"boardinghouse" poems
On my own terms,
I lived my life
Giving and taking,
both day and night
On my own terms,
I lived my life
Some then mistaken,
some often right
On my own terms,
I lived my life
Last right of refusal,
the one holding tight
On my own terms,
I lived my life
The lows though not many,
the feelings they wrought bright
On my own terms,
I lived my life
Words ever radiant,
the music so fair
On my own terms,
I lived my life
The sweetness of children,
my soul they ensnared
On my own terms,
I lived my life
The darkest of moments,
their message to share
On my own terms,
I lived my life
A voice though unchosen,
inside me declares
On my own terms,
I lived my life
As the days grew short,
and the visitors came
On my own terms,
I lived my life
Their voices cry out,
now calling my name
On my own terms,
I lived my life
One verse was enough,
no time to explain
On my own terms,
I lived my life
My final breath,
a lasting refrain
On my own terms,
I lived my life
The money fleeting,
any fame now gone
On my own terms,
I lived my life
A 5-Star boardinghouse,
no curtains drawn
On my own terms,
I lived my life
With arms open wide,
and the peace to move on
On my own terms,
I ended my life
All that I’ve written,
—turned into song
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.
Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury
"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"
Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.
Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.
Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.
Akimbo stood l.
Now the verdict!
Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,
"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".
Entreaties collapsed.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
What trope is this,
That the old, wizened, simply submit,
Shedding skin and shutting out the sight
Of the melting candle lit.
Contraire! They still feel that whine
of seductive life blowing by,
Promising kisses and smooth skin.
In the mind, the memory of bare feet
In the sand retains its grittiness;
But life, pitiless, creates the mind's body,
A boardinghouse always in decline,
Leaving lips bereft.
Does the old heart believe
That the memory of that electric touch
Will still change the movie
From documentary to romance?
The young play; the old grieve.
Is it life to sit on a bench,
Next to the stench of old men
And laugh politely at yesterday's stories,
While powdered old ladies lean in
Singing hymns of past glories?
Restless desire inspires man's mortal heart
To resist this predestination, unchosen.
I long to dance, to sweat,
To feel, under the sun, the ripeness start.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC