I write the worst happy poems and right now you make me want to write about eagles with butterfly wings planting rose seeds in the clouds of heaven and I don't even know what that means.
But mostly I want to write about your glasses, how they serve as night sky to the moon behind your eyes, I see them follow me across the room.

I want to write about your glasses, how they rest on your ears like lazy man lips whispering something sweet, I heard them say you look beautiful today.

I want to write about your glasses, how every time you take them off my heart skips a beat cos I know what's coming, I learnt the hard way not to stare directly at the sun, but staring is the only way to fall blindly in love.

I want to write about your glasses, about the marks they leave on the bridge of your nose and how they look like where you've saved all my breaths you've taken away.

I write the worst happy poems and your glasses are putting a smile on my face, so when I say eagles with butterfly wings plant rose seeds in the clouds of heaven, I guess what I mean is not all roses grow from the concrete, sometimes all it takes is something strong and beautiful to show you what heaven feels like, something like you.

A cup full of pennies

The sun had dipped into the ocean and sizzled out it’s bright. The sky was a bipolar devil trying to glow in the dark.
He was a man with a red beard and a cup full of pennies from all the times souls like mine had wandered here seeking his stories.

In some way he was a memory of the past, words of light that cast shadows on the men we used to be, and he was also the hope for the future, a seed breaking its shell learning to trust the earth, knowing that people aren't always good, but aren't always bad either.

When he said if I ever do die, I can take care of my soul, but somebody please take my body home. All I could say was I will, all I could think was, I know a few things about being lost myself, I have perfected the art of drawing circles with my footprints, the sand between my toes is not from this beach, we are both travellers of some sort.

No room to feel he began, we were men
Our hearts of stone were never for evil, it just had to be strong enough to protect the people in it.
That’s the problem with poets
The sunset was never meant to be stared at, it was the only sign that we had fought the sun that day and won and the sunrise was a new days battle cry.
The stars were never meant to be gazed at, they only remind us that anything that can only glow in the dark will always remain small and common.

So no room to feel, maybe every silver lining is lightening and thunder is the sound your body makes when it hits the ground, you my dear boy are trying too hard to touch the clouds, there’s ground that needs breaking.

So leave dreams for sleeping men, leave sky for birds and leave tears for shoulders strong enough to carry them.

But what do I know, I’m just an old man collecting yesterdays till tomorrow comes. And you are a young man with the foolish of pride and the wisdom of time. The sun’s coming up, leave a penny in the cup.


2. The bread-maker's son

He lets the rain kiss his closed eye wet, he buries the air in the depths of his lungs and counts the seconds between each wave, this has always been a funeral for his fears.
And tonight he washes sugar and yeast and his father’s name from his finger tips, he knows all that has no place in war and sunrise will be a new days battle cry.
But he yearns for Glenbeigh, for the kiss of her rain, how her waves rise like the yeast in his father's kitchen, how sunrise was an ode to the sunset before.

When did the crashing of waves give way to the clashing of men, and bodies fall to kiss the ground loud, they do not rise like yeast anymore.
In honour of the one hundred and twelve, how much room do the nameless dead deserve on a monument?
He lets the blood kiss his closed eyelids wet, he buries the dead in the depths of his mind and counts the seconds between each loss, this has always been a funeral for his friends.

I remember Lagos. Her humid air and lazy clouds that did nothing to stop the sun, she is nothing like Glenbeigh. But she is everything like Glenbeigh, they’re both distant homes of two soldiers in different wars, a burial ground for fears and father’s names that have no place in war.
I came here searching answers to questions that others had asked me, so did Paddy, this was not our war.
But we search all the same, we fight all the same, if not for anything then for love, for home, for hope, for every time life hits you and you rise like the yeast in Paddy’s father’s kitchen, for those that cannot rise anymore.
If I ever do return
I’ll let my love kiss my closed eyelids wet, I’ll bury the air of my sister’s laugh in the depths of my lungs and count the seconds between each wave of tears from my mother’s face, this will be a funeral for all my fears.


3. Old School

She runs down the stairs forgetting the age of her bones, He drops the walking sticks in each hand and spreads his arms awaiting impact.
She runs into him like a car crash, with the impact of a single applaud, soft and firm and loud, as his fingers rest on the home of her spine, the place where they had lived for the past 50 years.
Her laughter, mending the broken fragments of his aching heart.
Her tears, drowning the purple heart on his uniform.
Paddy uses ******* to put her hair behind her left ear and whispers to her, "You're stepping on my toes"
They hug and sway, their laugh was like a hip hop and jazz jam session, Paddy was always trumpet loud and Sarah was always drums, the beat to which the rhythm flows. So each skip of a heart beat was half cardiac problems of an ageing man and half love.
I am half whatever you want me to be and half yours.
If Paddy could fight an entire war then what is an ocean, if not eight hours and two planes, what is a movie over Facetime, if not the sound of your heartbeat when you fall asleep with your phone on your chest and what is a half empty bed, if not a metaphor for all the parts of me that you complete.
And every time that we meet and forget the reason we were apart in the first place like drowning purple hearts.
I pray that my fingers will find home in the arch of your back
And my toes will find comfort underneath your feet.
My love,
When we are old and frail and walk the streets with love like thunder, the loud that is left after all the spark is gone, the sound of a single applaud.
I pray that our love will be proof that jazz and hip hop are a match made in heaven.
But till then, pick up your phone.

4. Price and Punishment

The lads and I were gathered around his stool like stars around a half moon, his stories were always the longest, mostly because each sentence was followed by a swirl and swallow of Guinness, he described it as the worst thing he ever tasted, but said drinking this was the duty of every red blood red beard Irish man.
His stories were always the longest but always the best, they were always about the same stranger, the same soldier, the same red beard, the same tattoo on his wrist where he had hid his lover’s name, the same war.
Red beard Paddy never really believed in God, but it didn’t take long for him to learn the language of the enemy, it didn’t take long for that to convince him that he deserved death just as much as they did. The first time he got shot, it was a graze across his wrist like something was trying to tell him we know where heart is, like something was trying to tell him there is no love in war, that death and blood are prize and punishment.
But Paddy, Paddy fought for love, for love of country, for love of family, for love of the ******* his wrist that bullets couldn’t ****. For what is blood if not the price of love and what is death if not the punishment for apologetic sinners, for God so loved the world, that he killed himself.
The war as patient as his love both waiting long into the night, the days as many as the number of fatherless homes, each bullet hole just something else for bullet girl to fill, her touch was soft and deep and complete.
Paddy prayed in the language of the enemy the day he heard the war was over, he cried in the language of God the day he heard he had lost her, almost half expecting it, something for his sins, a bandage for his wrist that heals and covers all at once.
The stars were gathered around a half moon that day and that was all Paddy and I had in common, my father’s death was no price for sin my pain was no punishment. I sat there, listening to this story about the price of sin and the punishment of war wondering, what was my sin? Why do I always have to look at a half moon and wonder, where are all the stars gone? If death is the price for love then what is the price of life? Tell me and I’ll pay it.
Maybe Paddy and I aren’t so different after all, maybe we love a bit too deep and cry a bit too God, but losing her will always be his price and loving you will always be my sin.

She runs down the stairs forgetting the age of her bones, He drops the walking sticks in each hand and spreads his arms awaiting impact.
She runs into him like a car crash, with the impact of a single applaud, soft and firm and loud, as his fingers rest on the home of her spine, the place where they had lived for the past 50 years.

Her laughter mending the broken fragments of his aching heart
Her tears, drowning the purple heart on his uniform.
Paddy uses ******* to put her hair behind her ear and whispers to her, "You're stepping on my toes"
They hug and sway, their laugh was like a hip hop and jazz jam session, Paddy was always trumpet loud and Sarah was always drums, the beat to which the rhythm flows. So each skip of a heart beat was half cardiac problems of an ageing man and half love.

I am half whatever you want me to be and half yours.
If Paddy could fight an entire war then what is an ocean, if not eight hours and two planes, what is a movie over Facetime, if not the sound of your heartbeat when you fall asleep with your phone on your chest and what is a half empty bed, if not a metaphor for all the parts of me that you complete.
And every time that we meet and forget the reason we were apart in the first place like drowning purple hearts.
I pray that my fingers will find home in the arch of your back
And my toes will find comfort underneath your feet.

My love,
When we are old and frail and walk the streets with love like thunder, the loud that is left after all the spark is gone, the sound of a single applaud.
I pray that our love will be proof that jazz and hip hop are a match made in heaven.
But till then, pick up your phone.

