A City in My House

A city in my house lies in comfort

Blanket spreads with determination

Over earth’s moving immobility

So we can rest from blinks

Wide-eyed useful functions stall

The vista from plane’s altitude

Views a city half asleep, half nodding

Within natural darkness

And semi-sleeping houses

Is the city of my house

I navigate geography’s pencil marks

No hurtful eye blinders

Up the steps into the sanctuary

All is quiet now and still

So still paper's voice sounds screechy

No singing and dancing machines

Yet, I pause at unguarded entry

All at attention, saluting sharply

Caught unawares by resting machines

Who’ve quit singing and dancing

But would not, like humans, sleep

They stare unblinking, filled with caffeine

Pinpoints of light in the sky

As beauteous as the down view  

Forcing me to guess who was where

Making me guess what was near

These pinpoints of unnatural lights

Blink not as I blink not

--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.

My Name Is Deaf

 

Deafness has descended now

My name stopped hearing

No longer called

    In Memory of My Mother

No longer heard

Once glorified and proclaimed

Forever as silent as my dead

Deafness does not feel music

The lilt of my name

Bestowed on me lovingly

She who breathed life into it

A priceless crown jewel

On my head preciously placed

Only my mother, queen

Called it

No one else could sing its melody

Confetti of love and affection

Rained down in glory

Unique shades and feelings

On me when she sang it

Lost that legacy untimely

She took it with her

I mourn severally

I cry severally

My name is deaf 

My name is dead

--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.

Image from http://feedseniors.org

Chattahoochee River

Walking the trail

Rewarded by the view

Of soft gliding water

Going about its business

Into it I gazed, seeing the bottom

No longer the Chattahoochee

Flipping, it sent me

Back many years to girlhood

Straddling that river

My Nja-aba River

Coursing through proud veins

The river of my instruction

Father’s masculine voice booming

Chanting encouragement

For this girl to master that river

Float, immerse, swim, stroke

Conquer the river, father coaxed

Encouragement the elixir

Propelling me to be its mistress

Scaling tree branches

Jumping like a lioness into feet of river

Landing like a silvery fish

Into my Nigerian river, Nja-aba

Cradled gently like a babe just born

Through civil war of self-abuse

Three tribes against language and greed

Of dusk and dawn journeys

To refluent ebb and tide to bathe, fetch

To launder, fish, drink, play

To sustain a proud village

During childhood escapes of coolness

Away from the city’s clamor

I traveled beneath the Chattahoochee

Touching the other clear bottom

The pebbles, the dictator of color

Of my Nigerian river unlike this one

Brown from abuse and neglect

With trunks discouraging friendliness

Dissuading interaction

My Nigerian river, Nja-aba

One of several nourishments

Endowing proud banded people

--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.