd the soul that live in me.

I'd love till eternity wars time and love wins both.


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Supreme

The calm in the warring forces,

in restlessness combating peace,

in allsadness battling joy,

the bough of the olive

is the supreme force.

Force?

My hair calls to question the skull's words:

How call force the muscle of heart and blood?

Why call force the tendon of life and heaven?

What call force the skel'ton of smile and laugh?

Who call force the skin of sacrifice and kind?

A soul dwelling in souls.

A passion driving blood of the veins,

a passion driving wind of the seas,

a passion driving clouds of the sky,

a passion driving light of the sun,

a passion driving mind of the soul.


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A man more sacrosanct than gods.

They dare not question his touch;

their shrines better cease

(than he seizes their jurisdiction).

They dare not question his seal

for two to be, or all to live.

O Death, have you lost victory gain?

O Hades, have you lost sever'ty gain?

He's defeated by the inhaling of life only.

What would be he'd speared his spear?(They are shaken, fellow feebly fools.)

He is above all in the heart of all

who priests the two lovers in holiness,

who sermons the wicked heart in tenderness,who heals the bereft, kinds the ailing.

He is above all in the heart of man.

A dream in world, a world in dream.


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Rain I-III

I

Let the cloudy sky fall heavily

in stars of your entourage.

Please, reign!

Let the storm roam loudly

in winds of your escort.

Please, reign!

II

Shall man not know morn with smile?

Shall wife not know night with smile?

The law of whom is simple:

do to others as would to yourself;

guard your left in war;

guide your right in piece.

The rule of whom is austere:


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give to others your breath;

amass no flesh nor fetch;

give to others your left;

make wine another's joy;

make bread another's rapt.

III

If deluge would deluge the town,

I would unroof my house, home, heart.

If torrent would torrent way the torment,

I would unroot the weed, weep, wear.

Do, o you, bless with your rain.

Do reign!


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First Love

Forget not the thief you turn

when stealing glimpses and gazes.

Forget not the being you turn

when mirroring allure and beaut.

Forget not the first smile

that tickles the butterflies.

Forget not the first laugh

that lurches the heartbeats.

Forget not the first word

that reveals the sweet voice –

mellifluous tastes sweet to your ears.

Forget not the first play

that reshapes the adult you're –

childhood and childishness fine turns.

Forget not your first love

who teaches you true love,

who spares your young bed,

who makes your young grow,


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who remains first love?

If you stay without

and you stay within second cold heart,

then forget to forget

how you remembered to remember.


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the surprise met, made for awe, the cosmos of

colours and sounds


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waters

I

curious liquids undying soon

in the midst o' temp's'ous sails

wave in rhythm the racing wind

beating drums of flying films

flying watery walls within clefs

mixing melodies of heavenly hailings

II

o dear meet the sounds of atlantis

from the tears of the lands of africa

the rich end starts the rich start

pacific streams south america's sweats

great mother india in labour

births banks trading tides


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from my attic the arctic north lies

running within the cold hot sands

III

may i clean the purity of impure cells

lying truths on my skin

in atlantis

may i clean the clean cavities of head and toe

taking and giving way – for given is the giver –in pacific

may i clean the whole alloys in the pure gold vase

saving some sands so softly

in india

may i clean the whole white gowns

coloured stains of white spectrums

in arctic


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M other N ature

When my third grey hair grows,

I wake from the long night sleeping now.

I look at the eye of the sky

as it blinks brightly at me:

the spiky rays march to teach my pupil

how images to see of the earth's gallery.

So rotund the desombre sun

sinuously sailing swiftly to t'here



I look at the hands of the for'st

as it waves lightly at me:

the reeky scents bounce to teach my nostril

how fragerance to smell of the earth's gallery.

So greeny the desombre tree

sinuously sailing swiftly to t'here.



I look at the words of the wind


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as it runs wildly at me:

the mighty gas's come to teach my skinpore

how utterance to read of the earth's gallery.

So meldic the desombre air

sinuously sailing swiftly to w'here.


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The N ight Sky

I

Grey turns black

yet em'tting light

'n'

metaphors slight

plasma's large clack.

In the calm water

that's wide glass

is

the great class

learning with wonder:

the twinkling children

receiving lessons from –

how to glitter afar from –

the silver citron.

II


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Spread on the great grey cloth

that covers firmament's naked

is the sparkle that makes marbled

the little lingering lights:

the moon gladdened,

the queen I marry my eye to tonight;

the stars maddened,

the children I tarry my sight in tonight.

There goes a swift spark sloughing,

fading and out of my awed sight.

Yet, I've picked the taillonger than the elephant's.

Yet, I've picked the colours

misbalancing spectrum's limits.

Beholding burgundy, brown, blue, black,my physics loses the algorithm for calculus:

the colours have no limits,

not as the spectrum said so:

I astronauted in faulty vainand misstepped in next nebula.


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III

The wise man once said

before my hair turned grey,

my ears were fleshy

like the berries of the wild:

Stand in awe of the sacred writing

and the stunting lights dotting the heaven's paper

till you walk and fall lightly

into the pit before your behind.

I shall be put into the pit

behind my before then,

and shall stare beyond transparent sands,

the galaxies making their celestial feast.


