No Fela and son could tell of
this present roaring Government.
We would soon forget this forgery pain
upon the odours the land created.
Empty bellies shall revive casualties
to beckon the spring of spiritualism
&the bed shall not talk of absence of
bodies on the feet of her tender care.
Our today has queued into the past
as our yesterday moved cautiously
like a troubled legs walking into exile.
Beware of Dogs!
Beware of those who came as saints
to rule you into heaven & paradise.
One was accused yesterday & today
He that accused him presented him,
the other fell on countless occasions
yet, you mounted his bills all over town.
I searched your eyes & I found nothing,
It moves like the eyes watching a
toddler step, coated with innocence.
I see the nakedness of my heart in the
Scars of my people yet, they've astrayed.
Do not hold a demon-smile between
your dark teeth!
& in your eyes, memories of lights...
Do not upset the snoring ritual of the dead.
Go home, help the living live better.
©John Chizoba Vincent
#TheSage.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 4:04 AM UTC
NKPORO II
In proportion to the gospel of man about creation
& evolution & sand of time,
living in Nigeria is to **** like Osama Bin Laden without origin of profile,
& give your heart to crulty. Man down,
Father picked up the apple for me his good--for-nothing-child; a living dead.
non-living son.
What do we do with this land of ours, Nkporo? I asked my brethren!
I believe you have me, Nkporo.
I believe in dying & leaving a clean footprint.
make life a garden or a glorious victories
& harvest the good thereof in the hands of your grace.
You're magical, Nkporo...
I don't believe in living to die today but dying to live again,
I believe in the depth of nothing; an empty house full of dreams.
And she told me no place like home!
©John Chizoba Vincent
#TheSage
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 4:42 AM UTC
Mother won't bleed--
Mother won't bleed again to the breaking song
according to the gospel of insanity of man:
She says life is in the hands of a madman,
she says Sunday is not enough to bless the
memories of her son who lost in the hands of astraying bullets.We'll hold down Borno;
Mother won't bleed--
Mother won't bleed again in that house on
the other side of the street holding this tale
of her daughter with the etagere before she
took her last picture from the universe.
And the pastor said to her ghost
"dust & unto dust you shall return"
It was ash Wednesday & the frond hasn't
been burnt to ashes, would mother bleed again?
The leather missal is no more & Mary
could not attest to it provocative missing...
When we saw tears in the eyes of God,
We knew this house on the other side of
the street started this--the madness in us all.
We could not see also the body of the missing Christ.the figurine. the chaplet.the rosary.
Mother won't bleed again to this course...
But her memories did not start in Benue
Where she beheld laughing ghost of humans
celebrating how her homeland tortured them,
It started here in that house on the other side
of the street where her two children died in fear. anxiety. depression. tears. forgotten.
& she taught us how to dry our eyes before Sunday service.
©John Chizoba Vincent
#TheSage.
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 4:25 AM UTC
This land belongs to Buhari,
he has the financial keys to every land here!
You must not urinate here unless you
are a cow, beware of military' Dogs,
they're watching.
You must not answer nature's call here,
this region is for grazing of the first citizens,
do you expect them to perceive your *****
Go home to your mother's other room,
there's another room for you to ******
& there's room for you to communicate with nature.
your father has warned you not to see
the sun in darkness,
Your mother said you should learn to
respect every house that has politicians
that chopped your smiles into gloom of lurking bodies.
Why Urinate behind Aso rock Villa & you called yourself a patriotic civilian?
Don't you know that our leaders are dinning
there in bits of luminious laughter?
They are planning on how to give one square meal per day to already satisfied children.
They are arranging the ten thousand to be shared in the market tomorrow.
The sound of your patapata could be a distraction!
I have not find the right hand to parcel my anger on you!
you have made the foams thereof to meet at the confluence of mirage,
what do you expect Obasanjo to say of this?
I know each call is a torment and misery
painting a portrait of how gullible our land is!
Do not urinate here unless you're a politician!
Unless you've learnt the act of deceiving people,
unless you have fought in the National Assembly & jumped from one party to another,
unless your hands are stained with blood;
do not urinate here, zip up, hoodie...
Let's remind ourselves of next levels connecting the air with the silk memories with which the world hold each other in arms.
Remember, the fine is your head if you
ever pour out your proud liquid here!
©John Chizoba Vincent
#TheSage
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 2:35 AM UTC
THIS HOUSE IS NOT FOR SALE
This house is not for sale-
beware of my kitchened wife,
beware of Emeka, my son
& Tobi, my Son-in-law;
even Musa, my gate man.
