Poetry: The Picture That Love Never Paints!


Optional frequency in heartbeats.
Uneven calamity of the mind.
Demodulation of ecstasy.
When photogenic minds are peaky.
Flash, camera shutters.
Light rays, blinding sights.
Unidealized memories.
Revealing the last unbended form.

These images are in phases.
Dark places, blurry faces.
Reality in a piece of a covered lie.
Soothing on rough patches.
If it could be painted.
It will fall between black and white.
Love and indifference.
But some arts never get to be hit by a painter’s brush.


I am no painter
if I was, love would be me,
putting words in brush tips, color and water.
I am no canvass so I am free.
Holding back the pain
that comes with the rain.
I exist in too much rush
sometimes inside the sun’s crush.

A page can be crooked
to bear straight lines,
it may be too rumpled
to hold some words.
I’d live in a deserted house
than a forest so unwatered.
No be wetin dey shak person head
Na the thing wey carry him head put for bed.



You are perfect in all stance
Nothing like the girl from my rough pages
You are like God, say for instance
My rock! The rock of ages
Your strut like a horse’s prance
Shuffling in between faces
You sway when you dance
Making my heart run deadly races

My big hands to cover your wrong
My broad chest to protect your fault
My words to convince the world
That you can do no wrong
And even when we are alone
I will protect you even from my heart
When against you it becomes prone
For you, my brains I will restart



These are the laws of the heart:
That in public private must not know
That today is tomorrow’s enemy
How the apposite of ‘happy’ is ‘dead’
That these gifts do not respect the giver
And the night sheets abstain in grief…
And love has come to hate the lover
When the giver gives to become the thief

These are the laws of the heart:
That in private public must not know
That misery wakes up in cups heated on fire
That the best truth is told by a liar
How dying is okay when you’re dying to love
And silence is loudest at night thereof:
So all is good. Eat the food. Accept the mood
Die inside but smile in the picture cos for love always you would.



When these flaws became true
I witnessed your tears wiping them away
I saw your fears in the bark of a tree
It stayed there a long while
Gracing you to be free
Even when faults became outnumbered
You didn’t count the leaving decision
The heart adores your mercy revision

This is the desire I admire
My wrongs don’t get in your attire
Instead you kiss them with red roses
The flower you gave overrides the thorn glory
I want to laugh in your mistakes
So the world will know we are here to stay
The stain didn’t read black
My flaws are still white before thy eyes.

Rachel Charles


Tears burning ridges down cheeks!
ache tearing out foundation, off hearts!
betrayal sitting on jilted shoulders,
Pounding drums of despair against cupid’s prey.
There were no words worthy of ecstasy.
So, for joy, she laughed, laughed
For the miracle only lovers profess
She gave everything, body, Soul, Spirit, everything he pleased!

No more would I be beaten, he swore!
better to strike first, strike again, harder!
than to bear the stab of her kiss on another’s lips.
The madness of her laughter at another’s jokes.
Tears burning ridges down cheeks!
ache tearing out foundation, off hearts!
Are paintings, no love can ever canvass!
are colours, no brush can ever love!



When our demons come to roost
They sneer and sigh
Words would turn spears
Striking nerves to flare
They’ll draw blood and tears
Crippling romance to rage
As we cry wolf
Love lied to us

When our demons come to roost
A canvas beneath a canvas
Revealing a masterpiece
Yet a flaw
Strangling our desires
Should we stay ogre
Or cry wolf?
Loved lied to us
Omolola Onigbinde


From the graves of dead souls
Through the coffers that house the egos of men
I heard of thy strength
And how enticing the ounce of your charms.
My heart fell to your beats,
The very first time it kicked.
I’m lost in the heat of your sun
Though it burns I still feel safe.

I’ve seen your works hanging on walls
They’re made from colors
But never of gray
They speak of hunts but not as prey.
You never painted roses with thorns,
Sketched eyes with lids full of tears,
Or faithful hearts with broken spines.
These I now know yet choose to stay.



So many colors your tongue lick from,
But few paintings you offer.
The ones my eyes are familiar with.
I heard you’re creative
But same story your paintings tell
Your eyes see only from one perspective
And your canvass always loyal
So why is your brush rigid?

Drop in its ears stories of flexibility
So it can whirl on the canvass
Staining its skin with colors
Of unique pictures my eyes hunger for.
Those pictures you never painted
Whose ideas you never whispered to your brush.
I heard you’re creative
But same story your paintings tell.

= Bang1.


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