Monday, May 16, 2005

The Hen Accusation

The Hen Accusation-

Like a talent the hen puffed up its feathers
Accusing me of religious blasphemy
Made me think of my culture
My loitering unwept as I weep
Born only to live worshiping foreign
Coed through life unsatisfying trail
I bequeath myself to reason about a god
As the ewe raise forth a threatening horn
Lately I seem to be thinking of me
A very well known what I mean
The dirt loitering with barbaric treason
Summed up a prayer in such recognitions

Sylvester Omosun
Copyright ©2005 Sylvester Omosun

Sunday, May 01, 2005

in a book, in a valley

I think that the more years that pass, the more years I wondered about my roots. There were times I was ashamed of my kinsmen because they still practices the juju culture, I saw so many faults in them. The many faults I have studied at school.

But now knowing me, the tears unshed…I now realize how stupid I was. The birth of a culture Pilgrim settled in a desert land And the valley shed its feathers Foreign names adopted the hills By men with clothes like butterflies Houses came as tall as trees Pressed together like cobs of grain And everyone who have a tongue to speak Blend the collision of two civilities
The nature of incest in a society like ours is misunderstood,

almost all adults has had at one time or the other intimate sexual thought about the body of children,

and some can go as far to satisfy his or her wants when given the chance

Like hundreds of house helps and hawkers in the local scene,

the slims were abrupt when they come,
so were the hurried hands,
raped and trafficked sustained by nothing,

the innocent and dependent children accepted it


i watched the swing

as the strong arms worked the earth,

at the blade going through the tall grass,

trimming branches and cutting weeds

i wish to tell the her about her gift,

the sensation and arches breaking me apart,

things i felt when ever i pictured her toil,

and the passion of feeling her eyes on mine under the scotching sun

i wish to talk about the local maiden fit to the bone,

defined with chest beat full of milk,

the narrative intend to sketch the outline

as the perfomance ply the part of hope whose exeption alway climax such a day

e-book of tribalpoetry


As I lie in bed and consider the mystery to me that is my life

I am surprised that I am here,

I have taken to looking at myself,

talk or that I am talking at all,

without hearing my own voice

it strikes me at odd moments that in the midst of this misfortune

life continues and exciting too