The Poetry Marathon

Before the prompt is out, sigh,

The pencils are already moving, why?

Their ears are closed, goodbye,

as minds feverishly try to rhyme.

Heads are bent over papers, be kind,

maybe they heard me (in my mind).

I will teach them to write.

I will create a bright light that guides them to learning.

The directions are given, clearly.

It is a simple act of reading, merely.

Ah… but the hands are up, dear me.

Air fills with the repeated question, tears.

Hold it together, don’t yell, “Hear me!”

Point at the directions near me,

and demand, read it out loud for me.

I will teach them to do math.

I will create a clear path that guides them to learning.

There is plenty of blame.

It has become a drinking game.

Every year, it’s the same.

There are new faces and names,

but the struggle remains;

how to get them to use their brains?

I will teach them to learn.

I will create a fire that burns to guide them to a love of learning.

Parents are supposed to be there for their children

Even if their lives start to fall apart

You can’t just give up and walk away…

…are leave the state to try to escape

Deadbeats always make up excuses

But quick to point their fingers when things don’t go their way

It’s time to STEP UP

It takes two to tango

You laid down to make him

Then turned around and left him

How can you look at what you created with eyes that’s blind to his pain?

He stays looking for you

And you’re hiding in plain sight

Too bad you’re missing out on a kid that’s beyond amazing

All because you’re too selfish to think past yourself

It’s time to STEP UP

As a father you should be calling your son

You should be the one making him feel loved

There’s no reason for months to go by without a word

But you expect him to call to say what’s up

He needs a man to help him become one

But you’re too busy being a father to another child that’s not yours

It’s time to STEP UP

His genial fire
Reverberates with exotic warmth
His aesthetically crafted tomes
Across literary modes
Exudes the regal passion of a Plutonic sage

Oluwole Akinwande Soyinka remains Africa’s Iconic Voyager of distinction

A gadfly with the boundless depth of a pantheon…
His footprints echoes the seamless craft of an art connoisseur

His exceptional artistry reflects in his truckloads of global medallions…

A dexterous Weaver of words
A griot with uncanny wisdom of the ancients…

His priceless pearls drips with unalloyed clarity, striking cords of a genius…

He remains Africa’s WS, a muse with matchless depth
An inventive scholar of legendary fireworks…

Up and down aisles of glass,
never looking more fragile,
I wandered until I found you:
Faithful old friends,
new comrades,
some along to see how they meshed.

A few for comfort on bad nights,
or to liven up good nights,
and some just because Quarantine.
I promised you we’d both see the end of this.
In weeks or months.

I brought you back in heavy bags,
set up a place where the kids wouldn’t bother you
We started hanging out almost every night
(once the kids were in bed).
The news got worse,
the streets emptied out,
the numbers got uglier,
routines crumbled,
tempers flared,
but you were there for me.

But as things darkened further yet,
and Quarantine just became life,
I watched you dwindle away,
losing weight and color,
until a few of you vanished entirely.

Had I been relying on you too much?
You wouldn’t confirm it
(always so stoic).

But neither would you deny it.
Because, after all, you’ve never lied to me.

I gave you more space; checking in once or twice a week.
We don’t hang out alone as much as we used to, but you seem fine with it.
You have your faults, but you’re not needy.

I promised you we’d both see the end of this.
Even if we don’t see each other much, until the end.

Rebel. Refuse. Resist. Revolt. Overcome.
It only takes a single match to burn a forest,
You could be the one.
Don’t let them douse the protests momentum
Or put back in the bottle what we have begun,
The onus is on us to turn the riots into rebellion,
To redefine the rotten core
At the very heart of the system,
And whilst we’re at it, disband the Union,
And corrupt institutions,
Like the Catholic Church, militaries, the Royal Family and Governments
Formed out of Eton,
For Red or Blue,
What’s there to choose,
Between Starmer’s Labour and the Tories, or in the US too
Where soon you get to choose between two
White men.
Racists. Misogynists. Both of them.

A metaphor for life

This place

Surface of tranquil beauty

Manicured lawns,

well pruned palms

But lurking
around edges
under brackish waters

something else

not nearly so benign

submerged in shallow waters

aware and alert

as blind eyes

fail to see
and

carefree steps take you near

Scattered in the seas of none ya

Like the shredded leaves of the wintered tree

A branch broken from it’s home

I stand on the cliff

Not ready to fall off

But ready to leave at the moment

A moment of royal emotion

Soaked in honey deep

A moment so shiny

In sunny spring

A moment so content

The memories didn’t matter

As the breeze take me

On a journey trip

Whispers of words in ecstasy

Kisses of love from glowing lips

Hugs my being in a sweaty squeeze

And soft caresses on my bruised back

Still, I want more,

I wish Oliver could think less

But nothing could explain why

But staying, getting fixed on the edge of the cliff

Is my gain

A little step backward, I can’t take

For now, is the time

No forgone alternative

The fullness of time is spent.

Spring.

Flowers bloom and birds sing.

So many colours splattered around

And so many fragrances can be found.

Summer is when the sun scorches our skin.

Against the burning heat, you can never win.

You’re in desperate need for a cold glass of water.

Hoping it will get you through the days that just seem to get hotter.

In autumn you watch the leaves fall

From the trees that stand tall.

Orange, red, yellow and brown

Is strewn all over the ground.

The freezing cold knips your skin in winter all day and night.

Sometimes you catch a cold that your body will have to fight.

It’s the best time to cuddle and be warm

And make snowmen with the snow that has begun to form.

All seasons can be fill with happiness and fun.

All seasons are important. Not just one.

Waiting.

For nothing,

Hope is fear,

Fear is hope,

A hope of something new.

Old is silent,

Freedom.

By Aqua PMC Shared 6/26/20