your hart is like a star
shining so bright
hiding behind all the light
imagene what you would be
not what you could be
makeing all the haids tern round
dont you here that soud
some peaple brack peaples harts hopes and dreems
well at least that what it seems
well what do i know im gust the girl in the back row

bildings in roowins
I rite with brokin-hand


it is the year of the unlord-tyms 2085
and skool hadbin abolishd since fyv decades
evrything in disrepair -
                    no hospitills no parks
                    no creche no greens
all grey and dark

now here I lie amid the rubble
I see they took my legs for under-market
what else did they take?
**** *******!
belly rumbles
the last I'd eaten was 2 days on
a chunk of hard-bread whose colour would turn envy in its boots
with artifishal-milk whose curdled smile greeted the back of my arid existence

**** bastarrrrrrds! they put me under, sawed off my legs
left me hobbling with jagged wounds and smirk-pain like hot-rods searing my brand-new stubs
elementary-bandage of an old sheet torn into strips...

wait, I must use this anger as fuel to get me going
she told me so
many, many times..




(I can remember my mother reading to me
reciting from her memory
they had burnt evry-single-book Man had ever known
                My eyes have never been graced with a book
but
she tort me words with stick in sand
and counting with stones
and there were many stones
               she fed me poetry when there was little else to eat
with fainting-body and starving-belly
my mind took pleasure in her ultimate-care
               she told me of a time when childrin took poor-interest
in the blessings of a book.. wen their minds were swallowed wholemeal by what they called media, I think
when they were not saddled with the worry of their next meal's magical-appearance
                (I can spell 'their' at least, yes.. she made sure I knew the difference)
the only pictures I saw were the ones she drew for me
in the volcanic beach-sand when we ran away from the parasitic-city
                I knew nothing of the world but what I saw around me
                        - decay, decay, decay
until she brought me colour - rite into the hart of me -
                           blooms that hurt at first, so bright and giving
                           that it saturated every molecule in my parched-centre
                           and I became a rainbow-suffused capsule in a otherwise drab-society
such wonder she spoke with open-eyes and loving-tones

and I also remember.. the day they took her..
I remember.. too much)



I crawl forward like a snake in the .. wait, what was that expreshin again?
I'll think later when I find a place to harbour my broken-body
                     thought is a luxury here
thers a horrible smoke in the air
          stings me so
and I miss her so
I have nobody left
but I cannot feel forsaken, as so many do
and succumb to self-pity
she made sure my armour grew
                 from the inside.. first
yet.all.the.while.she.watered.my.hungry.mind
and I took it with disbelief painted on my face
the things she told me about..




                I cannot believe there once were -
green fields and trees with chirping birds
a blue sky
blue? not possible
I've never seen a blue sky
I think she was being kind to paint me portraits of psychedelia
   to entertain and distract me
   from the horror of our lives
I heard tales of things called flowers - daisies and things
like vegetables and fruit
it seemed funny to me - little beings in the ground,
                                       growing
                                       standing rooted, awaiting harvest-hands
               just for people??
uncredibill
waaaat???
no..  such depth of kindness I can hardly imagine
for we have had only *hard-earth.. most concreted
and drank only brack-water from collapsing pipes
no, an unforgiving-scene is all I know
yet
     she is so kind to feed me such fantasy-tales of deep-imaginashin
     pity she could not tell any others
     for any tenth-of-a-whisper of this to any wrong-ear
and her head would roll
in the gutter.. where we lived in contest with rats
she could only rally my mind and relay things which would die with her
things that she bequeaths
to me

what will I do with it? this legacy of forgotten-paradise..
what can I do?   this wonder-clad heresy..
                I now know thers a way out these city walls
                ther is a life beyond
with valleys and rivers and salty-seas
I must try to find a river
she told of oceans which live - which heave and swell and move!
she said these things too .. they exist
what quaint-things, indeed
oh, for dreems..

but now, I must off the streets
for a double-darkness has begun to fall
when red-eyes will scour the streets for scraps of flesh
        anything is worth a barter
        even a dead-man in a lane whose eyeballs are gone
        harshly-hacked out living - by a previous-visitor
becomes a piece of currency for seekers of the dark

I don't know what they've done to her.. or where she is now..
yet, she always said - keep moving
                                   keep searching
for blue-sky and flowing-rivers and yellow-flowers..
(I wonder if it's real
I do believ her - I must)*




now I scrape on in haste into a darkening-alley
towards a derelict-bilding
whose sinister-interior is the only welcome it can afford me
             I have little choice
             no time for sentiment
plus, I feel a fever coming (perhaps this is all the dreem.. and she is the only-flower I know)
the night-Rats will come out soon
and I hate their stink
it doesn't help I leave a trail of blood..




now
only hoap lives
on
in hobbled-soul

as I rite on with brokin-hand
onto the back-pages.. of my mind




S T -  5 octoblah

Hatred, for those who seek for reason,
Is a fertile ground to exonerate treason.
And enmity breeds in blind terrorism  
In seasons of adorable ignorance of heroism,  
And shallow knowledge is marked by arrogance
Pleased to exude its own furious fragrance,  
Sheathed in cloaks of words of slick elegance,
And intrigue perfumes conspiracy with innocence,
Which serves man's aberration in a dull perception,
Where sublime paths are righteous deception,
And antipathy lapidates resurrection of truth,
And affliction is doomed shelter for ruth,
For broken hearts, the haunted and guests,
And lovers and tragic faces and ***** *******,
And the aged wisdom and the unseen future,
And we, the abandoned in particular.

The Knackers-Yard nursing home, rotted and bleak
Where the occupants dribble and seldomly speak
And the medicine is strong while the coffee too weak
Where there's never a care a fuss
There's a trip to the bingo on regular days
And they visit the beaches, the rivers and bays
For the brick-a-brack stalls and the knitting displays
In a rusty mobility bus

Prunella, the wagon of elderly types
With a blanket for every lap
She's a trusty machine of a hideous green
And she's Queen of the Watford Gap

One morning in May when the weather was grim
Miss Margaret Maywither went on a whim
To converse with the orderly, Terrible Tim
And they sat there and shot at the breeze
They nattered and gabbed a selection paces
And tried to put names to familiar faces
But Maggie with plans to discover new places
Relieved the young man of his keys

Prunella, the stolen mobility bus
Where the wings of bingo flap
With a window down and a dressing gown
She's Queen of the Watford Gap

She took to the road with a skeleton crew
Some heart-attack red or a worrying blue
And frequently stopping when tablets were due
They made for a hasty escape
With a foot to the floor and a screaching of tyres
A stopping of traffic and starting of fires
Such fun can be had when a lady retires
In a bus held together with tape

Prunella, the choice of the senior crowd
Each wrinkled lass or chap
There's a lift for the crips and titanium hips
And she's Queen of the Watford Gap

The police gave a chase at a sensible speed
As the Prunella and Margaret rapidly flee'd
When escape is impossible, each one agreed
They would rather be dead than be caught
With a tug of the wheel and a rattle of teeth
With a serpent of tyre smoke writhing beneath
It was probably too late to order a wreath
And the chance of survival was nought

Prunella, on fire and twisted apart
A smouldering pile of scrap
With the wreckage and grease of a dozen police
She's Queen of the Watford Gap

In this room where I grew up
calves’ roars creep in the open window.
Day dream on the bed,
mirror reflects in Autumn:
the time my notebook fills,
floods like the land.

As I check my email from my phone,
two daddy long legs mate
on the discoloured floorboards–
no business of mine
enter my password–
no business of theirs.

The dog suddenly barks, the front door opens,
two old babes shuffle in to visit Gran
in the same spot she’s been parked
for the last two years,
watching the seasons change
through the kitchen’s lace scene.

All as deaf as the dead; simultaneous
yet different conversations–
I interpret and translate. In unison
they sing my praises:
He’s good boy, oh yes a good boy indeed–
like I was the dog.

Outside Dad chops timber,
I make tea for three.
Cut some cake Gran worries.
What will they think?

Barn brack with ring,
memories of Halloween
play in my head,
welcomed like the moon, always.

Evening: after I have the sheep counted,
I watch the stag in the next field–
they rut this time of year,
call for a mate.

Tomorrow is Friday,
the first of the month.
The priest will call to the sick and elderly–
I will hear the dog announce
his red Toyota Starlett
over the fields.
Thank God Gran doesn’t know. I
can do without that worry
anytime of year.

