iAmDiipo

Why is it that of the touches I have felt Yours stood yet very tall above the rest As the sky is always high above the soil, Why is it then that I have to wait forever Only to see that lustrous shine in your eyes That once sparkled on my pen and poetry, Why have the elements connived to unbridge us Even we, abetted the disunity as time laughs by And I, am left to diet on memories sweet And to relish past yet potent moments That you and I alone knew.

“I’m sad" I said to no one in particular not knowing my mentor was right behind me. “My son, why?" He asked “I dunno, I dunno why I I..." I stuttered “I know why you are sad son" He cuts in, in his usual grandfatherly voice “How" I said "how could you possibly know why I am sad when I am yet to figure it out” And then he launched into a lengthy one "Life becomes sad when you expect too much; you cannot fill a cask with the juice of a single grape. When you expect too much from a situation, the little you get seems like nothing" he paused, coughed and continued "Aspire, desire my son, but do not forget that even the next breath is uncertain" He patted me on the head and left.

I LOST two consecutive chess games to an average player yesterday evening. I resigned the first game after my 38th move, because I have made a lot of mistakes and was materially behind. I decided to resign, on the grounds that I could not catch up based on my analysis of the immediate situation. The second game started soon and I eventfully lost despite my determination and the skillful efforts I deployed to win. When I got home to sleep I did a quick analysis of the games and realized that I lost the second one simply because I wasn't enjoying the game as a game; I was thinking too deeply and too much, every of my move was carefully considered for all possible outcomes. And I lost on time because my opponent was only enjoying himself and he didn't have to think too much. I later analyzed the first game and grasped too late that I could have won if I had not resigned as my opponent's positioning was awry and precarious but I didn't see that, all I saw was my ma...

Chanting Chants As the golden fingers of the sun Recedes into the belly of the evening sky My tear-bathed eyes looks on Seeking pebbles of happiness Amidst rocks of mystery and fear Searching for droplets of harmony That drifts in the river of chaos. The quietness of the evening breeze Wafts a chant of the old warriors Swaying to the jarring tune Stiff-leggedly rowing to the rhythm Hoping for nothing, dreaming no dreams All the time silently chanting chants Waiting to hear the voice of silence.

There is a gale under my skin A typhoon in my blood ocean There is a tempest in my tummy A tsunami resides in my head There is a cyclone in my ink cup My quill is afire, consuming My heart is whitened, sainted My eyes are crimsoned, bedeviled The cyclone in my ink cup Quakes my salt rugged fingers The sirens inside my ears Quivers my legs excitedly I know better than to listen I know better than to look too I gripped my quill harder Inserted it in the cup, soaked I brought it to bear on the scroll With faith, my duty I did. I’m a faithful one.

ANOTHER DAWN 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.

WHY WOULD I? If it'll end in skull and bones Do I need the guns and drones If I have love for my brother What is with wars and anger If my heart know peace And I can dance to its silent melodies In the quiet and hush of my night sleep; If my ear can hear the songs of silent birds Through the sanguinity of my dream, Why then would I moan If without strive or fear I can open the lids of my eyes And my palms to the warmth and glow of the morning sun Why then would I Why then would I Still a poet be.