She smiles,
I try not to,
But we both know my weakness lies somewhere between her lips. So I do that thing where I smile and frown at the same time, as I mumble "it's not funny" under my breath.
This, this was our language of love, but it didn't always come easy.
I'm still learning to take hints, especially from damsels in distress, they paint the worst pictures, with shaky hands and nothing to work with but red and grey.
You, you came into my life like a basketball going out of bounds, with ******* men chasing after you, each bounce lower than the last till you met me where I've always been. It took me a few tries to learn that you can't play football with a basketball, somethings are meant to fit in your hands, she liked to be held, so I did this, as often as she allowed me to.
Every time I said women are complexity, she always replied with "men are uncertainty". If I was ever grey Miss, this is the black and white.
You are the dream of all my dreams. A cloud made of silver strings trying not to rain, but trusting the sun to make a rainbow even if you fail. Trusting me to do that thing where I smile and frown at the same time, something to tickle your cheeks when tears are forcing them to be more river than mountain. I'm sorry if I failed you sometimes, men are raised to be more rock than water, not knowing when to flow around you.
I still think of you everyday, most days not even because I miss you, but because I'm terrified I'll forget what your smile looks like, what your laugh sounds like, what the hair at the back of your neck feels like every time I kiss your belly button. On days when I catch myself smiling, your name is the mumble under my breath. We will forever be that picture of grey and red, an uncertain man trying to paint rainbows.
I've wrapped my entire body in a bandage of time, hoping to resurrect as someone who doesn't love you as much. But I've settled for being another black man chasing a basketball going out of bounds, or at least, at least let me catch the rebound.

I choose to live to choose
Somewhere at the corner of 8th and sacrifice.
It is easy to have opinions on burdens we do not carry.
She carries her burden at the center of her being where the world has told her to keep her gifts.
The decision as difficult as the action that must be taken, she said to me, "How do you force sacrifice?"
I search for words at the bottom of my opinion but we both know that death isn't the only way to end a life, for even God gave us choice for us to truly live.
So I choose me, over his or hers, for what is sacrifice if it is forced.
But my baby did not ask for this.
He did not ask to be the product of my choice or the sacrifice for my life.
The neon light of the late night pharmacy was the knife we used to peel the morning after from the night before.
It is easier to make mistakes that can be corrected.
But a life is a life is a life.
Where do we bury the bodies of unwanted babies. Will the tombstone of my first child read medical waste?
What role do I play in this? It is my child as much as it is her body, but hers is a temple men like me only come to pray. It is hers to choose who stays.
As I leave you with more questions than answers
I do not offer opinion on politics.
I do not offer figures to statistics.
I place before you two lives
who decides who lives or dies?

The smoke from the lantern was the misty grey of an uncertain sky.
Brother, sister and I were gathered around the dim light attempting to play a secret game of cards, because mother had told us it was bad for our eyes. Moore was losing as usual, he was barely five, then we heard the all too familiar voice of thunder "What did I tell you children about playing cards in the dark?"
This, this was the recipe for all my favourite memories as a child.
Outdoor mattresses and hand made fans were all we needed to spill the secrets of the day. Falling asleep, one child after another but mother stayed up to chase the mosquitoes from our skins and the nightmares from our dreams. This, this was our language of love.
This was where we found God.
Yesterday I tried to count how many hours we've spent together in the last seven years. I stopped at zero in the last fourteen months, I couldn't go any further. I'm forgetting what lantern smoke smells like. I'm forgetting what your smiles look like. I've tried and failed a thousand times to wipe your tears over the phone. Distance doesn't take kindly to sympathetic lovers.
So I miss you like fingertips miss palms when uncurling a fist to embrace the cold, knowing it's for the best. We tell ourselves it's for the best, that roots like me have to branch out to break ground. That apples don't fall far from the tree but must roll away from the shade to see the sun.
My mother is the settling dust that brings the best out of all of us. So I know what she means when she says "don't come back."
She means be the best you can be, the world deserves you as much as we do.
Wear your name as tight as your skin and if they say it wrong correct them.
Today I found an old lantern in a store on a street somewhere too far from home. The smoke doesn't smell like I remember.

Write a poem about anything.

Rip the page from the book and make a paper plane. The simple ones we made as children.

When I was a kid we would breathe into the wings of a paper plane like somehow we had the lungs of God and that must be how he kept planes in the sky, because even then we knew that living isn’t just breathing but the application of breath. So breath into yours, and let that paper plane poem fly. Believe without questioning that air and words can keep anything alive, for what is God but words that come to life when the world feels dark and empty.

My mirror always gives advice like, consider the big picture, but always pay attention to detail.

All my gods don’t pay attention to detail and I don’t blame them, there’s over 7 billion details. So maybe we all don’t matter the same, but at some point we all believed that out breaths could keep paper planes in the sky, at some point we all believed that God will make our dreams come true.

So today I am writing poems and making planes and taking breaths so deep the paper ripples from the wind of my lungs. I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m trying.

Men like me, we daydreamers, we caterpillars trying to be birds but we’ll settle for butterflies. But my best friend, she is a tree, planted deep but reaching for the sky, shedding leaves in autumn cos she knows that even the ground needs a blanket from the cold.

All my gods don’t pay attention to detail, but my best friend, she is human and kind or at least she tries.

We still fear the empty in a half full glass, but we know we need air as much as we need water. So we drink, half believing we are all gods in charge of our planes. And we breath, as humans, capable of much better.