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the green garden

dive into the forest

look the shades of shadows

look the canopies of covers

the iroko raises his head tall

the afara is mountain high

the oak is broad and wealthy

the palm touches the clouds afar

come to africa home of green

the fir green stays

as pine in winter stills

europe groves green

needly spruce speaks it

garden gowned in green garments

chloroplasted from centuries gone

the talls and highs and needles and broads

all have the green light dark soft hard

the horizon beheld holds


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the vast windbreakers

growing green growing green

every time it's beheld


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Rain

Torrents disroofing my house,

showers dislodging the heat,

welcome, both; welcome.

Little drops, they've taught,

mighty fortresses become:

the ramparts of Atlantic

might fault to hold the vault.

Little drops, they've taught,

indispensable to life's breath:

come now, come then

when farm grows, tends.

Little drops, you'll worship,

in Sahara thirsty too:

you'll pray they fall

if only one, two, three.

Little drops, lords of green,

lords of skin clean, teeth white,


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lords of hair soft, chest broad,

lords of ladies pose, man strong.

Little drops, in nights of lovers,

beat drums to rhythms of hearts:

the cold they carry meets hugging warmth

and balance is the love, settled.

Little drops, when they drop,

I dance a little little in it:

though I shiver when dried,

I remember the child I was.


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blood is ocean in the geddon of ants ― in the

geddon of man, blood is


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I K now Its N ame

Bloodshed!

Massacre!

Massacre!

Bloodshed!

The valleys host the vultures

when behind the morning

the afternoon has stolen the blood

of those that are fallen so:

fallen from their front and back,

pulled by the push and attack!


who with bald heads will carry

the body drained of water and life,

who with firm beaks will bill

the carrion fallen into clarion!


where the armaments were short,

the sight was too far,

the blast was to harsh

so


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the last trigger fainted without an echo,

the enemy was not spotted behind the rock,

the skin was peeled as monkeys finger bananas.


which sight the bodies rolling

whose blood like smoke fill the air

(sweet scent to the gods of the land,

sweeter scents to the vultures of the land,

sweetest scents to the victors of the land)

rolling like lightning spreading over the sky

till a loud thump at the root of the vale

and the thud shaking the bloodbathed land

(the bodyes of themen and women and neomen

dumped on the floors of greenred hungry valleys).

I know the name of the air

when it was feasting on drums and songsbefore the rising and after the falling;

I know the name of the soil

when it was drinking

(though nauseous and throwing);

I know the name of the skywhen buzz not bees, birds but air's bends


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blew the last hut to create nebula on earth;

I know the name of the sea

when the water did welcome the red waters.

I know.

Where are my brother and father who held two rifles?

Are my sisters back who went hiding behind fallen

hills?

Ransacking the desolation, I not found ma

but I found the bevy's bangledance

under the smoky pipes of the tobacco's laughs

beside the skulls holding potable watersfor souls who had barrels left,

souls once bloodthirsty,

now waterthirsty.


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The Cause

The man in his very silent rejection

builds a loud voice for acceptance,

makes a high wall for the reason.

He has been ignored;

he has been treated unfairly;

but he is too myopic

and can not see the fate

that has been other's faith.

He thinks he is alone,

whereas he has for him

the free air giving company,

the dancing trees waving playfully,

the tweeting birds singing melodies.

He thinks life has hurt him,

whereas Nature still gives him water

from her potable pots.

So decides he,

I'll a loud voice build


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that I may be heard;

I'll a high wall build,

that I may be felt.

What else is the song of he

who has nurtured hate in his graceful heart?

What else is the melody of he

who has betrayed the diamonded care of Nature?

He needs the foolishly wise poor man

to build the border between waters.

He needs the weakly strong rich man

to build the deaf between the ears.For this he needs the pseudgenuine cause:

They've blasphemed the gods of our fathers –

as if those have none, as if he's not blahed now...

They've disregarded our sisters –as if those have none, as if he's not dissed now...

They've snatched the land of our brothers –

as if those have none, as if he's not snatched now...

They've and they've – well, he intoxicates themselfishly


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and the fellow faithful compatriots follow fully

combatant.

...as if he's not sinned gains the God, inciting the

bloodshed.

...as if he's not purified their pure beds with his

bloodstain.

...as if he's created a grain of sand from his birth.

The fellow faithful compatriots follow fully combatant;

and he builds a loud voice for the satans,

and he makes a high wall for the altreason.

The altreason is the killing

of another man like his

to buy the love he's hated –

and the love he's slaughtered

in the world's massacre.

If you doubt your trust and trust your doubt,

trace the world in wars once and twins –

there will find you

hate lays the course.


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W orld War IV

When my grey hair was

as the thick blackness of the night

when moon was solemn and stars were shy,

a man of grey said then:

The third war of the world may be

with armaments know not I fought –

for science may have technologized

the atoms in the atomic bombs

and the nuclei of the nuclear muscles –

but the count of the ring finger

in the wars of the world

will be fought

in sandy stones

and woody trees.

Now my grey hair is

as the whiteness of the linened sky,

and the words come back to me:

The world will fight its fourth

with soldiers dressed in leaves

and belts made from palm fronds –


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for brutal has been so far

the dying of the babies,

the rising of the coffins.


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Let s Battle

Let's battle

in ships from seas of blood

with fires like thunderbolts

on sands that are quick

with boots that can sink

in planes that are jetted

and missiles that blow bam

on the hills of the ramparts

where skulls still hold guns

in craters of the earth

where volcanoes will be our weapon;

let's battle.

Let's battle


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if you have the courage,

take your gun and shoot ink

pour on me rain of fire

mixed with little personified blood

grenade my hut

where my father's spell lies

alliterate the beat of my heart

in sync with your machine gun;

let's battle.

Let's battle

but if you can't because you can't,

let me teach you to war

the ammunition is quill

the battlefield is papyrus

the enemy is within the linesthe ally is without the graphs


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you are the major and commander

the war is yours alone

you begin with a little allusion:

the Seven Years War

but Britain isn't an army

but France is a mere illusion

yet the caesura; violence charged

and the euphemism: blood gushed in the hart.

o great paronomasia, o great irony:

the villain deathed the victor in deadly loath

the metonymy fires at you:

the breath stopped speaking, silent is.

how tragic is tragedy's fault

and the writer is your bloodshed's ache

so


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70

let's battle.

Let's battle

but if not,

you must have learned

the novelist who wrote

about the armies in campaign

cried a great deal

before his lot lotted his fate

the playwright who wrote

about the major's dialogues

soliloquized aside the massacre

that heated enough to burn sun in his art

the poet that poetried

the truths of the field in few words

cried wept tormented tortured his own soulfor a battle was there fought within him.


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The War Within

O dear, have you seen the aroma of the desolation?

Will it be comfort for the heavens receiving sweet

smelling scent?

Have you seen the ashes of the chambers of the

palace?

Will those make a new castle or cast tool?

Have you found the burnt homes?

Will there be a dweller again?

Have you considered?

Will you heart restore?

Have you checked?

Will hope grow?

Now the war is ended,

but has left you stranded:

the soldiers already looted and left,

but have left you with memories

and the foe you have to war now

is time, dear,

time,


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72

ad infinitum!


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73

ink and quill, sweet conflicts, bitter resolutions


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74

The Pen Has

The Pen

has in store

beautiful oxen,

the wild, the tamed,

the bird, the pisces,

the tail, the tale.

The Pen

has in ink

beautiful worries,

the comic, the tragic,

the victor, the villain,

the start, the end.

The Pen

has in stock

beautiful Nature:

the fragile eggs,

the hardy skin,

the fluffy fur,

the throny hair


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beautiful Nature:

the joyous morning,

the saddened night,

the losing victor,

the winning villain,

the tempted ocean,

the enduring banks,

the troubled tears,

the splitting tears,

the comedious sobs,

the tragedious laughs,

the endless the's,the ephemeral the's.

The Pen

has in ink

the animal, the man,the fox, the tortise,

the press, the president,

the love, the lust,

the loss, the lost.


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76

The Pen s Venomous

The scrawling ink is desperate –,–

ly

tearing down the Jerichoaic fortress

of the gloomy 'n' gleamy hearts.

In the sparse breath of its swifting tip,

the flow succeeds the ocean's one-time drain.

The flow from the tongue of the tip

thicker than the adder's poison is.

The cobra cannot do more harm

to the body's body

than do can the pen's venom

to the soul's body.

The Pen is Venomous:

fearlessly harmfuller

than the flying bullets of Alexander the Great,

piercing the heart,

draining the mind of thought like body of blood.


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The Pen is Venom:

in the hand of the hack and bard,

the eibiisii is the poison served in teaful pulp;

the diiief makes diminish every frightful gloom.

The Pen has Venom:

that can kill the slightest smile of the face

as can murder with a dagger the slimmest tear

(for on the same page is twaddled true tragicomi).

The Pen has Venomous

ink:

so beware of the lusting of your eyesfor the spilled inks on the surface

of what is the grave – though you think

the vii is the sii, and grace you called –

of the mind searching the clue

in the writer's troubling glueto the farce of the fable

and the satire of the irony

and the oxymoron of the paradox

and the antagonist of the protagonist;

so beware of the lusting of your mindfor the spilled inks on the surface


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78

of what is the intrigue of the midnight

where the killer has killed your thousandth life

and the lover has loved your hundredth life

and you read this and read this and read this

and later find the secret so far from the beginning

open is

and you read this and you read...

and you find it is a part of the ploison –

and you read this and...

and you find it is a valve of the versnom.


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I W as Once a Writer

I was once a writer;

I had once and twotimes.

My metre shifted the letter

and petered was then the reader.

My rhyme was masculine

and rhyth' was femiline.

But

was once not now.

For

a day of authobiographing my autolife,

the setting was perfectly imperfect –

I minded not though –

the plotting was perfectly imperfect –

I minded not yet –

the meaning was perfectly imperfect –

I minded not yet –


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80

till

I read the wrote about my life

and

I found the hopeful bleak:

writing about my life:

on this page, comedy;

on that page, tragedy.

So

I paused,

I stopped.

Hence

I was once a writer

but


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was once not now.


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82

Caesura

Seizuerer was on his – o, dearly sorry –

Caesura was on his way.

He was travelling midwest of the Land of Metaphors

when the battles of Bathos bewildered Hyperbole

by the armaments of Alliteration. Caesura had to,

in fear for his dear life, paauuse a while.

Well, his luggage was intact. Seizure

seized Caesura for the censure; but Zeugma ordered,

The lampoon was Irony's personal Pun;

you cannot blame his loads of paronomasia, can you?

Free him us, for we.

