iAmDiipo

You must have led a life I know, had a wife or wives Children and kinsmen I wonder how you beamed around them, or didn’t How you played, or didn’t And my question is this; Were you caught playing with them? Or away from them Perhaps, you were caught cheating your wife Petting some young lass you just met Was she caught with you too? These your eyes that shines still brightly What brought joy to them— in your time? This is your time still I deliberated Its your time until you can’t be seen around Its your time till the day you were taken from your friends And your time still— drowned in this pepper And your time till you vanish through the abyss of my gut Even now marinated in chili and seasoning I can’t help but marvel at the grandeur of your beauty Were you a he or she? What was your calling? Were you a ...

Its queer, isn’t it? To sit & write in a mall But it is queerer if you sit beside a writer And wonder what under the heavens a sane Persona would write about— In the nosiest part of a noisy mall What would she write about, a husband? Would she write about any such thing? If she’s decked thus; Black boots, blue-black jeans, black leather jacket Studded just like her nose & ears; On her head, a scarlet mane But on her mind (in her notepad) Who can guess? If she’s lost or won If she’d cry or laugh this very next moment. NOTES The palms springs is the biggest shopping mall in Lagos.

The cock crows As the cold of the night melts A wise son whispers his prayers Ere the twitter of weavers On the trees in the frontage. The busy of our mothers' brooms And the rhythm of cutlasses On the whetstone in the yard Stirs the sluggard, their clamor And beef and anger. On grasses the dew vanish Giving way to the dust Raised by troops of little children With calabashes and decorated guards On their way to the singing stream. The yellow flowers of okra Shone with brilliant smiles As the luster of the rising sun Affirms yet another dawn Another dawn of endeavors.

I will tell the police And call your mother I will write ‘The Times’ And copy the gods That you are the sweetest woman alive That you are the thief who stole my heart And kept it betwixt the roundness of your  thigh.

This is not a poem A poem is supposed to say something Or some things Do something or Think some things and not say it A poem must have ingredients like an african soup Prettified with devices and made of two or more soups A poem must have something thick just to go with it A poem must be utilitarian; Be a weapon, a victim, a voice or be the poet— Be a message Pass a message Or pass a message across Better still; pass a message across to somebody. Is this a poem?

This is fear I’d know her anywhere I saw her yesterday too Naked unalloyed Ogling and seeing beyond my eyeballs Deeper into my depths. Unsettled, I moved on Realizing I’d see him again I stood to ask the man inside me If ever I’d be without this fear `Yes, yes you will` he said. `You will be with him and him with you Forever settled afterwards’.

This rain must quench the sun This sun shall fry in fury his fingers before it pokes the earth The tussle is futile; no winner This rain will not quench the sun The sun cannot stop his wet fingers From probing the waiting earth The winner has not come So it rained It rained on the moon And made runnels This made streams Which flows across the face of the sun And cannot quench the sun For he shone still It rained cougars, foxes and zebra And silent seas flow from their scared eyes As they scampered Ducking under thickets It rained in the sun The queen labors Her cries were fierce And all in flight or fright Was still and quiet or numb It rained on the sun For a king is being borne. The winner is now here.