It is a big round fruit loaf
synonymous with Halloween
in Ireland. Barm and not Barn
as it is often mistakenly called.
Barm is the froth fermenting
on malt liquor. A rising agent.
Brack or Breac in Irish is cake.

No two people
ever conceived by God
could possibly be more alike than us

We live our lives in perpetual hope
of Country Time Lemonade commercials
and old reruns of “Leave it to ******”

We hope that, around the next bend
on a dusty, sun streaked road
we will find our Mayberry

That place where old men
weighing down sagging porches
speak in parable of better times

That place where young mothers
perpetually in their Sunday best
push strollers edged in brick-a-brack

That place where little boys
have impossibly grass stained knees
at the edge of muddy fishing holes

That place where little girls
pick Black-Eyed Susan's in verdant fields
and play at getting married while the little boys flee in terror

That place where dapper fathers
mow lawns in their shirtsleeves
and tip their pipes to one another in the falling afternoon sun

Together, we dream of this place;
this ideal;
this America.

Together we dream and, together, we continue
down that old dirt road;
hoping to find Mayberry
just around the next bend.

I ate a whole one once, so,
that means, I got the pea,
the stick, the piece of cloth,
the money, and the ring.

Which of course brought
me good luck and bad luck
all of my life.

The thing about it is, the good
always came before the bad.

As the ring was last and I'm not
married yet, what am I supposed
to deduce from that ?

One moment you're tenaciously checking pulses
chopping carrots and tomatoes and measuring
Spoonfuls of syrups and splitting pills and counting
Capsules to prove your sister-in-law skipped a dose

And you sign the cards and you lick the envelopes
And you write the checks and do your math and
You dream of France in the summertime after falling
Asleep in front of the TV at 9pm on a Friday night.

There are dishes to wash and shelves to dust full
of five lifetimes of bric-a-brack amassed and leaks
To mend - so much that really matters enough to keep from
Breathing too slowly or speaking of the implications

The next moment it's all vanished and there's one less
Complication but at what point do you cry and at what
Point do you relax after cathartic loss as ineluctable loss
and when is it exactly that it hits you if ever

That some day the complication is you and the vanishing
Provides a blank check to forget and an invitation to
Dance around the vacuum of absence

dawn to dask birds brack and bruss you see a tree you see a bloom. around a tree a butterfly and bee. a blue bird you shal see.

A moth's carrying your face on mosaic metal wings, half of mine inside
drummer boy, she's in a long, black dress
drummer boy, don't drink the brack water
I didn't look up this time, so I guess I never saw it

The hot air balloon transporting a house with a bird in a cage inside
Tall plant growing through the sky, into space
The sun as its face of flower, petals falling and an insect mouth
There's horns on every building where people store their god and the stars discontent with simmering fires, coming closer to the forests
and goddess flies over towers and ugly stock remains undoused.

You cannot swim through the sea of letters in my head
I sent you only two, anyway and I don't know what now
Hearts grow skew and the plant twists, one root to your door
Right into the foyer where your wheels stand, now capped with cold
This river in me is colored by the cracks in your last sentence.

And as you're well aware, some deer skitter toward water's edge
to counter a thirst of madness, peaking to a frightening fall
I'd do well to break this branch, bugs in the mouth again and
some peepholes don't ever speak but see.

Without and but around she tags herself indecent in ganky exposure. Jubilee cranks up, and but with half her street’s mailboxes signal defeat with eyes on mantelpiece, surrounded. Roadside debutante grudgingly refuses both leftovers, then confession. Make known with loud insistent shrug of day how intricate cracks size up, amalgamated mess of tongue-and-cheek prevail. His and hers with signs pre-recorded – history, of course, being disloyal and impatient nut-case that she is, scribbling over own bones with fate of children’s children, exposed. Brick to brack rolls fervor in wet incandescence, itself a lone category expanded to virtual (any) interests of land sharks and dead. Making no mistake, catalogue drop falls and hits strike back bright the beacon of their magical thinking. Doubled down in laughter pain, the grotesque ridges of the system unencumbered dribbles off and drugs itself over dying embers sparkle. And then laughter more exposes weak tongue in probe - and probably prose - instead weeps, crosses the nose, sits sand, and follows freaky through the underlings – hostile territory restricted but for her name.