Everyone is a thief in his room,
everyone is a saint outside his room-
Trespassers will be persecuted.
Behind the closed doors are unscripted scenes of scenery stones of miscreants
hanging their tainted memories on the
eyes of souls to take away their vineyard.
This land is not for sale,
Politicians are here;
*** bellied looters are here holding selfishness as the right hand of God.
Yesterday,
100 soldiers died laughing out their skulls-
the politicians keep mute hoping to see
the spirits of the soldiers return home
to defend the country from buyers.
We are not selling this country to get paid, beware of 419-
This is military Zone, keep off.
We are preserving it in the stomach
of the Leaders.
How long do you hold your house in your body?
How long do you have to sell to make that profit that never existed?
From the fireflies of the boundless rainbows,
We would hold resistance of greed into being tying itself like the dog of wisdom.
This house is not for sale, buyers, beware,
The C of O is with the righteous politicians,
God has learnt to save their tainted freewill on his palms.
He could not find a way to punish them in hell anymore.
Do not allow other lips to hold onto this saying.
the road on the tongue of this house
has led me to places:
to be a politician & extort from the poor masses
& to lead them astray into oblivion of darkness.
Days are gone when we see moon in
the smile of the sun that peeps through
the window of this house...
Do not come home to this house anymore,
Its no longer has your loved ones in it.
©John Chizoba Vincent
#LiquidPoetry.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
And this song fell out from my father's lips:
Of boys learning to drop the corpse of their
parents' bodies on the high mountain of Jos,
Of girls who came home learning to place fingers on the holes that evil men dug;
Of children learning to empty themselves
With lies & truths about what happened now, about what happened in Benue and pleateu,
Of those stories that escaped through our mother's nostrils as she became past tense.
And this wants to make you leave your body
to a place where lost is freedom to enjoy.
yesterday When teeth fell from our mouth,
We threw them to the zinc for tomorrow.
We never knew they became dancers in
a battle field, making glittering white war.
We wired our way into abstract destructions
We bottled our knowledge to the river bank.
I am not alone in this nightmare of want
When my country men became object of
ridicule, I was never among them to core.
treasure this thawn into dirge of goodness.
Help me knit this morning with a song,
trace Adkins into Wooten of silence
We archived our routes to another smothering
Snow in red places before dawn.
Help me gather the laughters of those girls
Help me tell mother that sin is not a reproach
Tell father that Satan was an angel of light
Not a mystical mysteries as told by all.
If Allah allows the vehicles of my thought
To decamp from the camp of Moses.
When you get to Lagos, don't allow a bus to
carry you pass those graveyard called bridge.
a trailer fell from one of them at Ojuelegba
and another one fell in Ibadan without the express. There we saw a boy' tale told in
Fe-Buhari in pains & gory and eel mystery.
He carried a song on his shoulder to crying
Forgetting there on the express way has his father's last prayer points & footprints...
There he died also hoping to pick his
father's dust groaning without a comforter.
I whispered these words in secret
Tell nobody that somebody told you the body
of the storyline before the ****** erupted.
Till everything becomes breeze, I am not
still a poet but a messenger of the gods.
©John Chizoba Vincent
The_Boy_Hero
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 6:40 PM UTC
See yourself in John 3:16
I hope you will not get lost in John 11:3,
mysteries are the soup of poetry.
Imageries taught us how to hold our hands like gun then fire without a target or something.
Mytic found favour in your eyes,
Divinity crossed path with spiritualism &
Oblivion was birthed in an illusion of freewill.
Do you know Devil is not a thief or a liar?
Do you know he was a prince of light?
Ask Michael who fought him at dusk
I think he has a tale in his mouth.
Long have I carved this figurine waiting
for the mouth of the grave to open.
Now you search your heart for truth,
Isn't it?
Tell me:
Who made you?
Open to the book of Revelation
What did you form in your soul there?
I found you a broken tattered mysterious
mystery that you hold dearly;
Your dead mother's photograph,
She awaits you on the judgement day.
Your father's most cherished bangle,
He said he would be coming for it on the
last day.
A flower for your sister, drop it on her grave.
Remember, forever is your last breath.
I know Allah's promises even If I have not opened the Holy Koran.
When my spirit went into lost in the darkness,
18 virgins came between my thighs.
They held my ***** girth to submission,
Joseph's mythology grabbed me in favour.
I don't know why you have a Splinded spiritual problem...
Look straight into your eyes to see it.
