TALE OF THE HEAVENS

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
Adonai
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

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INTIMACY OF TRUTH

He asks why I shrink
My mind conjures letters into words
Envelopes but unable to post it
The inefficiency of the post office may misplace it
Misplace it with reactions from cross-purposes
For avoidable protocol of tracing words to letters I shrink

He says I should try him
But I know the end from the beginning
I am expected to be saintly
With perhaps a pardonable trace of sinfulness
Because he supposedly understands I’m human
I can’t determine which of my sinfulness he considers pardonable
So I don’t try him

I quiver at my imaginations
My mind is a roller coaster of horror
The gate of Hades
For his safety, there is no access
No actual intimacy
Let it be closed to family and friends
Entertaining guests will be at the veranda

The explosion of bodies in hot passion is still not intimacy without truth
He could recognize the members of my body in the dark;
Be familiar with the turns, corners
Nooks, crannies, depths and heights of my body
We could surf through a tsunami with goose pimples as evidence
And still not achieve intimacy

My hunger for intimacy deepens
I search and find the one able
To hear my filthy and wretched truth
The one who sees past my truth
And introduced his truth which is grace
Alas, I give up my keys and let him in
I let out fires I shamefully quenched
The intimacy of truth cannot be afforded by humans
But the one already paid

– ChyD
© 2019

Listen

What if you knew that I truly would rather not be here?
What if you knew that my knees refuse to be still?
That my pounding heart is the one sound you cannot hear
Would you listen to me still?

What if I told you how unsure I am of this?
That time and chance kidnapped my will and set me up
What if my lines are not yet the truth I want to live?
Would you listen or shut me up?

What if I am confident?
I know what I have put in , I am ready
What if I don’t fit in the box “humility” presents?
Would you be pissed or yet listen to me?

What if I am nothing like what you are expecting
What if you still listened anyways?
What if the content was your hearts longing?
Wouldn’t you be glad you listened anyways?

Ezeonyeka Godswill
© 2019

TANTRUMS

Birds sing, we hear chirpings
We built our castle on hopes
Poke fingers into the face of Goliaths.
Sands still stay as our foundation
Flooding our flickering fluid imagination
With the feelings that we could dethrone the gods
Then ramble, raze down the mountain with our tongues
We smile sweetly, seeing how weak we made things with our whining
Boxing, branding, and buying their little conscience
With our endless fits

Chukwu Simeon Chidiebere
© 2018