So Caesura was freed in the company of Zeugma

but he had not bathed for thirty days – his stench

reeked.

He cleansed himself of prison's sins, that Seizure

committed,

in the puulls of Personification.

When he went to the Climax of Everest,

he saw the Denouement of the Green Pasture, though

vastly far away.


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He did Dialogue the gods of Allusion, and of illusion.

They went Aside and called Euphemism, the messanger

making lighter.

He came to Seizuerer – o, dearly sorry –

Caesura to swiften his feet.

Caesura was on his way, though no longer is

for the host already received him – your heart's

rhythm.


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84

Pages

I

Open the scroll on which the quill has rained ink

and from this page to that page read:

Mr Tenderfirm was in his room with wild thoughts –

for his mind was filled with fantasies of tragedies –

pondering what manner the tortise won the tiger in

the kingdom

and the fable of the dog that faithed his soul to

man's living.

He laughed at the stupid traditions with their meaths

for the lesson was too ludicrous on the silently

watching lines,

and the actuality was too crude to be possible.

Mr Tenderfirm was in his room with wild thoughts –

for his mind was filled with fantasies of tragedies–

thinking of what words were of him


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who hath tamed the shrew,

and the adventure of sawyer

in the fantasies of two twain,

and the image cast of gray dorian

who was very wild:

he laughed the comedies away;

or what poet wrote gulliver

who woled the whole capital

dedicating to moremi dedication?

or what poet murdered himself

when he rabeariveloed three birds?

or what poet became a bricklayerwho sat on the peter's fence?

The fun was absolutely fun;

the pun was absolutely wrong.

So Mr Tenderfirm laughed and laughedtill tears tore the pages he was reading.

Little did he know

he was written in the hamlet of the tamed shrew

and would be in the tearing laughs of penkelemesiedwole.


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86

Mr Tenderfirm was softened when a page read,

On a day a writer was reading with laughter,

his heart being tender and his skin, firm,

he laughed the tragedies of the stage and stanzas

till he left for his family

to find them carried by the swift wings of time

into loudly silent eternity,

till he left for his career

to find it swayed by the sinking sands of time

into lively dead graveyard.

His life was an illusion,his breath was another writer's fantasy;

his being away into fading rags of time

cannot come again to reality, no, not in reincarnation.

Sealed is the fate of TenderFirm.

The other page finished he reading

and ran to see his family

and saw the glassmask

and ran to see his careerand saw the maskedglass


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and found his feet wobble

like a rocking chair on the tip of the top of the

hilltop.

His life was written in another's fantasy –

another's life in another another's fantasy,

and another another in another another another's

and so goes the unending biologicalgraphs.

II

When I finish writing,

I asked my grey hair:Who will mask my glass?

Who will glass my mask?

Who will take my breaths

from this page to that page?

Will my life turn Tenderfirm?Will my pages be softhardened?

I know though,

Within the space in two words of tragedy

like a blank comedy.


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88

tabernacles move and theism moves and idols moves

and one does main and men miss


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89

Alters

with no foundation in the red earth

to be wind away in the dusk storm,

with no roof gains' the boiling sun

to be melt away in the day light,

with no cloth to trunk the old shame

to be floweredless in the dawn veil –

made of bricks and blood and clay and flesh,

it is he who has seen the souls of the gasping leave

but has no flight to the salvation of their last spasm

–

the altars have alters

but not because of their greed –

for they have stomachs that hunger not,

they have tongues that taste not,

they have noses that taste not –

but because of their greed–


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90

who are lords in men,

priests as foxes feigningly flocking,

deniers of truths, defilers of oracles,

discerners of wet treasures like pirates aboard.


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91

In the N ame of Sacredness

When we were young

and had just usurped

the command of the world,

we made lust to

fire, blood, water, flesh, dust

and looked for and altar

so we could say

the savour of dead twins ressurecting

to the ends of the army clouds

to join the mass of celestial images

who to battle the evil were set

was by our great gods required

to purge our sins and wash our filth.

When we grew a bit older

with more hands and ands

but less arms and hams, but arms and buts,

we divided the lands of wealth

and called our brother our stranger


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92

whom we should take as a gift

to the hungry demons on the altars;

for this we made alter our hunter,

and cutlasses got two of the sides

our blunt minds sharpened twain,

and their flows blooded across the land

to cleanse the famine and drought.

The one who caused thunder struck anight;

the one who caused fire helled some roofs;

the one who caused famine clotted some soils;the one who caused death sneaked around;

the one who caused the causes were these

who evoked the ancestors

into the engravedwho evoked the demons

into the sculpted

who fought with the One

and mentioned the ones

to blame them for evils we did.


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So, in the name of sanctity,

to protect our lands from infestation,

in the call of sacrosanctity,

to protect our wives from barrenness,

we slaughtered the kind visitor,

we murdered the twins, the malformed,

we massacred the humanity in our hearts,

we demolished families in region-claim wars

and said our gods – that we made – victoried us.


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94

The One God

– whose name was carved

not by words of man

but by the word of his mouth.

Whose days were numbered

not by cycles of cosmos

but by indefinite length.

Whose existence prologued

not the debris of evil

but glittery goodness.

Whose lips line up and down

not for deceits (he has no politics)

but to the truth to say.

Whose spirit lives

not by sculptors' mercy

but by his command.

Whose universe extends

not within this Big Bang

but beyond infinity's end.

