The Poetry Marathon

‌Back when the earth was young

The eagle, King of the birds, built his castle in heaven.

He celebrates his feed fat ceremony one a year.

The party is in heaven so only a bird could go.

But the  tortoise was very determined to go.

So he went to the birds with a weird request.

Just give me one feather and that will be all.

At the end he was more colorful than all the

Birds.

The eagle has a rule for all his guests, don’t come to my palace with a commoner’s name.

A special name you have to take.

So the peacock called himself the stunning glory

The hawk said from now he is swifty the fast.

One by one, every bird took a kingly name

Cunning tortoise opted for “all of you”.

‘Why the weird alias’, wondered adaka the cuckoo.

‘Because I have a feather from each of you’, replied tortoise with a hidden smirk.

They sang as they go as birds are wont to do.

Anyi jega n’umu igwe orima do ri ma ri ma do rima

We are going to heaven

Anu nwere nku ya puta ije, do ri ma ri ma do ri ma

If you have a wing join us

Anu enweghi nku ya nodu ala, do ri ma ri ma do ri ma

If you don’t have a wing stay back.

They got to the ceremony in high spirits

The elephant has prepared a feast fit for a king.

All the food and drinks is for ‘all of you’

‘All of you’ please enjoy yourselves

‘Well’ , tortoise said ‘I am all of you’.

No one touches a morsel or a drop of wine.

He ate and ate  and drank and drank .

Leaving behind a bunch of angry birds

Whose feathers are his bus fare home.

The birds left angry , everyone taking his borrowed feather with him.

Leaving cunning tortoise in heaven without a wing.

Hawk who was the angriest gave him a favor.

I will take a message to your wife he said with a smirk.

To bring out your fishing net to catch you when you jump.

Tortoise saw his wife bring things out of the house.

But he was too far away to know for sure.

At her signal he let go and tumbled down to earth.

Too late, he landed on the hardest objects in his house.

Broken bottles, a pestle and even his canoe.

Evidently the hawk has ‘forgotten’ to mention the net.

So tortoise cracked his shell in tiny pieces.

Njoku the snail put him together again.

But his shell was never the same again.

And that is why tortoise has a cracked shell to this day.

Igbo Folklore.

A star sprangled cur

Of a breed beyond my Ken

Waiting, just waiting.

I hear the thump thump sounds of  strange drums.

Faint sounds but getting louder with each new beat.

These are no drums I knew.

Not the sounds of the long drums accompanying a bridal party.

Or the gangan celebrating a chieftaincy.

It is not the ikpa, for no one died. No one that important anyways.

These are neither happy nor sad sounds.

Just of fear, a foreboding , a warning.

Of a river of blood about to flow and of voices on the brink of a wail.

Of vultures, circling, patient, waiting

Like guests at a wedding about to feast.

These are like no beats that I knew.

These new drums are the drums of war.

A bubble of mirth

Guffaws jubilant in glee

Burst forth from within

Go to the sloth you sluggers, consider it’s ways and be wise.

To build a tomorrow , bright and filled with wealth,

Follow Ben the three toed sloth!

Ben is just the poster child for the cliché that said “the early bird catches the worm”.

For Ben, day is just as good as night, 24 hours almost not enough, for Ben never sleeps  till his work is done.

20 hours he works only 4 he sleeps, Ben never sleeps till his work is done.

If hard work is your aim and discipline your goal,

By all means follow Ben I say.

I indeed had a friend , a writer by craft, who couldn’t sit down to write.

He had ideas worth 10 thrillers, but the pitfall is this

How to sit down and just keep at it.

But on bright good Friday , the god of fortune gave him a kiss.

Right smack on the lips he confessed.

He met Ben the hard worker, yes that very Ben and to this day 10 thrillers he wrote.

I do hope that these few lines of mine convinced you,

You can’t do better than a slot for hard work.

Mounted on the wings of nostalgia

Carried to the Udara tree where we used to sit

And sing at the top of our voices.

Begging the juicy yellow fruits to fall on their own.

That was the only way we could claim them as our’s.

Happy times they were.

Innocent and devoid of guiles, we were.

And you know, sometimes we do sing the fruits down.

Sweet tangy rewards, a worthy bounty claimed,

For innocent little voices raised in Song.

Well! Edward dear, well, I couldn’t help it,

But come and not to gloat but keep the records straight.

I know all along you see, not half as dmb as thought.

I know of your dives in divers coops.

Three counties at last time of count.

I knew that the red roses weren’t for me.

I knew what the Gardenias  are hiding

I knew about the masked men, that they weren’t thieves

For truly, who steals from a thief.

Since you are now two weeks in your cold little script

Well Edward dear, well I couldn’t help it.

I knew that the red roses weren’t for me

But for the angel sent to sent to heaven at the point of your boot

Just halfway between heaven and earth.

So records straight dear Edward dear, ain’t no God called you hence my dear

But a drop of botulinum , hemlock and ash.

Those were the days of wonders

Whose lays I can’t but ponder

When words were true and pristine

And nights were filled with laughter

Then came the wispy fluorine

With bangs of soft oily sheen

And beads that swing in abandon

And thos two pointy collines

And so happened the abduction

That sucked at all the attraction

Yo lazy days of languid vows

And starry nights of passion

So now I gaze with head bowed

At grazing cows and grey clouds

And wonder if I dreamt it all

Those starry nights of languid vows.

Dear Golibe,

I am not disappointed

That you didn’t see me take my last breath.

I am not disappointed

That you weren’t there all that time I laid up

I am not disappointed,

That you never did make that phone call

I am not disappointed,

That you wrote just one letter in four years

I am not disappointed,

That you left and never did look back.

I am not disappointed

And I don’t hold it against you.

My voice echoes a hollow drum

incessant, beating a tune that I

really doubt anyone could hear

real voices,amplified, they roar

on rooftops to applause or boo

rue me if I do speak or whisper

so mine just echoes no sounds