It Is Not in How Long

It is not in the how long
But in the how well
Not in how long you study
But how much retained
Not how long you worked
But how pleasing the fruit of labor
Not how long you spoke
But how much impact the words
Not in how long you searched
But how quickly the aim you found

If it were in how long,
I’d be the ruler of this earth
For I’ve been on this earth
A mighty, mighty long time

It is how in well I’ve lived on this earth
I’ve tried to live well in it
Not to hurt it by any measure
To leave it better than I found it
I have aspired to live well in it
To befriend my fellow humans
And cause a change somehow
I have tried to make a difference
In the hopes and plans of youth
Who come my way yearly
So they’ll see better than I saw
So they’ll pass on liberally to all
A kinder, kindlier, gentler
More loving, more peaceful earth
It is not in how long at all
It is in how well you lived

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Bitterleaf Sophistication

Yearning to be different
To feel, smell, do differently

encrypted-tbn2.google.com

A mark of one needing distinction
It required more effort to taste right
Needing more time for cleanliness
Demanding more patience in preparation
Knowing in its veins its uniqueness
Giving the palate a kick
To notice its supreme occupancy
Giving the eye a view
To appreciate its darkest hue
Giving the fingers a chance
To play with its complexity
The bitterleaf knew its uniqueness
Standing aloof and askance

encrypted-tbn2.google.com

Watching herself primped and prepped
Like a Hollywood superstar
But feeling differently
Doing things extraordinarily
Appreciated regally
Its sophistication unrivalled
Its uniqueness cherished
By the best of Nigeria’s chefs
By Nigeria’s discerning taste buds


©2005FrancesOhanenye, all rights reserved.

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Silver-Screen Life

My life flashed before me
Not at the eleventh hour of death
Nor at the point of loss
My life flashed before me
Reflected on the silver screen
I knew it when I saw it
How contented I’d be
Not the materialistic nature of it
But the just-being-there of it
Abundance of open rooms
Flimsy curtains playing in the wind
Dancing carefree in the breeze
Blown into my face caressingly
As I slid jauntily by
With sand between active toes
Collecting ocean bleached rocks
Pants knee-down wet
From shoreline escapades
Frolicking before the hairline
Border of the expansive blue
Pouring words tirelessly
Content just to sit and write
Days blending into nights
Getting nary a night’s sleep
I saw my life as it ought to be
I won’t rest until it is so


--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

May Is Turkey Breast

Satisfaction found in life’s little pleasures
Multiplies the joy of daily living
When all whom you love daily
Assemble in one peaceful place
Love shapes life ever so perfectly
Parents surrounded by growing children
Revel in common everyday things
Joy beams gloriously each morning
The future appears certain in itself

The months form own personalities
Like siblings following each other
Knowing where each falls in the
Birth chronicles of parents’ journal
The months formed own personalities
These months ruined each other
April, the month Mother left
Ruined Easter permanently
Like top of hardened bun
Its brick nature suffocating
June, the month Father passed
Leaving on Father’s Day exactly
Ruining that day for ever
Like hardened bottom bun choking
Whose brick nature blocks trachea

Rescuing softness squeezed in the middle
Month of sliced May, the meat
Appeasement for extremities
Of nutritious turkey breast, healthy
Giving brief respite from two months
Of heartaches and unfulfilled longings
Two abominable months of hopelessness
May, squeezed in wisely by God
Offers a reprieve from death’s stings
Merciless double blows punched
On each side of heart, face, sanity
Unrelenting in finality and cruelty
Thirty-one slices of turkey breast saved me
Taking it one slice at a time


--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

A Man Is Never Jealous

My man loves me
But he’d rather die
Than admit, say it
He demands my whereabouts
Questions where I’d been

Demands a print-out
Of my daily wanderings
A print-out from Map-Quest
Minute by minute journeys
Mile by mile excursions
Demanding who’s on my line
Attempts a quarantine
Dare I flirt
Watching every hip shift
Studying men’s faces
For the slightest interest
In my numerous body parts

He leaves me quickly
Returns a minute later
An attempt to catch me cheating
My man’s never jealous
Just drives himself insane
Worrying who’s going to steal me
Steal me from him

©2009FrancesOhanenye, all rights reserved.

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.