Hour 20
Nights are long and hot,
Mosquitos and lightening bugs,
Backyard BBQ
Enemies of the People (Hour 21)
Enemies of the people
unleash violence
stoke fires of hate
fan embers of division
in the hearts of people
the state mopes,
like it’s complicit,
like it’s relinquished
its monopoly on violence
umbrella shields from rain
and broom sweeps clean
but neither would be any
use in this impending
revolution.
Hour 10
Hour 10
In the exhalation of poets, we writers like to categorize everything bundle them up. I wonder what a collection of humans would be? Not as congress or community as we would not agree on anything.
In a shrewdness of apes the gorillas at large from the zoo should be better than entering into man’s realm. There is no stopping or departing from bus terminal 3.5 for Africa.
Picture a cauldron of bats brewing the night sky into insect tea.
The glare of cats will gleam in the night.
Cheetahs may form a coalition
but never orangutans.
A tower of giraffes loom in the desert.
Is it a smack sting or slap of jellyfish?
It is definitely a lump of otters.
Tigers ambush
zealous zebras.
But humans?
If only we got along.
Not a crew a troop or agreement.
It would be a disagreement of humans
a force of manipulation
a gathering of egos.
A disrespect of all.
Nothing good comes from
categorizing so maybe
we are all fades of ourselves.
Expressions (Eggspressions)
In this hour of exhaustion,
Unknown expressions keeps coming unplanned.
My face decided it on its own,
Without my knowledge or approval.
That’s probably how it turns out to be,
When a writer don’t write anymore
But letting the subconsciousness do the writing.
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.
.
Writer: M.E. Flores
Hour21, Image Prompt21
Lagos, Nigeria (Hour 19)
an urban contradiction
of the sane and insane
coexisting in an asylum
called city by name
of a concatenation of smells
expensive perfumes fighting sosorobia¹
body odor hiding beneath
the aroma from mamaput¹²
factories belching pollution
competing with paraga³-drinking drunkards-
staggering is the odor that emanates
from the gutters and no one bothers
Who send you?
this is my Lagos-
Africa’s heartbeat and heartthrob
swagger of a kind born
and bred on the streets.
sidewalks steeped in sex and sleaze
Waka pass⁴ if you don’t know the way.
skyscrapers straining against one another
beside mud dwellings looking for a fight
nothing’s new, this is Lagos
yellow ‘danfo’ buses so ubiquitous
and their conductors with yellowing teeth
armed with arsenals of cuss words
and little education
here’s where affluence sleeps with penury,
wake up the next day and table’s turned
there’s no line dividing us-
we’re Lagos and Lagos is us
This is Lagos.
¹cheap locally made body spray
²streetside eatery usually selling cheap foods and low on hygiene
³locally made gin
⁴another phrase for ‘just move on or out of the way’
Poem 21
her mind is
a mystic umbrella
protecting my soul from the
raining
pain
of
my past.
Umbrella
In the mild April showers
Umbrellas bloom like flowers,
Like tulips, upside-down
In the busy town.
The village stream hosts paper boats
An enterprising child’s umbrella floats
A sail tied to its wooden grip.
Among those tiny coracles,
A mighty masted ship!
“The Woman With A Top Hat”
I saw the woman with the top hat,
Along the beach white sand,
Her barefoot feet drags the sand,
And she walks and sways in command,
The ebb of waves coming back to toss,
And touches the her skin that glows,
She’s now grown.
The woman with the top hat the I own.
.
.
.
Writer: M.E. Flores
Hour20, Text Prompt20
21st Hour: The Sunset
The little boy lay as still
As the mountain air surrounding him
His eyes closed, he heard muffled cries
And knew he wouldn’t see tomorrow
A constriction in his heart,
He smelt the familiar, fragrant almond blossom
“Be with me…”
And he drifted away…
Then the blossom wilted…
Deluge
Shower days, ah the light ones spritz.
Leaving a few of fresh feeling
Washing away accumulated sweat.
The lovely showers kissing with each drop.
But thunderstorms?
Cloudy, overcast dumps
Soaking clothes to the underwear
Ripping umbrellas
Leaving you dripping, freeIng, in the AC interior
A mother nature I hate you.