Jaachi Writes

POEM 357: long walk to nowhere lost wars to no one lung worn by frostbites boxed by his own fears and after a long stare at shooting stars Bolade shut his aching eyes calling on dead gods like a dying priest dangling from his rope destination reached: his fears conquered in the cold hands of death #365DaysOfPoetry #Pengician #SSA Enjoyed reading? Please leave a comment and share with friends. Thank you!   

Poets are gods but die like humans. I stumbled into this poem, I wrote four years ago.  It is centered around poets being gods and how sadly immortal they are.  The prominent theme of pessimism in the piece poses serious concern and disturbance.  It's appalling in that it depicts the total end of fellow god. Let's dive into it already. THE DEATH OF A GOD poets, we are gods, we are, We are men and women who can give life to dead words. with muted tongues full of ancient wit, we roar into the deafness of emotions and rattle the dry bones of wrongs We're  gods  but  die  like  men. I see clouds gathering                 and the sun's retiring melancholy lyrics interlude yet another doom the night; she is the doom with a cloak of darkness wrap around her bald head she strip tease the body of a weary scribbler until his soul is made naked  and his body unaware of life of light of letters like a pro...

POEM 219: BECAUSE I'M NOT FOREVER like the dinosaurs, I'll some day, be gone so, I wrote this thinking of the lonely days that will crawl by when I'm gone         I leave stories of you and I         in lines and verses so you don't cry when I'm gone thinking of the deep sighs that will punctuate every tear drop when I'm gone         I leave memories beautiful of you and I         on the pages of your heart so you don't cry when I'm gone thinking of the heavy clouds that will drown you in a pond of tears         when I sing my 'goodbye' dirge         I paint the rungs of our elevation with rainbow colours so you don't cry when I'm gone thinking of the emptiness that will dawn with dawn when you awake to discover it's no nightmare         I create a nostalgia cinema of us         in your subconscious so you don't cry when I'm g...

HOW DO YOU DEFINE GENOCIDE?  With your father's skull rolling on the  ground bitterly as you watched blood  dripping down from his nose & the  enemy made you blasphemed against  his name, how do you define genocide?  Is it from the Bible or from the Koran?  Is it from the Jos killing or the Lagos fire?  Is it from the eyes of an atheist who says there is no God?  Or from the lies they told us everyday? How do you spell genocide without having  tears stream down from your eyes?  These are the tablets my country made:  a tablet of blood and cracked sorrows, a tablet that carries dead bodies to the  ground without the knowledge of the ground; a tablet that represents names of darkness,  like the telescope of an evil crusader,  Like the elephant wills against the sun,  Jos wasn't just just to every soul that died to become groaning dust on its land.  The songs of those who died still strike a forbidden ...

"Letter From Super Eagles" You adorned our vigorous frames With jerseys so woefully-beautiful Sent us to the field To dribble against the white Then planned a grievous celebration For our victory, And we never knew... So while our strengths fed your ego, You plotted a bloody soccer game in our homeland, Turned our farmlands into football fields Employed animals as your players Made herdsmen your referees, Their weapons - the ball, Our families - your target, And we never knew... While we scored in unit They made a hundred dead bodies their goals When we popped champagne with shouts of triumph, They spilled more blood with roars of resentment, Yet, we never knew... We never knew, these dearly attires were mourning dresses And consolations for your abomination. We never knew sorrowful moans excite your eardrums Than sounds of victory. We never knew your heart delights more In the unity of cows than that of a Nation... And again, you're sending us to the field With bloods...

And Benue's Tears Cried Let's create two cities: death and tears, We'll name our tears shitholes because we've forgotten why we were called so by he whom power rests on his shoulders. These memories of ours we titled death are fragments of our mistakes left in the bodies of innocent Benue. Let's bake this situation in hundred feet fold in a foot of messages, We'll peel and slice our tears to the cries of those blood shattered in the cascading  ground of Benue; we've failed ourselves!  If by this mourning we tried to live before we die, we will die before we live.  Leave your breathe in hundred fold and allow your nose to smell rusty agony.   Tears are sweet savor of pains in the eyes.  And Benue's tears cried in the gory melodious hand of Fulani Herdsmen! If we fail to write to right now, we will right to write wrong days to come.  When the blood of my brothers and sisters and husbands and wives and Children quaked in the darkest street, We kept mute, ru...

POEM 154: DEATH I am free falling, gasping for water in the air. I am deep drowning, panting for air underwater. My dreams are wet on dry lands and my lungs an air of water. I'll ease my spirit into the air I'll drown and leave my body here. #356DaysOfPoetry #Pengician #SSA Enjoyed reading? Please help my blog grow by leaving a comment and sharing with friends.  Thank you!

POEM 112: MELANCHOLIA I hear a dirge of birds Sweeping down like windstorms raising doubts and dust as it whoosh along. Can feel depths of dissatisfaction Hanging loosely on every note Dropping to a descendo  itching my ears piercing my spines with the sweet pain that tags along when one swallows a honey bee and get stung in the stomach. But vultures don't sing How then doth this graveyard exude such sweet sadness So much it satisfies my soul with extreme intensity? So much I feel I've found home in a city of dry bones? I know why melancholy  And I are a synonym If cut your chains, you free yourself. If you cut your roots, you die. I did both and I know not from whence I come, Where I am, And where I planned to go. - Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu #365DaysOfPoetry #Pengician #SSA

POEM 23: SAD POEM This poem begins with a sigh dangling from line one. It crawls down the next line on bleeding knees  and chopped fingers Dripping tears on blood stained stairs. This poem is the shadow that lurks behind close doors counting ceiling. A crying beauty, she is. Bent like an old lady Broken like glass panes. Those arrows,  they pieced through her heart with the speed of a dart and punctuated her life with an exclamation mark! But none heard her cries. This poem stinks like decaying brains in the skulls of abuse She was a tool to be used by Buhari, by Bolaji, by Bruse. This poem is the leftover Of Bisi's battered body Her petals trampled upon by an phallus  uncouth. This poem ends with a sigh a suicide note a girl dangling from the ceiling

She would wink at me from the corner of her eyes. She would dare to slap the tallest in my class if he dares bully me for penning his name in my list of noise makers. She would share her pen  when mine is spent. She would help me take notes when sick I lay in bed. She played my advocate  even when I least deserve it. Her height, though intimidating earned more of my admiration. Her fingers Her palms though long and bold compared to my petite own were my favourite to hold. She was loud and noisy not never made the list. She would speak Igbo and wink 'you dare not write my name' Her drawings, I did when others I snub. JSS 3 to SSS 1 I crushed on this pretty girl But I was too shy to ink that poem. I left without letting you know how much I care. Had no time to appreciate your kind gestures undeserved defense... You were my crush. Augusta, When I found first Facebook you were the first I searched to add... In vain I searched  You were not found. I stalked the walls of our cl...