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John okon Jan 7
The Morning Sun ©


               Stanza 1 :

The short hand of my big,round clock
Diligently whirred the hour of nine,
And the unfailing sun - faithful to her calling,
Rose again to shine.

               Stanza 2 :

Arghh ! The tendrils of her luminous rays
Sprayed discomfort - exceptionally piercing,
The moment of silence aided the voices of
Chirping birds perching the leeward side of
A neighbouring roof,
Adding somewhat a lustre, to the
Unwavering heat that fortunately found a
Path through the holes of my crisscross net.
Unbidden,I refused to adore her glistening
Grace,
Wallowing in selfpride,I declined my warm
Expression of gratitude for all of her
Kindness during the rainy days.
With overwhelming disdain, I let low the
Fringes of a yellow transparent curtain.

               Stanza 3 :

Nevertheless, undeterred as ever, she
Increased the dazzling filament of her
Toturing flame,
And all I ever did was gawk intermittently,
At the grandeur of her charismatic display
As she waxed and waned delightfully.
Causing tiny,glints to appear on the
Edges of swaying tassles that adorned the
See - through veils of my living room.
Arghh ! There she goes again - her
Untouchable forelocks made me scoff : they
Were as deadly as those oily,boiling,spittles
Dripping down from the cut - tops of
Long-lived vulcanoes,
Which no man ever dared tame.

                Stanza 4 :

The sweeping swish of daytime into
Noonshift, shapelessly radiated those lines
Of light through the scuds of sheepish grey,
As indifferent as ever : no soul, dead or
Living has ever been fortunate to wear her a
Royal crown - oh nay !
I marvel in awe as I unwillingly did watch,
My poor, sullen eyes could droop at some
Point,
Inwardly jealous of her daily, scorchy, touch.


Jahmenmuze.
I drafted this poem three times. A great piece.
John okon Dec 2018
HARMATTAN.

How often stealthy rats squirmed about the
Hallway.
Harmattan blew colder than the warm heat of
My sitting room hearth.
I miss those awkward squeaks these days,
And the creaking errieness of my door,
Felt like,harmattan was inviting some
Saturnine stranger to cook my needless oats.
Festac streets at night glowed with misty fog,
Giving the streetlights this sort of luminous
Strangeness.
The furling greenness of my compound
Bitterleaf now overgrown,seemed to be
Peeking at me every night.
The profound sounds of night crickets and
Twinkling lights of those fireflies aided
Silence much less.
As for the night sky,ever pale as unseen
But felt sadness that failed not to hallow her
Majesty - the white-bright moon.
Yet the star studded few lines and boundaries - tall cranes and giant masts
All lost their formidable heights in the Seemingly hazy,plain clouds of midnight stay.
It brought upon my lips benign boils and made my nostrils as dry tunnels.
My eyes were constantly worried with rubbing itches that turned them slightly red.
Although I am all alone to myself most passing days,
To nobody's surprise - the harmattan refuses
To efface still.


    -   Jahmenmuze.
The awkwardness of harmattan.
John okon Dec 2018
Never have I seen the moon turn off its light at night,
Never has it leaped into my room to chat with me or for a moment of unserious trite.
Always faithful to shine,
As similar to that of a slick wine.
Running down a stranger's throat,
Swilling as he sips and slurps - those eyes of his like that of a sneaky goat.
Never have I seen the moon turn off its light at night.

                                                Jahmenmuze..
As simple as thought but symbolical in every sense of night.

— The End —