COLLECTIONS

Oh the endless possibilities,all that is or will become within our sight to be touched  smelt or  felt

Personal memorabilia builds into more than recollections ,from buds to blossoming into full blown obsessions  

Numismatic  fancy word for adding another to the ***,dates or weights all pitching towards the wealth

Postcards from yonder,seashells to make us wonder,each time feeling more & more obliged to add another to our possessions

Many admire a rhyme another note always gets their vote ,passion play often the only way, sounds helping their health

Never hear of a person acquiring empty shelves,books will fill any nook ,stacked vertical or leaned horizontal,their words have answered many questions

Rag doll & a race car now turned to bunches of Barbies spinning Hot Wheels
their true beauty just another notch in the belt

Ticking of clocks always keeping time ,some require mere cases, meager to monstrous taking on entire museums

Sending a simple letter has now gone postal,finding that rare picture will make their hearts melt

Garbles of marbles across from mismatched matchbooks,their  appeal is real
as we add more pieces

Bats & ***** gathering dust,minor leaguers gained no fame ,now  junk transformed to memorabilia their distinction now unparalleled  

Avon calling the scent once a common present,not so old bottles now treated like divas

Knick or nack another's brick brack  maybe a future adorers prize
our simple junk adds some *****,past brought to present at a glance
those many baubles just waiting to be shared. R.C.  

Soft nacred wall of wool,
prismatic in newborn sunrise
—a pillow over the maws of godlings.
Their wet black arms yawn skyward
while they drown in their bed of brack.

"Do not stray too close this way" said the Flame to the Breeze.
For in truth he was once a whirlwind, caught in himself, who'd scorned and sinned and choked her to an ember

A little flame. Warm, brave.
Fills the wind with much trepidation.
His shame, her pain, their past, regret.
He yearns so much to roar and rage
to be that breath to coax the flame,
once again, into a conflagration

But alas,
He does not wish to be so brash
to ask for more than bricker brack and banter.
For if the tale's to be told, it must be told in candor

He fights the urge to be bold. To howl, to squall. To not be too much, yet just enough,
To stoke the coals of her gypsy soul.
Untill it's light is bright enough she sets the world to cinders

I built a greasy rafter aftershow to embloden my favorite actors.

I stand rainbows in corners fired about in brick-a-brack cookies.

It's morbid.

AND funny...



And they look at me like I'm more funny than they are.

And if I am?

What **?

Should I resend myself?

Dive in a bar?


Never.

I have a way to get by.

Get by in life.
Sorry, so do you.

We can burn up.
Or we can end up in a hedonistic stew,
after spending our lives melting, and doing out best,
doing our best to live a fun life, then wind up in a vat.

To live all day and make your best,
only to wind up into a battered smoked-out whiskey barrel.

A junk food vat.
Cake with nutrients.

Very 'not sterile.'

Caulked and sauntered in a evercornered in a vat of sugar goo.

People were scared of udagan
she talked to the birds they talked back
people cannot see and despise those who can
she cooked plantains and drank brack
She was a modern shaman
Her lips were catching morning dew
she lived on river Nyoman
she talked to the animals
drank birch tree brew
walked the trails
didn't trim nails
her spirit animal was a grey fox
and some people said she was a hoax
Some called her old but oh udagan
she did not care her life just began.
She was just fasting and was thin and pale
she knew  her age was nothing on the Universe scale.

I’m working
working hard to stay
ahead of the herd

To not get crushed again
like a bird that try’s to
fly through a herds

Cause things get harder
when some people don’t bother
to see that others are be a bother

To be honest I it's hard but
I am stronger than brack

I found my self in the garden of words
Where air was raining messages
Words waving at me

There was the Noble Laureate
The man of ijebu forest
Seeing you as the words step backward

The cloud wispers to my ears
Looking into the sky it shed tears
With the lightning of the tunder which makes me fear

I searched the sky all i saw was rain
I move with the heavy breeze like the days
The drums beat and the flutes sang

I pick up my pen which will dance on my paper
Vomiting words of hope
Strong and tight like the rope


There was the pen
Which produce leaves of words
With the brack which produce the ink

The stream moves with the tides
The grasses at the shores
Sip to their thirsty roots

The trees wave higher
As the wind blows heavier
Wispering to my ears

There comes the cloud
Fading away from my sight
Moving far beyound my height

The mountains ecoed  
Chanting my name saying
Move close to see my beauty

©️Isah Aliyu Chiroma