Far away
Away as the waters that once finds its dwelling at shore

How far is far
Are you talking about endless oceans or a stary sky?

I have lost my rhythm at the sound of the endless ocean
Scared to trace the pathway
Which I once trusted as the Broadway

The way to the Broadway can be deceptive
But we are receptive to the leading of the rhythm within
The one that leads to the path of life

The path of life
The crown of eternity
Grizzled with Gold and emerald
Joining the Herald
The cherubs and seraphs in the song of redemption

The very redemption that liberates
The one that exposes me to my strengths
The joy is unending
This song ushers me to rivers of living water

Most times I hear more about angels singing
But poetry is hardly talked about
Does the angel write?
Is poetry their kind?

If they ever wrote I wonder what colour the words displayed
But I think to myself, if Christ is a poet then maybe their is a trace that leaves clues

Maybe they write in blue
Or green, or pink,
No, I think golden, because of the golden scroll
Maybe not
Maybe black or brown or no color
Maybe their ways is a mystery to unravel

I think a greater mystery to unravel is the way they study their master through us, the chosen once, the once who have given themselves to the Word

It teaches me the true way of a living master
That conquered me in my rebellion
That divided the river Nile

The Niles hear and see
They are receptive to the masters voice
Same way they can be with ours
Cause the signet has been placed on us

Imani Dokubo
The Alchemist
© 2019



Lord of the earth, unknowing.
Born Heroes; living victims.
Black Panthers scared shitless.
Superintendents gone puny.

So primitive. So common. Like dirt.
As is the sunrise.
Aye, it doesn’t make him, nor the sunrise,
Any less a miracle; any less a beauty.
But then…

“Ye are Gods,” I heard Him say.
Creators, made He you.
But it’s sad.
You only live as pawns on a chessboard.
And you die like mere scum of the earth.
Who knew the hashtag was truth, after all.
Men are scum, indeed.

Oh, man.
Pity! PITY!
I mean, you share a last name with Deity!
With Yahweh Himself!
Oh, that you knew thyself!
And, that, to thy sweet self, you be true.

Do not your dreams whisper to you
The destiny of your race?
Do not your superheroes, your folklores, your movies
Point towards mastery?
And power?
And love?

Does not your genius, your spirit
Nudge you ever so silently
To rule from the top of the rainbow?
To conquer the sky you’ve agreed is your limit?

Who has deceived you?
Oh, man!
“Evolve, man!
Eternity screams.
Immortality beckons.

But no. You’ll read this poem, this call,
And just move on.

Nonso John
© 2019


Dead zone
Broken soul
Scary shadows
Those are rhythms of a poor old kid
Whose ways never pleased anyone, not even herself.

No hope
Buried grace
Weak for the race
Those are top list words recorded in the word billboard of her mind
She used to be of the royal line
But now goodness turned to lime
She sees God’s intentions as the least
Her faith so rusty and loosen like an abandoned screw
There she becomes a beast that feast with the devil.

Records of heart failures
Impotent to believe the best inside
Drenched with the thoughts of discovery
Draining in the memory lane of no understanding
Tears from the sole of the heart dripping down like flood yet none sees these flood of questions buried in tears

Travelling alone in travail… I weep in smiles…
Because in my green days have I grown grey because am yet to discover the me in me

In silenced smiles I’m drown in fears because my mind has become aged in thoughts

Hold my weeping mind
Embrace my tears in warmth,
Caress me with words of rescue
Carry me in the wings of warmth understanding
For I drown in silence

Oh…save me from this destiny device
For I transit into the groove of eternity
My powerhouse drowns
I plead for restoration if that exist
I seek for redemption for this battle is beyond me

The Alchemist
© 2019

A hand with a cross

These crosses the empty zones
Like a flying drone
A game of the weak with the strong
Not exactly a contest
But an interest, a request of a savior.

