Uyo (Hour 24)

Ever since you left those dry streets and rusty shackles,

you have moved, undetected, into a city of magic.

Your air, fresh and pure, yet untainted

by the desperate hands of capitalism;

your waters, clear and clean, yet unperturbed,

freshness is a seed of its own inside of you.

You have won the allures of beautiful giant birds landing into your suburb

as they offload multiple eyes to witness what you have become.

You have won the hearts of wordsmiths

as pyramids of books are built in your belly and across your environs.

You have won the bowels of the nation,

an array of enchanting cuisine, testimonies of sumptuous propensities.

You have won the gaze of men,

feminine charms and cups of humble palm wine amplify the gaze.

With clean streets to lay on,

moonlit nights over palm fronds,

green life that reels out imageries,

a raffia enclave nearby with tales yet untold,

and the aquatic splendour, some distance away, where beauty settles,

yours is the insignia of tranquility,

and the elixir that swells the pen’s ink.

 

 

 

Written from the text prompt of Hour 24.

Featured image source: TripAdvisor

Cheese (Hour 23)

Cabals of photographers use cheese to make children smile.

How they find it’s the only word that makes them show cameras their teeth, I don’t know.

Efforts I make to fall in love with cheese tend to race away behind me.

Each time I try, Mama’a cuisine beckons and Papa’s spices assault my nostrils.

So I am going to give this cheese to the photographer, not the chef;

each of us ebbing time away on the platter of customs.

 

 

 

Written as an acrostic poem from the text prompt of Hour 23.

Featured image source: Freepik

An Ode to Anonymous (Hour 21)

In the faces of many, yours was the only one showing.

That little exchange of words,

that feasted in between us,

calling my attention to an obligation of mine,

lighted the blue flame that burnt softly

until I knew I had nowhere else to go.

In the fiercer exchanges of words that followed,

that virtual festival of encoding and decoding,

we did everything people like us could ever do.

When you left unannounced,

to protect what you already had,

us stopped to exist just the same way it was born.

The memories are still good to live with,

crawling years after,

years of mulish memories.

 

 

Written from Hour 21 text prompt.

Night Owls (Hour 20)

Owls hoot on huge trees

along unlit paths of unpopulated roads.

They send chills down the spine

of the inexperienced night walker.

Their two frontal eyes mean and cold,

they are supposed to be evil terrorising humans;

tales handed down from generation to generation,

tales my pen is unwilling to scrutinise.

Yet, they are creatures too, like the rest,

perching on the wings of survival.

Neither their adventures nor their fate

will stop my poetry ink from flowing,

these night owls and night walkers!

 

 

Written from the text prompt of Hour 20.

An Abridged Post-Mutilation Testament (Hour 17)

“I am begging,

Let me be lonely

but not invisible.”

– Natalie Diaz

 

That heart is homegrown now.

Those guiltless drives

and gentle concerns are much stronger now.

Only now, it has grown the tools to sieve you out,

since you failed to extinguish it.

 

That head is ever more wiser now.

Those selfless sacrifices and

tireless work behind the scenes.

It can sift the chaff better now,

since you failed to shut it down.

 

Those hands aren’t as swift as they used to be.

Much brawn and fuel drawn from them

in that fruitless misapplication of your multitasking concepts.

Now though, they can hinge well on reborn pivots

since you failed to render them numb.

 

 

 

Written from the text prompt of Hour 17.

The Feel of Truth (Hour 16)

Con people often wrap truth in packs,

deceiving the eyes that sights it,

or in sacks that makes it stink.

 

They often foul up the truth,

injecting pungent impurities

to make it smell bad.

 

They contort the narratives,

passing false testimonies from mouth to mouth,

so truth can remain buried from generation to generation.

 

They lace truth up with bitter pills,

so those with the guts

cannot force it down their throats.

 

What they seldom do is to change the feel of truth,

to skew instincts, emotions, and cues away;

for truth can be felt from across horizons and within close range.

 

Truth thieves are meant to face the law,

to be barred from societies where they do not belong;

certainly cowards have a space in that boat.

 

 

 

Written from the text prompt of Hour 16.

Reimposition (Hour 15)

In a bowl of Nos,

One Yes could have been drowned.

That is not a contest for the wrestling ground.

 

This moment has created a world of its own,

distant from the gray past

that can no longer embrace colours.

 

Eyes are truly ahead of me.

Ears picking whispers from the past and present.

Head no longer of a victim of dithering.

 

In that one deep bowl of Nos,

my one Yes could have stood out,

loud, bright, truly differentiated.

 

So I have watched that one Yes drown,

to adorn the belly of the sea.

So I will say Yes again,

like the endless waves of the sea.

 

 

 

Written from the text prompt of Hour 15.

Little Angels (Hour 14)

Pleasant babbles float around…

Cries of demand, not those of despair.

 

Toddling steps on soft mats…

Those curious fingers querying every item in sight.

 

Lovely eyes, seeking connections…

The pretty ears that hear more than we know.

 

Colourful display of apparels…

That bonding smells of babyness

 

All of you little angels I can see…

All your tiny sounds I can hear.

 

But I need you to go to the houses of my friends

where they have none.

 

Go fill their calm.

Go create sweet disruptions in their homes.

 

 

 

Written from the text prompt of Hour 14.

 

 

Mood (Hour 13)

In moments.

Transient or stretched lives.

Solicited or unsolicited drives.

Flashes from the deep.

Sparks from the shallow.

Into varied spaces.

Recorded by mortals.

Through spirited transformations.

Into forms.

Into worlds.

All parties step on it.

Light.

And.

Heavy.

They ascend.

 

Death prowls still.

Bemoaned or celebrated.

Yet, living with us.

 

 

Written from the text prompt of Hour 13.

1 2 3