Poetry Focus on John Chinaka Onyeche (Rememberajc) 8 poems

There Is A Good Day To Write About Our Memories

Yesterday, I took out the bottle of dye I found 
under the bed in my grandmother's hut, 
and I drew with it - a triangle on my heart. 

In that triangle, I engraved the memories -  
of my life as a pilgrim - who is a survival of 
myriad of life's experiences as a child. 

Outside this triangle, I wrote myriad of names, 
some were those who - in my life on earth 
have played one role or the other hand - alive or dead. 

As I tried to limit the names for the next day to come, 
for what I have written here is the beginning-in my heart, 
it is what I can hold out today, as the triangle expands. 

& as I held out my hands to draw on my heart, 
it all became visible, the words of my grandmother, 
she had once told me, there is a dye to write memories. 

Out of my curiosity as a growing grandchild, 
I visited her hut every cool evening with oozing winds, 
and she would say, there is a good day to write memories

of those life has blessed us with - though they are not here,
this dye is specially meant to be used in writing in our hearts, 
except for such moments, the dye stays hidden from the eyes.

I reached out my hands yesterday under her bed, 
in that her small hut after many years of her death, 
I am blessed to have found the dye for which I am using now - 

To write about my memories with her, 
our times together is what I am about to write here,
as it started from the gathering of clouds that rained.

The gods, if They Are in Existence
The gods in our frivolous perceptions of them, 
has stricken us - with ignorance in our perceived cultures -
and left us more wounded in the hands of evil. 
With strength we walked miles into the tip - 
of the mountains, and the forest of wide animals - 
plants, we have cuts the best trees and shrubs. 
Making many images as craft of our hands, 
and imagination of our hearts - but - 
has not behold the gods - helping us 
to drag the woods home. 
With the same wood - our strength - and the craft, 
we have - factioned images - according to ourselves - 
and bestowed them the name - gods - and we bow in ignorance of our minds. - 
With dirtiness of our hearts, we did eat ourselves, - 
causing harms - to ourselves just because of ignorance 
and we run to - the carved - woods and kneeling down, 
we ignore our common sense and our ability - 
to be gods in our own. 
We sacrifice the best of our animals for the carved image, 
with obliviousness of cleanliness to our environment & health; 
we run worshiping what supposes to worship us,  - 
The gods, if they are in existence.

Our Wedding Pictures Were Flash of Lights

How it all happened was like a man in a day dream, 
the many wishes of the attendees to the event.
Post your styles and this is the best posture, 
the ones we have selected from flash points. 
The road is far from home, so, make it a memory, 
to remember our journeys from the distance land. 
This is our stories to tell those that are at home, 
that we travelled from far away land for a wedding - 
whose pictures were just a flash of light of cameras, 
our memories of the wedding still lives with us, 
As it could not live with pictures we posted to take, 
and the camera man made us believe we were taking 
real pictures and not just flash of camera lights. 

The Owls City

It was once called the city of owls, a city from where silence oozes at noon, and at night, its inhabitants' howls, 

In an unknown tongue of hoots; just as their songs are in dirge; from the sorrows of their past: they assailed once their sorrows, hooting and hoping for joy, maybe the one from a distant future not seen.

It is called the city of owls, where its dwellers are drawn, in the Waterloos of many dreams, as their twilights are full of lament;  and longings for memory, one they once call their own in joy,  where oozing breeze never hurts them, those who are called by the name.

It is the land of fathers that lost in the morning, straying away from homes we once dance and play with our ancestors in flutes, where our mothers dance with their waist bent low to the ground,  and the children playing at the full moon of our lands.


A poem I wrote after William Shakespeare's "Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer Day"

Shall I not liken your beauty as a day in paradise?
You are more lovely and more gentle as a dove:

Though rough winds of life had shaken your wings, 
And the summer's rain-drenched your feathers;

Sometimes you are too cold of our love because of fear, 
And often, you choose to dim the light of our love;

And every dark from the dark side of our love, you declines, 
By chance or out of the unknown you feel untrimmed; 

But I assure you, our home is eternal and shall not fade, 
Nor shall there be any dispossession of our dearer; 

Nor should death brag and shades our love to eternity, 
When in eternal lines to life we shall grow,

So long as the Rivers never runs dry or eyes can see,
So long as this love gives our lives a meaning to live.