A game for the peak and a tale of the wrong
This is about the struggle
That rumbles with man’s eternity
He has been a warrior since the day one
Faces persecution
Stoned by test and trials
Wandered away from the rally of deceit into the valley of shadow of death
Yet a hand bared the cross

In the realm of sleep
Wars, battlefront
Against the devouring clone
With hopelessness and darkness
And at the tip of condemnation
Rises the hand that bares the cross

And when flaws
Had risen and fallen
Like a raging sea
Waging war against itself
Beneath the surface of reality
Grew strength
To move on that narrow lane
For he who bared the cross
Has render all flaws useless
And had broken all chains by His blood

(c) The Alchemist

The Cross

A hand with a cross
These crosses the empty zones
Like a flying drone
A game of the weak with the strong
Not exactly a contest
But an interest, a request of a savior

A game for the peak and a tale of the wrong
This is about the struggle
That rumbles with man’s eternity
He has been a warrior since the day one
Faces persecution
Stoned by test and trials
Wandered away from the rally of deceit into the valley of shadow of death
Yet a hand bared the cross

In the realm of sleep
Wars, battlefront
Against the devouring clones
With hopelessness
And darkness
And at the tip of condemnation
Rises the hand that bares the cross

And when flaws
Had risen and fallen
Like a raging sea

Wagging war against its self
Beneath the surface of reality
Grew strength
To carry on
Amidst those circumstances
For he who bares the cross
Has render all flaws useless
And had broken all chains by His blood
Freedom oh kingdom!!!

The Alchemist
© 2018.


Hmmm…Have you walked down this lane?
The lane of the warring voices embedded in the mind?
Where voices rage war in the soft bones of your mind,
Over choices and decisions,
Voices sounding right under the spell of imaginative confusion,
Wrong when castrated of the spell,
Where reasoning becomes afraid to reason,
Cos even in the cause of reasoning choices coated in capsules of poison seize thy taste of choice,
Confused over nothing yet confused over everything,

Drowned in the ocean of counterfeited uncertified voices draining broken pieces of unfulfilled dreams sketched out,
These voices keep on speaking,
That the only surviving cartilage in the brain of my head has been ruptured
Unseen yet powerful and influential voices, trapped in myriads of scorn,
This is an inbuilt ethnic war,
Who can save me from this destiny device,
Where voices echo unraveled solutions and complicated ideas to same thing,
Which do my being become a slave to?

Rains of confusion has embarked on a rescue journey at the central park of my head,
Taking rest at the hallucinated desolate field of lost,
The sweet and gentle voice of procrastination has embalmed its statue in me and silenced my voice of reason placing it in the solitudinal grave of eternity,

I wear smiles wrinkled on the inside,
Spraying the perfume of faded smile to avoid panel of questioning,
Inner pimples has eaten deep my dimpled mind of rest,
Hiding under the cloaky face care of MARY KAY
To bring out the dimples amidst the pimpled troubled mind,

Which voice do I cling to?
The sugar coated diabetic voice or the fading- like silent voice embedded with thorns and water logged pathway to destiny,

OH!!! OH
War of voices within…
My soul has become aged at the peak of my youthful mind,
Let me think and make one… my permanent abode for a gloomy doom await the confused mind making choices,
Follow me on my journey but with cautioned silence.

Kanu Nonye

© 2018


And I was taught that the characteristics of living things were MR NIGER D or MR NIGER LAC at times
So one of the attributes of my living is to die, but when we are not getting enough from the full bucket of grace we sing for the Spirit to fill our cups only so we can live how we want and in the end we just kick the bucket, and return to dirt.

Pardon me, but how ironic is it that you have been made to believe that the characteristic of an actual living thing is death?. So you lack a life span because when you try to fight with good intentions and it seems hard you just quit after all if you can’t beat them all you have to do is join in, am not a weakling it’s called adaptation, so if we compete through life then I am done with all my duties on earth as a man and my mission is finally complete.
No, but this is war, really are we ready? Continue reading


So you had the awesome opportunity to get a front row seat to a game you have no interest in?

Let me guess, possibly because she looked so good that no excuse could find its way through your lips as you cowered under her overpowering presence when she said “Would you be a darling and go to the game with me?”

Sure, I do understand you were trying to be polite (and be a darling too) but I can predict one or two things about how this date or whatever she tells you will be like. First, you meet at a scheduled place or possibly you were such a gentleman (or totally bent on impressing her) that you picked her up from home with your ride and then when you get there, you walk into the arena, hand-in-hand, smiling and chatting meanwhile somewhere in your head you continue to recall all the reasons why you hate this game and you shouldn’t be here obviously but no bother you’ll just be a man (more like, things we do for love).

