#reno - Hello Poetry

Some praise singers mistake the python for rope they stroke its scales and call the coiling an embrace. Reno, you have read the scar as decoration, traced the brand of iron across a nation's back and called the burning a warmth of bliss He was no leader, he was a scientist of sorrows, a babalawo of betrayal who cast his Odù not in palm nuts but in the cold geometry of power. His hands, cold scalpels, carving futures into fractures, splitting the nation's sternum to examine what democracy looked like from the inside, then stitching nothing back. He distilled a nation in his test tubes, pipetting hope into deception, titrating freedom with the acid of his will, until what remained was neither the promised wine nor the threatened poison, only the residue of a people's patience, crystallised beyond drinking. We raised our calabashes toward the promise of a river that kept receding as we walked. He told us the oracle was speaking. He told us transition was a seed requiring his particular darkness to germinate. And we believed the way the newly bereaved believe the herbalist who says the fever must worsen before the cure takes hold. The Ifa that should have named the thief slept in his khaki pocket, its cowries scattered by the same hand that would, when the time came, crumple an election like a love letter written to someone who had already left the country. June 12 arrived wearing white, Obatala's cloth, the people's will woven into its hem. Twelve million voices spoke through the ballot's quiet thunder, the deeper thunder of a people who had decided who they were. Then, the sleight of hand that was always his truest skill. A pen stroke. The way a single matchstick reduces the iroko's years to an evening's ash. Èwò violated the sacred prohibition broken, the fence around the people's Àṣẹ torn open, and what rushed through that breach was not the wind of change but the cold draft of a corridor where the people's mandate wandered without a door. Iron-fisted, yet afraid to clutch the truth What manner of general commands battalions but cannot command the simple declaration the people have spoken, and I obey? If democracy was ever more than a masquerade costume worn until the drumming stopped, he would have stood as the oba stands before a new season, arms open, crown steady, declaring the verdict of the oracle even when it names someone other than himself. He would have dared the surrender of power to the principle that outlasts power. But the Odù he consulted spoke only one verse, remain. So Reno when you walk softly on these footprints of fire, when you stroke the python and call its coiling leadership, remember the Àṣẹ of a people is not a general's to dissolve. He was afraid. And a nation paid the full price of one man's fear. What is a crown that rests on a throne of broken oaths? What is a nation whose destiny was bartered by the cowardice of a king? The oracle unearths what the praise singer chooses to bury. © Lanre Adebayo

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4d ago

May 30, 2026 at 11:49 PM UTC

LanreAdebayo

What The Praise Singer Buries

Some praise singers mistake the python for rope they stroke its scales and call the coiling an embrace. Reno, you have read the scar as decoration, traced the brand of iron across a nation's back and called the burning a warmth of bliss He was no leader, he was a scientist of sorrows, a babalawo of betrayal who cast his Odù not in palm nuts but in the cold geometry of power. His hands, cold scalpels, carving futures into fractures, splitting the nation's sternum to examine what democracy looked like from the inside, then stitching nothing back. He distilled a nation in his test tubes, pipetting hope into deception, titrating freedom with the acid of his will, until what remained was neither the promised wine nor the threatened poison, only the residue of a people's patience, crystallised beyond drinking. We raised our calabashes toward the promise of a river that kept receding as we walked. He told us the oracle was speaking. He told us transition was a seed requiring his particular darkness to germinate. And we believed the way the newly bereaved believe the herbalist who says the fever must worsen before the cure takes hold. The Ifa that should have named the thief slept in his khaki pocket, its cowries scattered by the same hand that would, when the time came, crumple an election like a love letter written to someone who had already left the country. June 12 arrived wearing white, Obatala's cloth, the people's will woven into its hem. Twelve million voices spoke through the ballot's quiet thunder, the deeper thunder of a people who had decided who they were. Then, the sleight of hand that was always his truest skill. A pen stroke. The way a single matchstick reduces the iroko's years to an evening's ash. Èwò violated the sacred prohibition broken, the fence around the people's Àṣẹ torn open, and what rushed through that breach was not the wind of change but the cold draft of a corridor where the people's mandate wandered without a door. Iron-fisted, yet afraid to clutch the truth What manner of general commands battalions but cannot command the simple declaration the people have spoken, and I obey? If democracy was ever more than a masquerade costume worn until the drumming stopped, he would have stood as the oba stands before a new season, arms open, crown steady, declaring the verdict of the oracle even when it names someone other than himself. He would have dared the surrender of power to the principle that outlasts power. But the Odù he consulted spoke only one verse, remain. So Reno when you walk softly on these footprints of fire, when you stroke the python and call its coiling leadership, remember the Àṣẹ of a people is not a general's to dissolve. He was afraid. And a nation paid the full price of one man's fear. What is a crown that rests on a throne of broken oaths? What is a nation whose destiny was bartered by the cowardice of a king? The oracle unearths what the praise singer chooses to bury. © Lanre Adebayo

113

On a dark and cold, winter's night in Omaha I stumbled into a bar, that was well worth it's scars The barmaid asked are you here for a woman or to just quench your thirst I said I'm looking for Reno, he owes me money that was due on the first She said he would be out in a minute and others were looking for him too Reno came out with a smile until he saw the badge laying on the ground He made a good run, but the lawmen had a gun And ol Reno was lying face down Reno old pal, why did you run, you know the cops and the law of their gun, you get to leave and I must stay, it's not too fair, but it the price we have to pay They ruled it as an accident and claimed that he tripped and fell He was drinking too much, couldn't see where to walk to I demanded justice for my righteous brother, they screamed and hollered at me, they said we'll send you right to hell So I started marching to the ol' corrupt police station to give them a piece of my mind, I laid his picture down and they pulled our their guns I tried to make a quick run, but the pain in my back could not take it as my body lay face in the ground Oh Reno old pal, why did we run, we know the cops, and the law of their gun You got to leave, and now I will too It's not fair, But it's the price we pay

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Jul 1, 2020

Jul 1, 2020 at 10:07 PM UTC

thomasharvey

The Price We Pay

On a dark and cold, winter's night in Omaha I stumbled into a bar, that was well worth it's scars The barmaid asked are you here for a woman or to just quench your thirst I said I'm looking for Reno, he owes me money that was due on the first She said he would be out in a minute and others were looking for him too Reno came out with a smile until he saw the badge laying on the ground He made a good run, but the lawmen had a gun And ol Reno was lying face down Reno old pal, why did you run, you know the cops and the law of their gun, you get to leave and I must stay, it's not too fair, but it the price we have to pay They ruled it as an accident and claimed that he tripped and fell He was drinking too much, couldn't see where to walk to I demanded justice for my righteous brother, they screamed and hollered at me, they said we'll send you right to hell So I started marching to the ol' corrupt police station to give them a piece of my mind, I laid his picture down and they pulled our their guns I tried to make a quick run, but the pain in my back could not take it as my body lay face in the ground Oh Reno old pal, why did we run, we know the cops, and the law of their gun You got to leave, and now I will too It's not fair, But it's the price we pay

18

We walk out the black back door With the broken glass window At the warrant of a smoke I let you lead me into the dark outside Through the yard of twisting, Tall sculptures made of tires, Bottles, barbed wire, and foam You grab my hand and fit me Beside you in the circle consisting Only of artists, some of whom Stand, some of whom sit on old Couch cushions, or lawn chairs Which have been decaying Underneath the wet, ***** snow We, the huddled mass of jean Jackets, knitted scarves, and nihilism, Pass around a legal joint and cigarettes Whose smoke rises into the fog Of a mid-November midnight As we freeze, and add laughter To the hum of cars whizzing past On the one-way side of 2nd Street You and I find our place among The artists, on a chair not once Built with the intention of sustaining The weight of two, but you ask If I’ll sit on your lap anyway And more than willingly, I oblige We are now a part of this crowd— The Burning Man drop-outs, Too cool for our own selves We shiver and vibrate in time To the neon, changing streetlights And not-too-far-off police sirens And it is here, in your lap, surrounded By the rubble of an artist’s junkyard I look up and mouth /I love you/ And you mouth it silently back -E (c) 2018

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Apr 16, 2018

Apr 16, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC

brielagif

The "Junkyard" Behind the Potentialist Workshop

We walk out the black back door With the broken glass window At the warrant of a smoke I let you lead me into the dark outside Through the yard of twisting, Tall sculptures made of tires, Bottles, barbed wire, and foam You grab my hand and fit me Beside you in the circle consisting Only of artists, some of whom Stand, some of whom sit on old Couch cushions, or lawn chairs Which have been decaying Underneath the wet, ***** snow We, the huddled mass of jean Jackets, knitted scarves, and nihilism, Pass around a legal joint and cigarettes Whose smoke rises into the fog Of a mid-November midnight As we freeze, and add laughter To the hum of cars whizzing past On the one-way side of 2nd Street You and I find our place among The artists, on a chair not once Built with the intention of sustaining The weight of two, but you ask If I’ll sit on your lap anyway And more than willingly, I oblige We are now a part of this crowd— The Burning Man drop-outs, Too cool for our own selves We shiver and vibrate in time To the neon, changing streetlights And not-too-far-off police sirens And it is here, in your lap, surrounded By the rubble of an artist’s junkyard I look up and mouth /I love you/ And you mouth it silently back -E (c) 2018

39

a haunting song rolls on through pitch black night, the lyrics are written in the dying smile of a neon sign. my silver lined city shakes with a dusty cough.

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Sep 28, 2016

Sep 28, 2016 at 2:57 AM UTC

drugsong

Untitled

a haunting song rolls on through pitch black night, the lyrics are written in the dying smile of a neon sign. my silver lined city shakes with a dusty cough.

8

Reno, if a troll messeth with thee, forgiveth them Their bound not free. Reno, when the clown's maketh bad choices Silence them with silence, not voices. Reno, thou art a dear friend to me, so I thank thou For always caring, and sharing what tis I believe. Reno, thou art a being with class, and hopes art high, Be thyself girl, let the poetry like bullet's fly. Reno, we've been through this same type of hell, Yet we don't quit do we? We're not trapped in some cell. Reno, child of the lighter side, Open thy mind, continue to expand, taketh that freak poet ride. Reno, west coast poetic, like medicine thy word's art alphabetic To soothe a person's bad day, into happiness in cool shade. Reno, I shalt continue to back thine wonderful work's And even whilst its us others do hurt, showeth them love always! Reno, What a blessing to all of us thou art Reno, Poetess by birth Californian muse heart..... ©Brandon nagley ©Lonesome poet's poetry ©Reno dedication/friendship dedication

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Jul 27, 2015

Jul 27, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC

brandon-nagley

Reno( inspiration to all poet's) dedication to you miss reno, for all your kindness and your hard times you are dealing with ( friendship dedication)

Reno, if a troll messeth with thee, forgiveth them Their bound not free. Reno, when the clown's maketh bad choices Silence them with silence, not voices. Reno, thou art a dear friend to me, so I thank thou For always caring, and sharing what tis I believe. Reno, thou art a being with class, and hopes art high, Be thyself girl, let the poetry like bullet's fly. Reno, we've been through this same type of hell, Yet we don't quit do we? We're not trapped in some cell. Reno, child of the lighter side, Open thy mind, continue to expand, taketh that freak poet ride. Reno, west coast poetic, like medicine thy word's art alphabetic To soothe a person's bad day, into happiness in cool shade. Reno, I shalt continue to back thine wonderful work's And even whilst its us others do hurt, showeth them love always! Reno, What a blessing to all of us thou art Reno, Poetess by birth Californian muse heart..... ©Brandon nagley ©Lonesome poet's poetry ©Reno dedication/friendship dedication

24

I won't miss your neon signs saying cocktails I won't miss your judgmental dive bars and ****** hipster conversation. I'll miss the soul in your music. The best of the drum and strum of guitar the last night I saw this town for the **** hole it was. I won't miss your trendy beer and lines of ******* across the toilet. I won't miss the way girls wore shorts in the snow or boots in the summer. I'll miss the soul in your heartbeat. The way this town never sleeps and the way we stayed up wandering past midnight wondering about life. I won't miss those people who pretend to know me. I won't miss the way you pretended to love me. I'll miss the soul in your music. I'll miss the sweet innocence and the lost wonder as I speed as far away as I can from the place I once called home.

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Apr 19, 2015

Apr 19, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC

BriannaB4mf

Reno.

I won't miss your neon signs saying cocktails I won't miss your judgmental dive bars and ****** hipster conversation. I'll miss the soul in your music. The best of the drum and strum of guitar the last night I saw this town for the **** hole it was. I won't miss your trendy beer and lines of ******* across the toilet. I won't miss the way girls wore shorts in the snow or boots in the summer. I'll miss the soul in your heartbeat. The way this town never sleeps and the way we stayed up wandering past midnight wondering about life. I won't miss those people who pretend to know me. I won't miss the way you pretended to love me. I'll miss the soul in your music. I'll miss the sweet innocence and the lost wonder as I speed as far away as I can from the place I once called home.

12

You ran across the tracks losing sense of time and balance in the process. I found myself staring at the clouds saying a final goodbye to those Reno skies. You called out to me in a panic as I stepped aboard that impatiently waiting train. I found myself stuck sitting next to a man who smelled like beer and cigarette... Thanks Reno for my final goodbye. You waved and banged on the windows trying to get my attention one last time before I left. But I was already daydreaming of big cities and distant places. You did the best you could. I did nothing at all.

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Jul 17, 2014

Jul 17, 2014 at 9:05 AM UTC

BriannaB4mf

The best you could do

You ran across the tracks losing sense of time and balance in the process. I found myself staring at the clouds saying a final goodbye to those Reno skies. You called out to me in a panic as I stepped aboard that impatiently waiting train. I found myself stuck sitting next to a man who smelled like beer and cigarette... Thanks Reno for my final goodbye. You waved and banged on the windows trying to get my attention one last time before I left. But I was already daydreaming of big cities and distant places. You did the best you could. I did nothing at all.

8