Skip to main content

Aba Poetry Club | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu


POEM 201: APC
The real APC
We do not defect.
Our carpets are landmarks
No leg can cross its path.

We're legit, not looters
Even sin hate us!

We all are speakers.
We own words.
Lay ambush on us
and we'll walk right through you with spoken words.

Why so blue?
We are the sky.
When you lose your white green
to red patches on Jos hills
just look up to us.
You can call us gods.

Why open palms?
Demanding for bribe?
No!
We're beckoning on our bride,
your senses,
come let's save the land!
How long shall bonded broomsticks
take us for a ride?
Y'all witches?

What are we saying?
We too wonder why.

Why do politicians make APC vain?
We are the real APC
we do not defect.

Our words might be just poetry
but we speak not in vain.

Our word is our bond
We don't run the mace.

We are the real APC
Aba
Poetry
Club
The other na fake!

Go get your PVC
and some pint of sense.

--------------------------------------------
Photo credit: Porient ART & Media

#365DaysOfPoetry
#AbaPoetryClub
#Pengician
#SSA


Enjoyed reading? Commenting is now easy. I introduced Facebook Comment feature. Please help my blog grow by leaving a comment and sharing with friends. Thank you!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Fiction | The Tripod Effect

THE TRIPOD EFFECT The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the surrogate father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife and said, "I'm off. The man should be here soon" Half an hour later, just by chance a door- to-door baby photographer rang the doorbell, hoping to make a sale.  "Good morning, madam. I've come to...." "Oh, no need to explain. I've been expecting you," Mrs. Smith cut in. "Really?" the photographer asked. "Well, good. I've made a speciality of babies"  "That's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat"  After a moment, she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?"  "Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch and perhaps a couple on the bed. Sometimes the living room floor is fun too; you can really spread out!" "Bathtub, living room floo...

The Curve And Colors Of Hate | Uwen Precious Ogban

The Curve And Colors Of Hate When the evening news had broken Father spoke with a tone of pain and anger “Nigeria is a whore,” And my mother agreed Painting sensual scenes giving you pleasure of what looks like a garden that hides a landmine. And how trying to walk through it becomes slippery A journey asking for crimson libations, full of fractures and ‘Had I knowns’ while you looked over the fence for greener  pastures Her sighs spoke of a menu full of thrills but you are served double horrors She, Nigeria, abhors you later on when it relinquishes you of value, Truly, she is an old ‘Whore’ My Father picked it from there, “Nigeria gets hard as rock” Wants of men despised Sullen moods recorded in poems, speeches, and events, snubbed For as long as it makes sultry suplex’s on a comfortable ring – Nigeria is satisfied “Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I” Guilty to a fault Pained by happenings that come with fire and brimstone Let loose from bellies that should hold  patriotis...

Featured Poem: Slavery In Africa - by Uwen Precious Ogban

SLAVERY IN AFRICA We believe they rowed their boats of tumults into our region; carrying with them bags of conundrums, while we drummed our drums and jollied to their, intonation. The way they dressed, the way they addressed us Made us mime to the harmony and yearns in their speeches of a dawn to civility and hale: that was a start of the course of slavery in Africa. We still thought they were our brothers, because our chiefs rolled floridly with their proposals While we were mockingly disposed of In the field, or given to bespoken tailors as apprehends; as helps; in servitude; ‘posed to carry out orders as the come in flicks. We became babies in our own motherland we became cartage of their foreign plans. We cleared our huts so that they could find comfy and build on our strengths draining our tears as they wryly whipped us on our backs. Their wisdom their prowess They used to molest And we gazed in cluelessness Cause we still didn’t see it as slavery then – but as pain, so enjoyable....