Now the players are on the pitch, the ever rising roar of cheers and laughter wouldn’t have been much of a bother if you had any clue as to why this amount of people would actually enjoy this game or if they could at least pipe low enough so you could manage a discussion with this beauty by your side. The announcer does a good job of further increasing the noise whilst observing various sport traditions towards commencing the game and then out of nowhere this guy who is supposedly the referee/umpire blows a whistle.

For the split second its shrill sound pierces through the noise, there is stillness in the crowd just before a resounding uproar to indicate the game has begun with the atmosphere gauged with intense anticipation and excitement. Now, for you my friend, you stare at the event unraveling before you; fruitlessly trying to make sense of it though constantly aware of the female presence by your side whilst drilling your mind for a good comment to kick-start a cool discussion.

In this very interesting mix of events that characterizes every big sport event around the globe, one thing remains true for all and that is the power of the whistle (or buzzer, or any media of control the referee/umpire uses). In every case we watch as this little instrument in the hands of one man could demand the attention of every single person in that arena at any time during the play of this game. They pay attention because for every instance the whistle is blown, there is sure to be a change in the game of play. This change can be positive or negative depending on what side of the field you’re playing from but regardless of that when that whistle is blown the game must begin or stop (either momentarily or permanently).

However, as a player in this game, you are trained in the art of playing it well and certain skills you possess have set you aside, qualifying you to represent your team to whatever degree but this same whistle means much more to you than a switch to stop or begin the game. It is to you, the law of the game. It signifies when your time in the game begins and from then you are awarded a chance to bring victory to your team by doing your very best in your designated area of play whilst maintaining sportsmanship but a single blast of the whistle could change all that. It could be to you a simple caution or the outright punishment for a foul play, it could be justice for a wrong done, it could be the end of your time on the field or it could just be the end of the game.

You see, this scenario painted right in front of your eyes is no different from what we’ve come to know and call living on this world stage. Life is a game we all are players in with the earth as our playing field and whether we accept it or not we do have a whistle locked somewhere in the lips of the referee. We may be oblivious of it but it is to us for caution, reproof, and justice and sometimes it may be the final whistle we hear as it marks the end of the game either individually or for the whole living population of the world.
I know it is easier to live a carefree life, doing what you want when you want but even in our limited understanding as humans, we know that there’s need for order, hence we set up a justice system, a moral system to caution or punish wrong doings or brings justice to the hurt. However, we run our seemingly orderly lives unaware of the most important function of the whistle


The game could go on forever if that whistle is not blown and no player would leave the field up until that whistle is blown and it finally is blown to that respect it could mean the end of the game for one or all players. It’s quite simpler than you think; if the final whistle is blown you have to get off the field. In this Life, the final whistle varies and for you it may be the sound of a gun, the last beep of the monitor as your heart stops, the thud of your body fall, the sound of screeching tires or the sound of a trump. Whatever way it happens you will have to leave this earth because your time is up.

Now no player wants to leave the field feeling like he would have done more, hence while on the field, he pours in his very best but somehow in the real game we choose to call life playing before our very own eyes, we seem to think we would never have regrets when we have to leave the playing field even when we just wasted our time of game play. We seem to think we have no coach in the cloakroom ready to analyze how well we did our part, no consequences for the way we played this game that we have only one chance at.

The greatest lie our adversary made us believe is that we are the onlookers, the cheerleaders of this game. So because we ain’t the players, when the whistle goes, the game simply ends and that’s it. We can just go ahead and just have a good time, no caution as to how short your time is. He fools you to think that you’re going to last till the last whistle so while waiting you disregard the cautions that come as the blaring of the referee’s whistle just like this very piece you’re reading, ignorant of the fact that the very next whistle could be your last.


It may not sound much like a whistle but nevertheless, it is for you and even though I sincerely pray it is not your last, it may just be.

You can’t afford to worry about the opponents devices, he is just running his game plan so you can’t afford to play against the master’s game plan, you cannot afford to not fulfill the reason why the coach put you in play because sooner than later the end of the game will come upon you even though the game has not yet ended.


No matter how bad you’ve played so far if you turn a new leaf you still have a chance at victory. Unlike every other game, the winner can only defined after the final whistle and though it is a team play the victory is individual and when the final whistle is blown you would forever be bound to what the scoreboard says.

– Ezeonyeka Godswill