They’re here again.
That auburn that gold
the occasional surprise burst
of green or blue and purple
sits behind my eyes
and reawakens my heart
in the dark
the rainbow that is your hair in the sun
and that perfect sparkle catches my mind
again:

It’s hard to say
which earring it was
so I take the liberty to consider
each silver crystalline spear
creating harmony between gravity and your body;
I take the chance to notice
each peach, orange, and raspberry
that paint your cheeks and nose on
this sunny day
that isn’t today.

I remember
they prove the Golden Hour’s
potential for prying beauty
out of these few dimensions we can comprehend.

And it’s here again.
Smothering everything with
every most distracting color
only to leave within
an hour or less
leaving me blind
and still struggling for air,
distracted by
memory
by shapes
by your shape
by color.

The warm wispy clouds are your hair
the red and orange are your eyes and face
and the bright setting sliver
disappears behind smoke.
And all there is is color.

After the wind lifts the beggar
From his bed of trash
And blows to the empty pubs
At the road's end
There exists only the silence
Of the world before dawn
And the solitude of trees.

Handel on the set mysteriously
Recalls to me the long
Hot nights of childhood spent
In malarial slums
In the midst of potent shrines
At the edge of great seas.

Dreams of the past sing
With voices of the future.
And now the world is assaulted
With a sweetness it doesn't deserve
Flowers sing with the voices of absent bees
The air swells with the vibrant
Solitude of trees who nightly
Whisper of re-invading the world.

But the night bends the trees
Into my dreams
And the stars fall with their fruits
Into my lonely world-burnt hands.
_

Source:
http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml

It's not your fault your talk
never found a fondness
for words,
I'm the "supposed writer"-

I should have penned something
beyond the ink

Language has no skeleton,
it can quickly take shape of any form,
perhaps lightening bolts
that somewhat resemble
j
..a....l
g........i
..g....n
e........e
..d....s (our love always seems to be threatening thunder)

I could have rolled letters off my tongue
and watched them scatter about, like critters
to their befitting nook
in my poetry

I ate the alphabet as a child,
you chewed numbers
and spit out black on white,
never blending the two

I prefer to think
in color,
if only I could adorn your logic
with a more prismatic hue

days with you:
like sand in the wind
they slip away.
each gentle touch,
each kiss,
leaves memories on my skin
whispering long after you are gone
that I am never alone

Because
I have known despair
I value hope

Because
I have tasted frustration
I value fulfillment

Because
I have been lonely
I value love

You say I don’t need a poem
to capture the day in a frame and tuck it
beneath my pillow
But I’d like to have it there in case I forget
the way the armadillo on the side of the road
lay belly up, beer bottle in paw
a redneck's respects for the deceased

or the feeling of three in the morning
pounding in my skull, soaking in memories
trivia pursued and articles of obfuscation: the elucidation of the world
seen through bottle-green binoculars and heard
through the neighbor's windchimes ringing out diminished sevenths
and questions I don't want to answer
or even ask out loud

I want to tuck it in my wallet
for times that I can't remember your faces
or the scent of your shampoo, or the order of keychains
on your keyring, or the times we drove to East Jesus Nowhere
and you ripped the leaves from my calendar, ticking
and turning my seasons by the mile markers in the cement

I do this to engrave it in my cerebrum
the nights we ran outside in our pajamas in the rain
and danced for a while, then danced some more,
turning and leaping and spinning and reaching
and falling down to weep for no reason
mourning the morning
among the sharpened blades of grass

You laughed at me once
remember that? how you scoffed and snatched
my paper from my spiral and stuffed it in the trash can
telling me not to write fiction in history class
but it's just as much history as every other Jefferson
another amendment you'll never read

But I forgive you. you're not the first
to tell me to get my feet out of the clouds
because my head's already gone too far for saving
or to attempt to stifle my addiction to
the scratch of pen on paper
the scent of ink on tree
the pulse of blood in my brain

I cling to syntax like religion
keeping the words pinched in my fists like pixie dust
hoping if I say the right abracadabra
the pen will turn to a wand
and I can paint you the details
one day at a time

now, ladies and gentlemen,
as you can plainly see
I am quite adroit and learned
and this lady quite occupied
I am, let me make it clear,
extremely preoccupied
keeping this lady warm and happy
as she in her turn does ditto for me
Now whether we please ourselves missionary
or front to front
is really no business of yours -
but it’s purely and ****** our business and pleasure
So, most lovely ladies and resourceful gentlemen
you must find yourself a different room each
and leave me to fiddle or ****** as I wish
O shame on you ladies -
do you not lure your men
far enough into your depths?
O shame on you men -
do you not come hard enough on your women?
go you now and find each a body
and go spiritual, ****** or *****
have no guilt, enjoy abandon
love as you wish -
but really, you busybodies,
it’s time for you to relinquish pretense of  surprise
and depart from here, and  
leave one body busy with the other