BORN TO SIN

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Sin is not just outside, somewhere;
From where it comes without fear,
Disintegrating our shelled defenses;
To break and consume our senses.

It is inside us, just right within,
Where it sees through us so thin
And struggles to appear right out,
To roam and enjoy its world about.

Alive so well to breed its yield;
It pushes and urges us to build
A worldly home for it and us
To wait outside, in mutual loss.

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LUCK SUCKS

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“Well,” they ever said indifferently,
“You can’t eat your cake and have it.”
‘Bug off!’ I puff out most angrily,
‘You happen to do so every minute.’

“Ah! But it is so, my mate and son,”
They grin with eyes all a sly glint.
“We can all have the same bait on,
Yet I catch and you are still skint.”

‘Never alive?’ I wonder not so loud.
‘Like déjà vu?’ And I’m yet helpful.
“Where many danced your dance proud,
You will be jeered and hailed a fistful.”

‘Is it me then, and my own luck?
Need I add fate, destiny’s slut?’
“We agree to prove only to mock.”
‘Then I’ll set bait and eat my lot.’

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OUR HOMES

Graveyard
It was always dark in all it lack;
All living again, though to us all,
Today it still lingers far off back
In that long night we still do fall.

These cultures that speak the person
Say an Abiku again is every one of us.
For common reason proves a season,
That only event ended and started us.

When the cries over sharia had settled,
We ran and scattered the town’s streets.
Homeless, dead and alive all kettled;
Schemed and steamed out of fair streets.

After all, a rope always starts and ends,
Then it is just after all rope in between.
All of man is birth and the dead ends,
In between is life; man is in between.

After dusk, all return to their own home.
The swine’s streets of our homes will then
Not be as good again to even just roam,
For the transit pen is now a lion’s den.

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MUSICAL NATURE

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The beats of sounds speaks out
To be heard outside thought.
Taught mind holds out its arms
Which melodies caress and disarms.

Balance placed all around is
Fondly rolled out like this.
With august carpets welcomed
To change moods succumbed.

Beauty revealed in rhythm
That alone fills the chasm,
Teach that nature is a song
Sang in the world it belong.

Listening to living all about,
Natural in whisper or shout.
Speaking like a language
For all alive, of every age.

This one common dialect
That nature would select,
To talk to all its wards
Over whom it does lords.

Into the rhymes of beats
Even the soul also eats.
For the monastery of man
Isn’t too lonely to jam.

Drummed beats within ribs
Carry breath beyond its cribs.
Heard inside ears’ own confine
Till sound buries its own coffin.

This atmospheric gaol of man
He has only, all he does plan.
In its whirl spin of mystery,
It entertains man’s misery.

Trunk sounds nosy trumpets
Like fluty birds in high nests.
Peckers tap wooden gongs
As leggy harps chirp songs.

drummer

The hiss lull of breezy air
And crescendo a storm blare;
Conducts brown, green and blue
Into a harmony hardly new.

As sound speaks and entertain,
Nature so musically maintain
The oneness of all it breeds;
Sanely soothing all it feeds.

The metaphor portrays the act
That cannot dispute the fact;
That the fruit of this only life
Metamorphose with all alive.

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