Whose love remains

not as flesh overflows in cot


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95

but as soul without condition withins body.

Whose time is eternal

not as orbital eternity

but another reincarnated after this's dead.

Whose verb is is

not only was like us

but has been will be.

Whose singularity

not as antiques enigma

but as one and only.

The one God –


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96

I ve S trived S erved

I've done more wrongs

and less played right gongs.

I've struck offtunes

more than straight runes.

I've battled the enemy,

my mind, who's family.

I pray accept Almighty

the service, tho' rusty.

For a tree am I

my strength bye;

like falling leaves,


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97

my hair cleaves.

I've strived served

when frail far lived.

Now wanes my glory,

accept my sluggish hurry

to you

till you.


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98

there are ties, and there is one that ties all ties


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99

Origin

I

Whence comest thou, o eye,

that readest the letters of these?

Whence flowest thou, ask I,

that listenst to this lyric?

I come whence twain please',

abed hied, life remade.

The twain stayed, tho' prick

ed.


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100

II

In holy union unified,

came together to life make,

stood together to me raise,

worked together to mouth food,

loved together to smile cherish,

spanked together to rot wash

they.

From there did I come,

where two bodies have one heart,

where two brains have one soul,


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101

where this is that and that is this.

My father heads the rib;

my mother ribs the heart;

the two heart the home.

The home carves me from flesh,

carves me from living flesh.

From there did I come,

from there which source my course,

there which sauce my cause,

there which name my mane.


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102

A Word to Father

To a dearest father who lords the chambers of his

house,

who grips firm the keys of the home's hearts,

who firms the grips of the walls' footings,

a son wrote:

Pa, if it is morn,

I prostrate myself in cultural admiration before you;

if it is noon,

I slay forth the deer I hunt in admiration before you;

if it is night,

I lay forth the pride I have in admiration before you.


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103

You who raised me like a layer bricks the mansion

do I have all affection for.

You who supplied me with food for bowels,

water from river, ego for sociobrag,

bales for pulp examination

do I have all affection for.

You brought me the cardigan –

though never wore it on me –

to save me from cold.

You brought me the flip-flops –

though never wore it on me –

to save me from earth.

Is that not love?


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104

Yet father,

you have a little left –

though, better than others I've found,

you remain the first of bests –

that you may still do:

listen to my tales once again,

or my stories mislead me in this world;

carry my heart's waves, please,

or my heart dances the tunes of waywardness;

liften the silent tears of my coarse nights,

or my days turn brutal than Hades' torture.


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105

Give a little more time;

earn less of papers;

let me pillow

on your hard tummy.


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106

A W ord to M other

From the womb of earth,

from the bowels of your sweat

the word you poured to the pore,

the same has word for you.

Endure is the name of the flower you are:

that the petal has grown monochrome

by the scourging of the burdened man

who plucked the misgrown bud

from the misfit plant –

he was blind to see so,

for his ilences could see well,

yet, he mistrusted till using monocles.


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107

Endure is the name of the thought you marry:

though the man is valiant, he has need of love,

such that your heart cannot kiss to his morning,

nor your slim body streaming tender to hiscot's night,

yet, he has not bravery to reline your broken veins,

nor courage to repaint your sunk colours;

but, for once you a hand to oscillate bodysores

and for anothence you a sand to whirl heartremors.

Endure, and for this damn endurance not paying his

gold,

you make the child know wrath, the husband's

metonyms writhe,

the future blight for the pride to earn you today.


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108

Now this son knows your pain,

but will still ask:

Shall the ocean, for moon's tempting tide

and desert's dangerous brag,

swallow the last grain of sand

in its shrill?

You could've thought.

Steel,

Think!


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109

A W ord to Child

O tender one,

soft and young,

fresh as hibiscus' first bud,

you learn the word

by the ma, the pa, the pal.

You know the way

to say the truth, the lie

when you see the surroundings.

You stick to selflessness,

but like a bud winging petals,

and handsome beauty for its teenaged,

your characteristic wane away

in the blossomness of demanding self.


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110

Now that you have learnt the good

and that you have trad'd the bad,

sit to listen to rattles of the white hair.

The father is the one to adore,

who may, in his hurrying foolishness,

not be with your trial times.

Yet, as a treasure, hold his arms firm.

Take his correction –

for he bitters himself

someone was not to right his leftfulness –

endure his scourge

that may endure than meant on your dent.


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Adelere Adesina

111

In a day that will remove cloud sky from,

you will adore the imperfect one tuning you stainless.

The mother is the one to adorn,

who may, in her fervent festers,

make your heart sourly sore,

make your mind brightly beamed.

Take her soft love,

be her comfort, even when she stabs you –

or give her back her nine months and milks.

When she warns, do turn.

When she shouts, do haste do.

In a day that will remove cloud sky from,

you will adorn the imperfect one tuning you stainless.


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112

Now the imperfect they are,

and you alloy are.

Think not yourself right always;

think not themselves right always.

Let the care of them live in you,

and plot not a revenge on them.

When old they turn,

you their skin turn.

How eve are, tonight, a day to your smiling sorrow,

behold the life that is not plains not plagues:

this do,

that you may learn to be yourself in the tempest,


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Adelere Adesina

113

for the pal may betray your plan.


