I eat oatmeal for breakfast.
I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.
I eat it alone.
I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health
if somebody eats it with you.
That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have
Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary
This sad sequence came as aftermath
To the day I gave my goldfish a bath.
She was so happy. There was nary a scowl,
as she got her rubdown with the towel.
Then, into the water she slid -- in the nude,
to swim. A vision of piscatorial pulchritude.
I do get sentimental about a fish so ornamental..
And I knew: for her to flourish, I must properly nourish.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,---
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
ONE morn before me were three figures seen,
I With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
In placid sandals, and in white robes graced;
They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn,
When shifted round to see the other side;
They came again; as when the urn once more
Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;
And they were strange to me, as may betide
With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.
Eight years have come and gone, yet my people still remain blind,
Many a year our leaders shower us with their sugarcoated tongues.
A zillion promises they make now and then, fulfilling none;
Enriching themselves while the poor masses remain indigent.
Poverty in our land has been catapulted, unemployment is now our most High;
A posse of inconsiderate oldies we have as rulers, a bunch of purposeless grandpas.
Need we die before our voices can be heard? Are we even living?
Now and then we pray things be better, but I guess all is but a colossal bummer.
An ode to poetry
An ode to the poet
A celebration to the tree
A dedication to the leaf which fell from it
Shame the thief
Port Harcourt, my Port Harcourt,
A baronial city, bedraggled and obstreperous;
A city with the good, the bad and the ugly,
Deprived of all in tandem with beauty.
Port Harcourt, my renowned Garden City,
Parlous, galling and , of course, shambolic;
A city where the gardens are but mere weeds;
One where looters and junkies own the streets.
Six years a waste,
I'm sure you can relate.
I needed us to be more,
But you turned out to be a whore.
Letting the world know about us-my biggest bummer;
I so wish we'd had, from the outset, the deserved sunder.
Woe is me, for I have made a boner
That swine has indeed defiled this stunner.
Your pulchritude is like a magic spell,
Binding all that breathe like an African 'Juju'.
Your name, to many, is sturdy and mystical,
Just like the unfathomable Abracadabra.
Your comeliness and incomparability get me entombed in flabbergast,
Your eyes are like charms, hypnotizing me ad infinitum;
You're the manacle that fetters me with hyper-ecstacy; the world's jewel of inestimable value.
Oh, how exhilarated I am to be one of yours!