Category Archives: Poetry

Be inspired

Inspiration is a subtle gift wrapped in urgency. One has to take it when offered or risk losing that glimpse into heaven by dallying with the cares of this earth.

When you see it you will know.

Dear reader, be encouraged. Recognition is bound in the identity of that which you look for. Eyes have not seen nor ears heard what God has prepared for those who love him. Dont worry. Time will pass trailing in its wake your expectations on a platter of mirth. Below is a poem, please let me know how it resonates with you.

P.S: Credit goes to @deeyssertFlower and Marvel Comics for the first line and part of the seventh lines respectively. Thanks for inspiring me.

Be encouraged

The light that dimmed did not die,

It lay at night awoken.

Fed off the memory of that to come

And every word unspoken.

The night that came did not last,

Earth turned in restless sleep.

Then now and days of future past

gave the light forever to keep


The viewer, the view.

You walk across my window sill
and into curtains draped across the hill.
Nine times you’ve passed this way before,
I know because I’ve stood here more
listening to the shuffle-step of your feet
make even and odd prints on the street.

I sometimes whisper to my window pane:
“Ask her if she has a name”
It murmurs back in a voice that’s the same:
“I will -if you will- when she comes again”

You stand framed in my right eye’s nook
And also in my left when i dare to look.
Gran tells me “dust settles on a life that’s still
So run an errand to the cassava mill.
Bring me tasty tales of goings on,
Don’t mix up who has died or borne a son”

I often wonder what she would make of you;
The ‘goings on’ that dare not follow through.
Don’t know how many more times I’ll be by;
Gran fades. The news stream may dry

young man standing at window

Taking Lives

In the world of myths, good and evil are unremarkable, merely footnotes in a narrative. However, in this patch of earth and sky, both actors are only too real.


What is it? a person? A state of mind? An act? A result?

It was her. No, it IS her. She lives. In a smile stealing across my face beneath a shade of her memory, in the words and habits transferred without pay or parchment, In her family. In her family.


what is it?

Now we wouldn’t waste text and time talking about that would we? Silence is it’s grave.

This is to her, this is to all those who slept. It makes me wonder about beds and blanket and morning.

Esiere o!


Can anyone ever be dressed to go?

Would the timing ever be right?

Is there use for bedclothes? You should know:

You slept before the night.

Asleep under a blanket of loam

With heads on pillows of sand,

The stillness of years on a steady foam,

Your beds bespeckle the land.

Tears marked your home with a headstone

But its weight couldn’t keep place with time

Over the years your memory had grown (dim)

Into a storied object of predesign.

Light like pollen from dawn’s tender shoot,

make shadowy dreams scurry everywhere.

At dusk, all fall and lie underfoot.

Does any dreamer, or his dream, lie here?


A path leads where it will

A path leads where it will,

Set rock-hard in its way;

It saunters through winter chill

And butterflies in May.


Paths always pause to share in talk

With another passing through,

About lonely soles and potholes

And distant lands where roads flew.


A path continues where it must,

Little changed by traveler’s tales

Of stops- places where paths get lost

As men’s journeying instinct fails.


Roads are born in baby form

Before being laid where grass is worn

Until they arrive without having to depart.

The way of the path is an art.

One. Couple.

We are a couple,

U and I.

U are the fronds in my thatch

When I am cover for your patch

of dreams.

We are a couple,

U and I.

As two steps in one dance,

We are a movement in a trance

of themes.