A poem in which I mourn a friend
To the clarion call of death, I know how reflexive you were, If the dragon still lives, The one that pronounced your death, Let it film life & take it up, So you'd see how your death - watered every land with grief. I passed through your grave after years, & split at all that interlocked my sight: The land you were tucked into, I cursed death too, The doctor that confirmed your death, & the lorry that conveyed your body. The mischievous yells of ours reached the crown, He asked if death has done beyond - taking a soul and we said yes, He's parted a mother from his fruits/ A woman from her husband/ A wicked water has put off a fire in our family.
Holy words from the holy alter
Today, I opened the scripture and it journeyed my eyes to where our Lord says; "Someday, none of Man's assets shall be of benefit to man plus his wife/ Children/ all he had/ all that makes man a man. "& man would on this day flee from all he owns/ His siblings/ from all things, owned and discarded/ So, there would ever be a day I would - see my siblings and scream at my heels, Sight the emergence of my children & run as prey would from predators, & that there's ever going to be a black- day my parents will listen not to my yells. I'd once shared bed with a ghost The last time i attended the funeral of a young lad, whose age's same as mine. I couldn't in his grave find a log of body, But a condensed cloud of unfulfilled dreams. I ne'er believed heaven is a place for black-haired men too, Till the night my brother and I said the Lord's prayer with our hands interlocked, & when morning knocked, I met his statue beside me, Except that since then we haven't seen each other, The rest, I couldn't fathom, till now ! Mum said he is dead and Dad said the same. visited an orphanage home They rushed at me and said, Tell us uncle,please tell us, The joy of being owned, Tell us what's a home? I raised my brow to the sky, But its place was too high, So,I held the details in a sigh. The truth of a home is the - suicide note a frustrated father left behind after exceeding his debit limits. & a mother that sold her son to feed his siblings and abandoned him to the tartness of his sour fate. I wrapped all these in a sigh & said--Home is sweet. Tell us more uncle, What's parental care? What's a hug? What's mother's warmth embrace & What's father's soothing words? I breathe heavily this time & said, They are the most pleasurable things. "Take us home uncle" ion have a home too-i replied. I'm an orphan too, We're all orphans, picturing - what is it to own a home. Bio: Fadairo Tesleem is a young Nigerian poet that writes from Ilorin, Kwara state. He is a teacher, a poetry coach and a literary critic. His poems are published or forthcoming in Fiery scribe review, Pangolin review, Queer Toronto literary magazine literary, Arts lounge, Best of Africa, Blue Minaret, Down in the dirt Ninshãr arts and the host of others. He has some poems published to his honour on some self-publishing literary platforms. He tweets @Olakunle.