Skip to main content

A Youngster Asked What Love Is | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu


POEM 236: A YOUNGSTER ASKED WHAT LOVE IS

love is when you have no idea
how the last time stays afresh
in your heart

one after the other, you fall
— the petals —
off the tree of life

nights after days, you stand unclad
at the mercy of frost bites
kissing the apple that's stuck in your throat.

at your end, you sigh and shiver
at her end, she cry a river

both ends are polar
never to meet — anymore,
not because you can't
but because it hurts to twice relive an agony

it's because your choices couldn't match her doctrines

it's because you were taught to heed and bat no eyelid

it's because you become victims of whatever was taken

that's not all,

love is two pale petals glued and then peeled apart

love is the ripping off hearts.

love is bleeding and crawling away with skinned knees.

love is stamping footprints paths with regrets and...

love is shared laughter, moans and sweat

love is faking it and muttering 'hello world!'
while shielding our scars behind masks
for someone worth the trial

love is painting broken walls
with droplets of sighs
and splashing stonewalls with droplets of smiles

love is a night of hovering clouds that rain tears on pillows

love is a pen that bleed profusely on diaries
until sleep steal you away into dreamy promises.

love is the sun that steals subtly
with a yellow glow between the window blinds

love is the stretch and yawn
that refreshes the mind

love is black, beautiful, blind

youngster is confused and bothered
and I shall comfort him with these;

step out shoulder high into yet another day
fall in line with everything good
fall in love with anything new


love is you

until memories haunt you again
make love your favourite game


#365DaysOfPoetry
#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....