I think you should allow the wind breathes through the trees &allow the mirror to fog up.
A boy told me candle flame is always in his
eyes when it is blown off.
This is the spiritual collation in connection.
Let's recite the apostles creed when morning comes to you in hundred fold of dreams.
©John Chizoba Vincent
The_Boy_Hero.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC
He was either looking for a home in his mother' thought;
A place where lost freedom is found to be a lurking land.
He was either searching for the colour of a new song,
a song of colour and crystal ray from the shadow of her heart.
We define threnody with a moonful of sadness written all over the stake of our eyes.
Now, I'm not the only soul captured with blazing lies.
I'm not the only soul that went that route planted by our leaders.
Culture defined each of our eyes searching home.
It wasn't the lanes that drum the beat we dance to we followed...
No, it wasn't here that fear to feed our fears when a new bottle of wine made us miserable.
It wasn't from here that a tale was told of graves with mouths.
Leaving was another way to say goodbye
without having to loose yourself to tears.
You researched into you:
A dream of loneliness
the joy of solitude.
a mournful of confirment committed
thousand poems birthed bravely in the process of telling a story that never existed, is the expressway of making a salty savage into life.
In the future of our past, we remain dormat
a boy left through the eyes of his mother
carrying the identity of his father's name
carved on a frame of tears.
He jumped many rivers to pay prayerful
homage to those things he learnt at his
father's feet.
custom taught us how to sew our laughter
with our mother's smile.
We leave to live again on the soil left for
us to walk on.
We are what tradition labelled us to be
Knitting our needs to become spirits and souls
& ellipses of trauma housing those things we won't let go sometimes.
We battle to come to the bossom of our
mother to learn where shadows travel to
when the light goes off.
If you are looking for me in this poem,
you won't see me but; between the paces
of the boy who left town in search of his
identity through his mother's eyes.
©John Chizoba Vincent
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 7:40 AM UTC
In a cemetery,
a boy is holding a lurking flower
he carved his father's face on his palm.
He waited for the mouth of the grave to open
so he could use a basket to gather his tears.
He crossed many oceans to get there where
his father was buried after the bullets from
the Haram penetrated into him.
Home seek you boy!
the grave seek your absence boy!
holding rivers between your fingers is the passport to explore into darkness.
your mother seek your smile...
Do you know home escaped through the
side of your mouth?
We received the fold of asylumic rain in realms
retracing images in the street of pains.
Holding on is a golden corral commitment
It is not easy to be between two worlds
a heaven and hell daring in one firmament.
the symphonic drumbeats of the sea’s interminable fury,
Stamping the inevitable apocalypse of time
Whistling waters, whirling rivers, a
skeletal of the oasis of pannacles.
Do not ride headless horseman of the
arouse night!
Do not upset the snoring rituals of the dead..
The shore of this land is motherless
Help swindle a wealth walk of thought home,
A torrents of an asylum thoughts wailing west,
do not be a patriot-pirate holding grudges.
thump your pulsing eardrums back home,
Don't allow this madness rise tide pods in stockades.
In this watery slumbers below us,
roll up your mat, the sun has set for freedom,
Father tattered house breeds no evil again.
©John Chizoba Vincent
# The_Boy_Hero
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 7:08 AM UTC
Silent!
Open your Bible to Saint John 11:35
Somewhere at the junction of fate and survival let's see the guiltless tears quaking this messed land!
Old sweat of the saints gathered
Ancient blood of the cross stood
And the curtain broke into two
Cracking the raven of the blind side of a land pouring an old wine into a new bottle.
If there is a God, it is obvious he's weeping
for my country home.
Karma is home again &oblivion of its glories
Shall tame this burning flames of Christ tears.
Are the Saints still crying of their betrayed shadows?
Nigeria left us a sad song to be swallowed into our mouth like the body of Christ.
How do we spell genocide?
How do we write jungle justice on a paper?
Are the Chibokgirls back from Sambisa forest?
I never knew tears have voices too until
they are adapted in the chronicle of emptiness.
When we started from genesis,
We sighted those broken bridges in exodus
Parting the morals to see death multiplying.
And Jesus wept, not for sin but for a home like ours.
Yet, every night we burn incenses before sleep
Hoping that each dawn we'll see through those illusion in the tears my home brings.
Yet, Jesus still weeps for a land my leaders made a public forest of pleasure.
My home: your face is now walking behind a black sun!
We'll cease to make ourselves pillars of death.
©John Chizoba Vincent
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 5:04 PM UTC