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114

Dire N eeds Fulfilment

That which they crave,

the broken ones:

the father who never was seen by

his father,

the mother who never was heard by

her mother,

the child who never is dorned by

the fam'ly.

Fulfilment

that is lost because of the crushing crush,


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115

the first affection of their first breath

that receives them all into the world

but leaves them to want's mercy and grace,

is what they long.

So, pa, in order to raise his voice,

neglects ma and child.

So, ma, in order to raise her hand,

neglects pa and child.

So, child, in order to raise its heart,

neglects pa and ma.


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116

Yet, they cannot find that outside

which is inside.

Has the sun ressurrected west?

Does the desert live in oceans' floors?

How can they find sooth without

when within lies comfort's clue?

These heads I behold are smashed.

These hearts are already shards.

These bones are splinters, dried splinters.

Yet, they want fulfilment;

so, they go trample others to boss 'em,


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117

throw in circles their heavy weight –

for the dead is heavier than the living.


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118

grey once was black; black greys in time


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Adelere Adesina

119

W hen I W as Youthfool

When I was of green foilage valour

and deep rooted in bed and rock'

s

carving,

I yeasted the spur of lethargy

and disphysics ironic inert.

When I was hair coloured void nightsky,

and was face penciled to irresist,

I gave my tention

to the merries of the cup

and the berries of divan,

and brimmed my whinging desire.


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120

When I was springing water in the coconut,

and standing eastsun to last dark vampire,

I veneered the dove's touch

to touch the nest of wealths

of quick love, quick wealth.

When I was modern

and deejaying life's steps,

with biceps mountaining triceps,

I worked a bit for when,

a bit more for nowing then.

When I was youth


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Adelere Adesina

121

and I was full

like a well overpouring –

you upwater with palms –

my chap was wastefool.


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122

Let the Spring of Strength

Let

the spring of strength

out

to

love.

Let the passion to sacrifice;

let the roe to row wild in fields;

let the voice to comfort;

let the walls algae cease;

let the palms know sweet labour.

Let madness strike your mind;


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123

let mindness strike you mad;

let bowels be brought bread;

let sinew old learn gold;

let them smile that tear.

Let your rain fall throughout drought;

let your sunshine batter greying clouds;

let your spell spell hell for storming sails;

let your hands feed to mouth the mouthless;

let your mouth feed to heart the heartless.

Let

the spring of strength

out


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124

to

love.


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Adelere Adesina

125

Should Time Stop a M oment

Should time stop a moment,

the young will jump ten more skips.

Their flab will melt in Everest's greatest cruel,

yet, come to mouth the tale of existing northern

lights.


the little will wend to hell,

take cold pictures of the fires,

and selfie the generation's alarms.


the tender will visit running lava,


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126

torment the gently tormenting stones

and say they've reached cores of Mercury.


sweetness will last longer on the bed,

and tales of the man will wane the night;

neutral wine will be drunk in alcholic carafe.


these will dishabille work,

hymn last dirge for time's lashes dead

and desire of nothing something – like death.



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Adelere Adesina

127

of these rhythms will no young look,

the rhythms between cessation

and rhymes of time's revenge.


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128

N ew Branch

That has the taste of the old seed,

and is of the same back as that barks,

and has of the same lack as that larks.

Green branch,

with firm grips to earthly sky

and taste sweet on sour tongues.

Fresh bough,

the antithesis of life's charade

in foams of forms of fledge of fall.

Young branch,


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129

the lyric of existence and insistence,

of ensuring enduring liveliness.

New twig,

the playfulness in seasons ants labour,

and restfulness for reasons flies flight.


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130

Learn

I

Learn from the vino that staggered from the brims

of the old men,

for the spills are abundance of sagacity

that they need not in grave, but we on earth.

Learn that the ends of the grey lines pointing wards

to down

on the old head

cut and fall in seasons of shedding

that which will help you know life.


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Adelere Adesina

131

Learn and take your youth to sit gently in the

armchair.

The questions the old men answered

will flow wards to you.

Hold them in your hands firm as root, soil.

II

Why does leaf fall on this oak,

but remains on the fir ten thousand seasons?

What is this flower that wither

when no hand has addressed its smoothness?

Who is the shadow that roams happily in the day

but hides when a ghost follows the man, the dark?

Why is the water raptured when the silver of night


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132

announces her full presence to geologists unable to

dig?

Where is the source of the oceans across the vales and

mounts

like the creeks flow from the land forth?

Why does the sparrow small soar

yet not the ostrich opulent ought?

What gives water coconut in hard, dry shells

yet winks at Atacama in wetnuts from far way?

III

Life is not a line;

it is a cycle.

Breath is not always breeze;


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Adelere Adesina

133

it times tornadoes and freezes.

Stand today, for tomorrow may sit.

Walk a day, for bones will sulk away.

From the old men,

learn, o young man.


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134

life ceases not a tragedy, for it is source the same

as comedy


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Adelere Adesina

135

Death and Dying

Commoners in their palace

are the mighty kings of earth

who have sceptres begging

and are taunted dreamers.

They have rags for attires

that cannot bribe in furtives,

breathing hands for cart

that cannot ride way fr'm tom.

They own mansions of sanctions,

armaments watery for gory presence.

Kings, yet crowns do kowtow,

prostrate selves supinely shakily.


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136

In the court of death,

what makes the poor rich

that have abundance of tears –

if Death wants, he can swim;

I'll for I did times afore.