Armed Forces Remembrance Day

Fellow soldiers tonight
With these one thousand candles
& this ten thousand matches 
We will all match to the year 1976

& to all those soldiers who died
& to all those innocent infants 
Who could not utter a word of theirs
But was hit by a life bullet of anger

To the voluntary soldiers & 
To the mandatory fighters 
To the circumstances men of arm & 
To the professional mem of arm 

And to those men who died in the dark
And to those who died in the bright day 
And to those who become like mist 
And they fly away from our midst

Comrades tonight
With these candles, and flames
We will match into their tombs 
And together we shall mourn them 
Bent down to their graves and say
Here is your light cut short again

And We Call to Mind

To those beautiful souls long forgotten
and to those souls who irrigated our deserts
To the ones who graced our history as a race
and to those great legends in our journey
To the ones who retold our African tales
even with the languages of the conquerors 
And bring to the limelight our ancestors bravery
Now speak to us through the flute and the gongs
Tell us what you are like in the great beyond 
and we will advance and change our course
For life hereafter your departure is fitful 

To that Akara woman at the junction
The one who rises with the first cockcrow 
and begin to make Akara for the inhabitants
All for her son to see the four walls of -
education
But to whose son left school for fraternity 
And died as a result of one rival scuffle
Leaving the woman heartbroken and dead
For all her hard-earned money is become - 
Like a bottle of oil punctured on a sunny day
To which there is no way to be scooped up 
For after you left here, life has become jaws of life 

To Madu the young man who angry mobs -
gathered at the market square weeks ago
Whose voice and agony the mobs overpowered
rendering him powerless to the point of death - 
To which he has been a survivor in many ways
Kill him, kill him, kill him, why should he live again
He came to buy market with counterfeit notes 
In a country where everything is a counterfeit 

To Amaechi the only surviving daughter
The one out of the benevolence of the villagers
She was sent to the college for more education
Blessed by the gods as she harnesses talent upon talents
Are they who are blessed by the gods supposed to be - 
left alone to suffer from man's cruelty
Amaechi after two months in school was raped 
Raped to her death by boys in men's clothing and who
lacks the will to control the man underneath them -
and leaving us with a question to ask, where were the gods
Does it mean even the gods sleep in our plights


For You

I am becoming a watchman 
To watch over your inks that flow into tiny air 
For you, 
I am becoming an African
From the Southern tip of Africa
For you, 
I am becoming the first inhabitant of the Cape
For you, 
I am becoming the first owner of the land 
For you, 
I am becoming the first race known as the San 
For you, 
I will go with my bands into the forest and pick wide berries
For you, 
I have become the hunter and gatherers 
For you, 
We will go into the mountains and pick pebbles
Each man on his bands, we will gather up stones 
For you, 
We will return to use the stones to make you a grave 
For you died a hero in the land of your so journal 
For you, 
We will use our stones to build you a grave,



Bio: John Chinaka Onyeche (Rememberajc) is a poet from Nigeria, he writes from the city of Port Harcourt Rivers State, Nigeria. He is currently a History and Diplomatic Studies student at Ignatius Ajuru University Of Education Port Harcourt Rivers State.
Notable works are found at: Spillwords, Melbourne culture corner, Nnoko Stories, TunaFishjournal,  Moreporkpress, Nymphspublications, Youthmagazine, Acumen uk, Zindaily, pawnerspaper, Conceitmagazine, Mosi oa Tunya Literary Review,  Rigorous, Opendoorpoetrymagazine, Feverofthemind Magazine and are forthcoming at Kalahari Review and Ethelzine.

He can be contacted with the following links:
http://Rememberajc.wordpress.com
Facebook.com/jehovahisgood 
Twitter.com/apostlejohnchin
Apostlejohnchinaka@gmail.com

https://linktr.ee/Rememberajc



















By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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