Winter’s Blows

Dressed in green attires they came, fresh from spring
Outstretched arms embraced me without discrimination

Cooling my forehead, restoring my calmness with songs

A newcomer in their compassionately fertile midst

Such hospitality would have made any mother proud

Tenderness glowed like fire’s love in me, affection radiated

Allowing life to be lived leisurely against the sun’s

Searing death, protected from neighborly telescopes

Eyes’ zooming intrusive lenses of inquisitiveness

Nature robs them boldly, exposed to cruel freezer limbs

Come naked, stripped, a victim of nature’s calendar

No fault of theirs, this inhospitability, frigid gasps from winter’s

Blows through paper-thin ribs and chest

They look helplessly at me, a willing recipient of tenderly

Love, a reluctant giver of tenderly love

How can I help them, victims of nature’s unransomed hostage?

My arms too short for a maternal protective shield

They have received such cruelty

Such subjection bleeds my heart

©2010FrancesOhanenye

--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 Car That Owns a House

She sat uncertain in front of the house she owns

Undeserving of the class, inherent heritage

A monstrosity of brick-by-brick finesse

Whipped cream carefully sandwiched

Tastefully assembled and stacked

A toothsome gluing of generations’ legacy

She sat undeserving of forced ascension

Cheap, loud, and banged

She sat uncertain

Diminutive, low quality’s showpiece

Metallic scrap though fairly new

She sat undeserving in front of the house she owns

I guess she was an afterthought

Don’t you hate when that happens?

--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.

THE QUILT LOVER

Type of Poem:  HEPTASTITCH

First quilt, a pre-baby purchase

Awaiting the arrival of perfect hope

Second hands' made, a secret pal’s bequeath

Blazoning a message about education

Future aspirations shouted in confined space

Third symbol, Tweety’s loving message

Trumpeting daughter’s love to him

Fourth sewing, catalog-ordered

Offering prayers for all ills and woes

Fifth stitching beckoned to soul’s thirst

Heralding the prophetic birth of Christ

Next one filled with colored eggs and blooms

Memorializing the month Mama left me

A hindrance to Easter’s blooming essence

Another quilt, very toned, masculine

Celebrating Father’s Day’s significance

Enshrining Papa’s departure to God

Next cover, goodness’ cornucopia

Showcasing all fills of thankfulness

Ninth puff stitched love to lovers

Filled with hearts; Cupid shooting arrow

Tenth comforter honored St. Patrick

A man of Ireland, unknown to me

Linked with Nigerian surname of O

Last patchwork, a stake to future claims

Anticipating a continuation

Connecting daughter’s unborn offspring

Granting me assurance into future hopes

--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.

Creativity Is Surprised

Never a man or woman set out on a mission

Determined to be declared creative

Uttering the demand will not command

Creativity to appear as a butler ready

The land of the unfamiliar welcomes all

Like the land of the survival of the fittest

Crafted, planned, itemized, willing thoughts

Lie on the mattress of boredom and lethargy

Energy, fanfare, trumpet lie listless, silent

The planned shows itself, a bad photocopy

Creativity arrives unanticipated

Creativity arrives when the planned errs

There are those bending brains to conform

Twisting gray cells to convince humanity

Creativity surprises all, especially itself

After frustration has slapped itself silly

Materializing at inopportune time

Uncertain what it will do next

Like Jim Carey, Eddie Murphy

Unscripted, unplanned, improv

Just leave the door wide open

Accept creativity unconditionally

When it arrives, don’t hoot and holler

Drink its unquenchable juices greedily

It arrives at its own good-and-ready 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.