He asks for tribute

that is not too far to fetch:

the dust to dust,

the earth to earth.

In the time before,

once apon atime,

dying inflicts thrones,

sickness heart and earth sick.


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Adelere Adesina

137

Dying like in its wiseness

casts the beggar some hymns

of lasting anguish –

he sings by mouth

the same melody organed

in fine tunes of harmonica

in the grandest court of lords.

There is no thing sad;

no shard is in pieces;

no sand is in cloud;

no dirge is agrave sun';

no truth in swft thoughts;

no lies in heavy tongues;


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138

no tragedy other than:

the children like born

like leave life's loft;

the fjord sees deep spring

which beauty rapts away frm eye;

death takes timely in gradual dualities:

faint smile, slumbering frown;

sparing seasons; spontneous seizing.


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Adelere Adesina

139

Life s Living

For sun and moon same sky stays,

thorn on rose is found petals with:

such is life in its living.

The substance of white clouds

makes grey the stormy sky, too:


Breath of pristine air

has same sane smokes:


All these joys turmoiling


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140

not washing sorr'w on vil's day:


All these testimonies

tell tales tragic to thought:



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Adelere Adesina

141

Penury s Poverty

That thinks he has a thing of glory,

for oppresses the common man

with no bread a day, no wine an aeon,

he delights delightedly.

He knows not his infamy is sweet:

the gossip of awinged birds lacking songs,

the gossip of ac'lour grass lacking scents,

the gossip of amane lions lacking roars;

the gossip of aonus lass's lacking beaut.

He attires his thin body lean, d-ragged linen;

he peacocks the halitosis of his subjects –


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with white rotten teeth of his mouth.

He fledges his bore bales of clad-un cowries.

He dances to painful moans of alm's bowl's sores.

Tell him he is destitute,

he lacks than dried bones lacks flesh,

o, than poor sun lacks a drop, one, of water.

Tell to his bitter arrogance

lepers' skin has more glory than his.

Let him know his soles are solely sore;

his humours are holeful horrors,

his tyranny has broken skulls

and this is gossips all said;


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let, his poverty than impecunious', poorer.


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Unnew N ewness

In the world,

I've known beauty's touch on sweet lips

and red roses among rainbow's rays;

yet, when it falls on my world,

it is all new, all but new.

In the world,

I've known wails in echos of nights

and rotten onions fragrance of spoiled eggs;

yet, when it falls on my world,

it is all new, all but new.


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Now that I am grey and white of skin,

I observe the turning spheres

and all runnings of orbits round a glory:

this time seems new, that time seems tend –

but both are of old the same pattern.

When deaths are heard, it is ancient and ragged;

but my supine under earth will fresh be for seeds.

When incest invests insects in the ancestral tree,

it is same tattered story from before sand's time;

but when it befalls me, it is like a baby bud blooming.

The end of tragedy:

all that youngly befalls till euphoria


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is of old times wrinkled gazes;

all that youngly euphorium the falls

is of old times wrinkled gazes.

Only a time it strolls into this house

that we know tsunami reeks badly –

yet, it's been in town a month and more.


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Tragedies

When so called,

my white hair wonders:

Is it the irony of tearing new baby

with smiles silencing their ears

to see its grief, young grief,

for world's rotten rottenness,

who are too happy to see

it skin all bleeds not parents' blood?

Is it the tremor of earth

under feet of human leggedfeat?

Or the ocean's rising, dancing billows


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blessing with cursed fate somes' last faith

losses of deaths, deaths of losses?

Shall I liken to the writer's pun:

there's a comic in tragic comedy;

terrific is awesome as flawsome?

Shall I take this word and word?

Is it the crying father who is due

but is a childless, dry dust:

crumbs has not his hand to cease

cloth nor his life's perfect penury?

Can it be the torment of one


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who's family sink in Titanic's perish?

Or the madness of the trauma

of a tender flower blooded in dirty beds?

Is it the swiftness of thunder to terror

thatches that are wetly dried?

Has resemblance with the serial who kills,

the swivel chair who cycles masses' baling sweats?

I know it is not

the punishing defy,

the punished defile,

the pushing death.


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It is the rotten tomb

of the man who lives

but has never lived

for he burdened hslife a-it.


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there is a bond on two, stronger than forces ofthe universe, yet weaker than water


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Footing

I

Let's lay the roof

on the binding dusts.

Let's come to oneness,

to fulfilment, in sole.

Let's let ourselves

to our one another:

let's make a future

in our present room.

II


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They say in grave vow –

that unsaid on yards,

but said for heards.

How two of tens of fingers

are made two of five of one.

How four nostrils take within

safen pores one single breath.

The same rhythm of the heart

and a single blood fills all flesh;

the same drop of sweat rains

from two unlike bodies:


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they turn one in all.

III

Now, they who lay the roof

and put oneness by dusty souls

have made the grounds

of state, of race, of place.

It is the footing

in one unison;

it is the beginning

in one pulse.


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155

shades of lies

that will not let sight afar

will not let skull and rib

take a single white skin,

dear shades of lies

by which the virtue is lost

and wind is bottled in open hands

like barren sweats to rebind them again,

dear shades of lies break that home

shades of hades from their words,

love is not all in the marriage –

it burns my guts hard much


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truths unfed oxygens go gravely –

buy a bit of job to bail bales –

as though it isn't a piece of love

take trust to temple's flesh –

as though it isn't a piece of love

and with many more vanities

have ruined the true love

that endures pocketly desert,

that enwaits explain 'n foggy pseudffaire

screams of familial shards –

like a gourd splintered a billions –


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reach up high blaming still

gentle shadows able t'lift dust 'n' lie

shades of hades from priests and greys

who with bent hearts make wedluck wedsuck

first for their lives, then theirs abroad

and shadows don't tell real images


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Let s Remain Ever

Together a flesh, a blood.

Let's remain in a fist

like a bow and it string,

like a sword and its sheath,

like a skin and its hair.

Let's take a step with two legs

and two steps in four legs,

at once and one they are

in dance to songs in air,

in tuning organs of hearts.

Let's make present today


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with our eyes on an image

and our hands on an object

and our care on the child

and our wrinks to the last.

Let's lake the running seas

with our cherish in love

and our cares to be lost

and our worries in dark

till our awe in us old.

Let's marry.


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They Got Wedded

The man and the woman

who take by wants of selfs –

the desires before time written,

the needs carved on tree of love

in time wintry, in seasons springy –

get two petals on a rose,

two roses on a stalk,

two stalks on a branch,

two boughs on a stem,

two stems on a root;

they get twined to oneness,

twisted as


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ropes, a line

over the days of sorrow,

on pegs of horrow,

in pag's of merry,

by pens of sug'ry.

Now that both are one

who have sacred the scars,

they have templated oaths

that gods and men revere.

They were singular,

one quaintly odd pairs

and are now one,


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of two conflu'nced motions:

goodly sad; evily gay:

they are wedded.


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Marriage

In courts to temples of gods,

in eyes of men and ears of beasts,

they merge into one:

to beat a rhythm at night,

to raise a voice in day,

to sleep a dream till wake,

to smile in frozen waters,

to raise ova in wombly hands.

Perfect one for the other –

I do not praise the same,

the one in organ, in hormone;


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but I say to the same,

the one in soul, in heart –

like the mane crowns lion,

they come to singleness

and she manes his mind.

O, pride is the song of the man

who has a priceless jewel,

who holds a stainless gold –

pride, head taller than shoulders.

O d'light, the queen dances

to whispering flutes of the wind,

to sweetening reeds of the creek –


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d'light, hand swifter than drumming,

Time has folded into nothingness;

seasons spend summers seeking solitude,

what thing the bond has taken,

what thing the ring has broken.

Locked together,

when rain shines,

when sun falls.


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they are not of blood, but of mind bond


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Friends

O dear, these have left their breaths in mouths

just so they can peek into my way and wardness

and madden at my weary mind

and sweeten at my winning might.

It is precious to find such in your sight,

to behold their hair, inhale their air –

they, who communicate good, sail well –

for it does make you more firm to goal.

Poor thing, they are debris of life,

vanishing smoke of the cigar,

staggered souls of brownly fallen leaves


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that want your cease –

though you know not.

It is sugary rottenness to tongue –

sour taste to the heart wanting wicks

that can sparkle infinitely –

to have communion in them,

to dine of their table.

Friends are so:

always your foe –

fight your shrinking night

or your sunny sky.


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Let s Go to Town

Life is lustrous, is lustful,

than the brown bark of iroko.

Let's leave the beating dew

and the cat's meow and elder's pew,

their words thus come to the mind.

Double ears make you double hear

and one mind contains the insuffice.

Soon, words of the urban fill,

thoughts of the orphan still.

There's life in the town,

this hamlet has let all harm


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that you see no honks but birdsongs

that you hear no coloured screen but rainbowfill sky,

they say sweetly sweet words sword ing depths.

How childish is the heart to lean

to the lingers of deaths,

on the fingers of hell –

howl childish is the soul to blink

of the eying of owls

of the dying of woes?!

Yet,

the friend has the word

that makes your heart world


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the newness of ragged bitterness –

a sweet poison to the soul,

a little mix of clay hands and wet salt.

Do go to town,

dear child, with him.

The grey knows, howe'er,

the town buries the crown fast,

and songs of birds unscreech like honks.


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Commitments

Take an early spade of the shrine

where the gods have spoken hailing dooms

and the bitterness in gourd is poured on earth

that takes a quick gulp of the flavour in one breath –

they are commitments of one with many friends.

Days come swifter than sparkles of matches

that you will take an unheavy beard of the face

to have a kiss voking bliss for a pretty smile you long,

or

that you will bake the paper of planned purposes


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in fires of wrath, work, word, wane, wending write

just so you meet a laugh – their own tittering.

For one more pal, you need part with one more pay –

for this must you pay in the way.


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Find a Comfort

Dear, make a partner in all that you see,

but thus:

walk the edges of the four mighty waters;

cast their rockily icy stones away –

stones dearer, gold –

tell them you put dust in water's heart

and watch who dives to the bowels of sharks

and watch who drives to the gut of the fish.

Then will you know verily

that who has a pain for your gain,

who bears a cross for your gross,


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who wears a thornes for your thrones.

When you find this, dear beholder,

you find jewel of once in a timeless world.


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I H ad Friends

I

I had friends:

all now silent;

all now gone.

My hair greys

but theirs freys;

but theirs graves.

Of all men

they said most

of time's tales:

Documents

The Grey Hair and the Gaberdine