Skip to main content

A Portrait Of Whatever This Means To You | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu


POEM 301: A PORTRAIT OF WHATEVER THIS MEANS TO YOU
memories of those days, when
all that matters was pleasing you, when
all desires were hinged on you, then
a jar of jam somewhat expired, smell
no more than the deceit that masked your smiles.

memories of those nights, that
our voices go back and forth, hearts
in sync with every spoken word, and
lips in sync with every unuttered thoughts, sad
how not one affection passed via airwaves,
was in sync with promises made.

memories of those promises made,
how I took pride of place
to hold in clenched fists a dead assurance,
a cosmic clump of smells,
twin months of faux tales,
of tastes, firsts, goosebumps, hangovers, and ends.
I never understood what I was holding on to,
was the grey end of a red hue.

I'm balancing my remains on a wire
hoping ends will meet to begin
yet another circle of intimate fire.
I'm down in the shelters of unlit nook
scared to be killed by yet another dart,
shot from a your kind,
aimed at my kind.

so I cuddle through the cold that bite at my skin
and lit cheap firelogs, not because darkness scare me,
rather to watch my shadow dance on the wall
while I drift into the arms of our oblivion.

It might take much for me to recuperate
and you a second swift to sink another bait...
pray I you stagger into the wrong lake,
where the wind shall fan you upskirt,
so all fishes, unaware, lying in wait,
shall safely swim away deep underwater
wherein drowned the memories of promises of happy-ever-after.

This is not a poem.
#365DaysOfPoetry
#Pengician #SSA

Enjoyed reading? Please leave 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....