"boychild" poems
what about the boys in Pakistan's war front?
what about those boys in Iran battlefield, those boys learning how to pull the trigger with a warning fingers on the crossroad of Iraq & Afghanistan?
what about those boys ***** in the street of Nigeria?
those boys in the act of loneliness in the army, what about them?
those boys lost in themselves in the thickest phase of life; what about them?
the boy soldiers with raw emotions & feelings & thoughts, who cares?
they lost the shadows of their fathers,
they lost the thought of their mothers,
they became a movie of suspense,
survivor's lines of remorse & yelling;
what about them?
who cares if they are lost in forest like Kainene?
who cares about their lives like Okonkwo did to Ikemefuna?
who cares about their relationship like Inu Ego did with Oshia?
who cares...?
the ditches are wildly mouth opened,
and those boys in shell shall fall in there.
many are on the look out for a stone to hatch these shell boys 'cause they are said to be stronger.
what about the BOYCHILD?
I pray you reject sleep &think through this black pages of my tattered thoughts climaxed in horror.
what about the BoyChild endangered?
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 1:43 PM UTC
Tell the moon not to complain,
go to the sun and leave a note,
We are not a broken piece of poetry
campaigning for love and affections,
we are crystals, lest you forget!
clear rays penetrating into hearts and souls of humans that seek to make themselves gods into godhood.
we are not grasshoppers to be chopped by a lazy legs printing a falseful legacy.
We are the elephants of the forest of wealth.
Never slaughter the thought of our lives
We are the breath of humans & fire searching for what brewed within men.
We are poems inked with tears and sweat
But those tears are of our bravery, &sweat, a joyful noise made by the skin for celebration of our kind.
We ****** hope in the palms of children,
yet filled with love and its synonyms.
Our lives are the poets who rhymed & colour the sweet lyric they were made to be.
We are the boy children, the hope; least you forget.
The moon of tomorrow,
The sun on faces of a beaming girl
The stars carved on the smile of the sky,
We are boys whose shadows recreate
We are boys whose palms are route of greatness & roadtrip of principles.
praise singers in the slippery wet floor,
nightingales singing lullabies,
bread feeding all mouth to satisfaction
When heronic names are carved look and see ours rightly placed.
we are braver than earth
we can pull it up and down like a tree.
we are the reptiles that wriggle down the hill of success and roar like a beast in a beautiful pail palm of dreams.
our fathers' tattered sins could not hold us down,
our mother's splitted fire guides our course of life!
We are the boys of tomorrow , the warriors of words hyping the hashtag of praises.
who has seen us has seen light,
He who behold us has nothing to fear.
We are mountains in praise of hope
we are oceans of mysteries and hidden treasures.
Have our words and actions in your words for we are time bomb against failure.
BOYCHILD, the sun that glows on every face that needs help.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_ A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC
The moat was built to flood
Like a boychild that built his castle
To be destroyed by his whim
Controlled by the waves of emotion
And I am the tower
Crumbling beneath the forces
Of controlled nature
Like all mankind likes to believe
He can wield the sword of passion
To control
When he does not even understand
What makes it grow
But I am the tower
Built with the intent to let fall
Under a force you believe you can control
And I am left wondering
Why I allow myself to be such
Like sand
Malleable and weak
Yet everlasting in its sound
And
Still
you wonder why
I choose to try
To be like a stone.
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 3:28 AM UTC
i created another Jaja yesterday!
a braver Jaja unlike that timid feeble boy
Chimamanda gave life in Purple hibiscus.
i gave him a gun and a mightier heart.
i carved a pumpkin route for him to follow
i made him to have the mind of his own
then, I sent him to his father just like every
mother sends their sons to their father.
he gunned him down in his assaulted plights
he returned angrily to hunt me for this freedom
my experiments to pull him down failed
and I remembered mother also created boys
she abandoned to find freedom who later
came back to ****** her in their plights
Boys come in this formless shape creating imageries larger than them which returns to
Squeeze more juice out from their dark sides.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
We do as we do,
stay still and the mildew will get you,move on,get the rush,push people aside,ride on the left wing of what today may or may not bring,sing if you want to,I do,out of tune at the moon I don't give a damn,I'm a man,so they say,I may prove that some day,I might not,I might stay the boychild,live free and live wild,pick my nose or my toes I have not yet decided,but there's time to uncover those things made to smother me,I only seek love and affection,the perfection of womanhood is what I think will do me good and it does.
She understands me,measures me in cough drops,says that I am the tops and she has the cream,she's seen me at my best and when things come to test me,she's with me,guiding,to stop me from sliding,and I love her for that and the fact that's she's gorgeous has no bearing at all.
If I fall she will chide me,once again she will guide me,I confide this to few,without her what would I do?
I'd be lost in a place where my face wouldn't fit.
I sit back to smile at her,she watches me in the chair and I love her for that,too.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
Dear boychild
I want you to know that it's okay
It's okay to feel
It's okay to express feelings
It's okay to have emotions
It's okay to express emotions
I want you to know that you don't have to
You don't have to conform
To their standards
You don't have to pretend
To please society
You don't have to be mechanical
We all know you are human
I want you to know it doesn't matter
Doesn't matter what they think, just what you think
Doesn't matter what they want, just what you want
Doesn't matter what they expect, just be you
If they can't take who you are, then it's not worth it
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
After Amadioha went into sweet nightmares,
he made us to breath through the chest of the sea. from the celestial bodies of the shrine,
We shone our forefather's smile with a mirage,
a little littered mirage spelling words in ellipsis.
these were the rose crumbs tailored in the sand castle of our glassful laughter, we're the Palmful morning in the eyes of our home in the abyss.
when a child cries, he forgets that the route to
his home is written on his body as a tattoo.
when a girl thinks of gathering firewood in the heart of the forest, she thinks of her thigh &
the bushes surrounding it, nature made it so.
We do not think of our skin as a poetic of agony,
We do not think of our eyes as poetry letters
but we draw lines and currents of imaginations describing how rituals made men insane.
We carried out those prilgrim for the boys,
our forebearers made us cracked our head up,
they carved pumpkins traces for this generation; for this humble journey mixed with fire & water.
Our souls, our dreams were the Shakespearean places you never had the chance to see physical.
they are the rituals of nature, a side Sithoulte,
a wonder land created like a paradise you don't stay often but in your dreams & imageries.
We are birthed here as debris & plump scars,
a tortured lips holding the past & the present.
We are the foundation of everything evil spirits,
We were born in the ritual of a grievous war.
to say a human is a benchmark of his own,
to say a man is a mango dropping without a choice of where and how to touch the sand,
to say a man is everything fretwork of agony;
to say a men are slaughtered memories...
but to this edges of rites & repeated steps,
We'll remain the gospel from every mouth.
Our ancestral hands shall still set a table,
to tell the girlchild how to sit in a public hall
to hand over the shrine to the boychild
to tell man that he owns a woman as head.
to keep birthing good and ugly children.
our hope will always depict heavens glory
and, our darkest fears as the skin of hell.
And it must be passed down to the next
genes to tell the next & sand keep multiplying.
This is the ritual of mankind to remain alive.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustrations.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 8:54 AM UTC
twenty minutes to write a poem
to stop and think and scribe
to create an etude, a vignette
from daily life,
minutea
teapot sits
still warm
rendolent
of terraces
of camelias
in foreign lands
crumbs sit in clusters
on the worn pine table
survivors of the toast and jam war
underneath the tuxedo cat
basks in a sliver of stainedglassgreen sunlight
hopeful of something wonderful
the clattering of the boychild
can be heard, akin to rollerblading rhino's
as he prepares for another day of learning
I sit, running fingertip around teacup lip
as I contemplate procrastination
with regard to all things domestic
outside, the world reverberates
as some one begins to cut grass
and the the Beach Boys sing Kokomo
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC