I know where dead men come from,
My father said it is from the sky.
Whenever they fall,
their bodies crack open and babies fall out into a womb
while they find the tomb.
I know where the sky came from,
it is a mucus of God that will never dry.
I know where the ground came from,
It is where God urinated
and the sun refused to see it,
that is why it is blind
and cannot find his way to his ice.
I know what thunders mean,
they are trees that would have made us
but instead of swallowing that seed,
we preferred words and its creed.
So each time it strikes the mucus of God,
it becomes a drum that wakes the dead
but only babies cry
because the ground stinks of houses, sin and people
There’s a God behind this beauty of light.
There’s a heaven without the mention of Christ,
Like rooms of lightning without thunder claps
Flirting with a calligraphy of zebra clouds.
This is the night when shock climbs the wall of our faces
To touch this fossil fuel; a suffix of fire.
The burn, refreshing.
A portrait of …
Of something hidden within the conscience of clouds:
One part, light.
Another, wool, a prefix for tissue,
A suffix of rain, capturing droplets
Before calmly letting them down to us as dew.
Disclosing the shadow of the universe,
Assembling paradoxes of healing,
Before running back to the future
To soon return again
As the birth and death of rain.
The sun sat on a portion of the sky.
It was cushioned with the cloud’s fur.
While the day hid her face,
I saw the night mirroring its beauty.
In plain reflective space.
The lightning broke not only our peace,
But also tore the horizon apart
And added colours to the sierra.
The Sky’s on fire and shattered.
We eagerly await her fall,
Watching as we sit on the stars.
I’m marveled by this work of art.
Who holds the sky in place?
Who saw the shadows?
Could that be the hand of God?
Or the arm of their alien robots?
It thinly burns
With the fires of hope
Kindled at all turns
For the realms to cope
That of the eye
And that for the mind
A thunderous tie
Knotting God and mankind
There is a sparkle to a bended knee
That opens heaven to earth
Prayer is the ultimate key
That aids wishes give birth
The eye must hear what the mind sees
For she speaks what He says
And what He says calms even the seas
Connect: and see your eyes see drier days
I watched men dance as if it was Pentecost
Singing to something that made an ugly noise,
There were no tongues, just fire.
I was no saint , I was no sinner; just a loner.
I watched you touch this earth,
With anger considered manageable.
This was no day of reparation.
This was no chance for redemption.
Just another day the weather forecast’s lies came to pass.
You, became the whip of our God
A reminder that we are not alone
Completing a strip of armed light.
I’ve loved the paintings of Picasso
With colours so enthralling
In all its naked glory
And the heart of women
I’ve loved the stories of Osofisan
Weaver of words
Rebuilding our world
In magical phrases
Connecting us to a future
From the highway of yesterday
I’ve loved the dance of Bose
Weaving patterns on air
That the camera cannot capture
Leaving a history
Only eyes can tell
I’ve loved the poetry
Of Leonell, David the Oracle, Miidong, Snizel,Ruddapoet
Whose fire burn the pages of our hearts.
But I’m yet to find words
To capture your paintings
In whom consists
All the arts