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
TheBoyHero.

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

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
# TheBoyHero

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

(Holding fire and water together)

I don't know why the rain keeps writing the
name of Nigeria on the ground in every corner.
I don't know why we are this broken and
tortured like the fragments of the dust.
I don't know why the Dapchi girls returned yesterday while their chikbok friends are
still in captive.
I don't know why every street in Nigeria is
known with an imprint of good leaders.
I don't know why we cry yet point accusation. fingers back to ourselves, who is fooling who?
I don't know why the sun cry here with a
closed lips.
I don't know why we keep writing love stories
while our brothers and sisters perish in shame!
I don't just know why but I think you should know.
Are you not the one that collected a cup of rice, clean notes and Abrahamic lie from them?
I won't speak ill of this land again,  I won't!
I won't judge any one, no, I won't for  the
sake of my unborn children.
No, I won't for the sake of what happened to Dele Giwa and Saro Wiwa.
We poets are abnormal psychologically.
We paints abstraction from the abstracts creating fears that might hurt those true patriots.
My muse fell out from me yesterday night,
When my television opened to a scene of genocide.
Men on pants, women on trousers painting out the tears made for people inhabiting hell.
Their laughters and smiles were printed to be archived among themselves.
I won't speak ill  of this country, no, I won't!
Because of my unborn children,
I won't!
But I will tell just one tale for them to remember
Of how monkeys carted away with our monies!
Of how Snake swallowed our currency!
Of how good our leaders are, I think you know!
I have been holding these demons in me until last night they came out horribly in fierce protest to revisit this land again.
To tell of those girls ***** under the bridge,
To ask why boys like me are named after me,
To speak against shadows of death lurking here and there.
Nigeria is grey and black, red and violent,
Retrieving this oceans of mysteries from the hidden abyss of grave corruption is the passport tabled on the pyramid top to recreate a versatile muses of a lyrics calling for a right to write our rights.
Take a walk to memory lane pass your shadow,  that of your father,  mother & grandmas
You will see a Nigeria in another angle trying to free herself from the grip of corruption, then, revisit her tears and struggles you will know we are the cause of our own misfortunes.!

©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustrations

let's dive into the thought of that Benue woman.
let's see through her sorrow carved separately,
how many children are born to die before noon?
1966 saw this on the tail of her skins proudly,
till 1977, pogom of lunatic fringed our thoughts,
We enslaved our reasonings to the ashes of right, everything without a comma seems right
to us & we failed to allow the oceans break in the cities on our cheeks without killing them.
these memories are the genocide &mythical histories that keep fading faster to hurt us.

It was a happy day on the face of the sun,
Erinma went to farm &never returned home.
We searched all the delivered forest but
could not have a trace of her glitched doom.
It was a sunny day, a bleeding white day,
Ayola went to the stream and never came back.
We only saw his blood spoke of herdsmen,
His spirit ran towards Enugu wet shrines.
All we saw was his pains assaulted fairly along the confluence border of River Benue & kogi.
Our thoughts are no longer golden to hearts.

It was a fateful baked day of excitement,
Ene went to school & never came back for her
mother to pick the gaze of the smile in her
pride, she was never seen but her shadows
left traces like voicemail to the road to Sambisa.
Still, strength formed like cascading sweat on
the faces of our trembling lips, no one spoke,
No one spoke of this evening even their Aso could not come to fight for what has become
of us in these two cities where boys are enemies to girls breaking the route which the wind blew.

We learnt to hide cocroaches in every cupboard,
&our leaders taught us this & how suffering could be beneficiary to our hearts like tonic.
Genocide taught us how to deny our own the right to live & live life like the living ought to
live. they made knives part oceans of water,
They made us a guest in our own home!
a house won't be a home anymore when our young ones are killed in a traumatic chaos.  
where we eat are the places of mortals bodies
a deafening silence hung on every spirit here.

Defining gels of life gathered like firrwood,
On the pupils of our eyes, skulls are draw to drown us in the drawings life came up with.
We are treasure of genocid messes like *****
Of ballardic poems written with a sad pen.
Let's develop this film today & tomorrow,
If you renew your license of mind to fit in
then, the blood of those killed will bear us
Witness to the craving wind looking forward
to hearing a word from what we made here to be.
A land of blood and cracked sorrows.

Where dreams are gold of thought
Where cloud are silvers of hope
Where future husband the street
Where ghost don't crack bones of human.
This colour of African night depict water
A formless form of laughter tickling home
If this history be made of Kinta Kunte,
I will lit this weekend with a strange tune
Which will end up holding the image of forever.


May we meet again where **** are debris
of footsteps on the oceans of mysteries.
We might giggle with a different tale on
We may pitch our voices to the cold hands
of daring heart of  thunderous elipsis...
We may trace home giants of illusions
We may not see the darkness in eve hush
noise, not through this armpit zipper of
services rendered in a torn lips of lost humanity.

May we meet again where we make muse
a knight with a name & face & identity
We'll send forth our song to many places
where our mind have raced without a print
May we meet again where love crossed path
and time lose concentrations in the camp of
attraction of what we have finally become
May we might again as a pilgrims in prayer,
Our hands a home bringing  tomorrow' peace.


May we meet  again and embrace wetness
Wetness of love and hope for another' emotion
At the sight of the emptiness in the hallway,
We will stand to erase every ooze of doubt
Hold on between us death and life to conquer
this deafening silence may echo beyond shrunk
Nights of our skins before the sun unmask
May we meet again and again and again
Where we part no more  with legs of departure.


©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingfrustrations.