The School!

Like a stone from the stream you were chosen, fitted, honed.
You were set to the sling. Here, we made you set for flight.
The target? Life, through the Way for the purpose of the Truth.
Understanding gave you, gift to wisdom as the perfect wand,
Limited in mind because you were bound by the finite,
Limited in heart because good lies fallen per versed,
Limited in sight because of restricted eyes.
You needed the eyes of many and ears and hands and heart.
You needed to learn how, what, when, where, whose and why.
You needed some handle on what you should seek and why.
Skills that sharpen your search and help you improve your serve.
So, here you are at the school where your training is begun.
Where you gain a heart like His, His heart, His touch, His sight.
Welcome. Leave the path of me and my and mine and I.
Here we are many. You just simply must learn
‘E Pluribus Unum’ out of many make thou one.
The fields before you open like the rising sun.
The many are connected. Defragment, child. They are one.
So see yourself the beauty and the honor of a son.
The essence of a father-art and out pour of His love. -Seun
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In this little house
Lived meaning, wisdom and ants.
Then wisdom woke up and wouldn’t reside. Cutting ties with meaning,
It fled the pack, leaving ants to reason with lack.
This took meaning aback but made the ants tarry to mark.
Wisdom moved on to build houses called ancient. Burnt incense surrounding Cassocks like fences. Pitied pyramids positioned to depict meanings that would bow to ants as retinues. Too dark, too difficult. The ark symbolized wisdom’s renaissance cult, to first recruit, and then expel meaning.
Meaning stood alone interpreting wisdom’s antics. Pointing to signs and Hieroglyps, these pictures posed apposite images with no meanings.
But ants were wise in uniforms. Isolated they recreated meanings to measure these drops of wisdom found nowhere. Leon
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Bring out your pen and paper,
let’s do this together. We write wills and wishes on this wall called life.
We learn what it means to be mean and feed our appetite of moving to another stage.
Here we are, still learning, this classroom has no edges
Four walls can’t limit my bridges that I cross o the other side called Market.
Here we were not taught how to buy and sell neither did we see the practice.
Pictures taken- snap snap, just heard my sit partner died in an auto crash.
We moved to another level to accept bitter sweet tales. Reading about heroes when we hardly knew the Pharaohs.
Did they teach us to fight the good fight?
Did they tell us that we will labour to get the favour?
This is school
I leave it to your minds. – Rachel Charles
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Lancelot and I shared a seat together in a poem
sometimes I was a metaphor he called me ‘metaphor’
and personified himself to his maestro King Arthur.
In my years of sword-manship I was blunt in striking
but sharper in attacking as I rose my weapon upon adversaries.
Whenever we were poetry, we were dumb soldiers
marching towards a blind sun
but our hearts still heard the voice of maestro saying ‘metaphors will pray and I will take it personal’.
I knew I existed before the flesh found me
but my adventures are mixed with the blood that existed in me.
Sometimes when King Arthur died as a Christian of valor,
the word ‘archive’ found its place in existence.
When I was born, I learnt it in school.
I learnt that my sword will strike pages and win wars
to the thoughts that stampede on my innocence.
I learnt Lancelot will be my shadow and King Arthur my guardian.
Of all that I learnt, life itself is a school
but who is the teacher if death is the chalk? – Ruddapoet
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A round hallway
painted with every colour
With designs of strokes and lines
Vast unending scenery
I drew my empty backpack close to my back, searching faces for time
Searching directions to a locker room
My backpack was getting heavy from stares

Disappointment sneered at me
Just across the hall i had my first lesson, there were no lockers
My backpack was part of my skin
There were no classrooms
The round hallway made everyone student and scholar anytime
A rowdy mess of existence it is
A lifetime of falls and glee
Omolola
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Seeking to demolish the walls enclosing our horizon
To find the “Y” for the sun’s resilience
Why it keeps falling and rising
Licking her own wounds in patience
There must be more to us than living to die

School gates seemed the door to the unknown
We flung her open with high hopes and anticipations
But soon fell into her short leashes and restrictions
Within her walls of puppets and clowns
Only the opinions of the tongues of her books counted and none of our own

We stayed her slaves to ward off stereotyping
Years came and years went like a horse galloping
Transversing a marsh with his mater’s whip on its butt
A long stretch of draggy ground with no shortcut

Even more narrowing than the walls of her fence
The walls of her classrooms were suffocating
Every lesson was like a bitter pill of penance
We had to swallow on close monitoring

In the end, we survived her whips
Her recitations finally fell off our lips
We went in through a wide gate
But got out through a narrow window that puts all at a better vantage. Tee2emm