Like bouquets of flowers
Which are all but homogenous
And withering from neglect.

Like a classic & well known speech;
But someone altered it greatly
From structure, wording, & hermeneutics.

Like beaches of glass,
Where time & wave deny
Any smoothing of edges.

Poetry is long-winded,
The stanzas bore
Through ups & downs.

For to rest in the gymnasium
Is to watch others wrestle.
There is no pendulum
Which is not but itself a pebble.

I am the gnomon.

For all are free
And each person is their own mason.
From the block of marble we chisel
Out who are ourselves.

Words!
They're something we nearly
All can say,
They're something we share!

Thoughts!
They're something we can all say,
At least nearly;
Every living thing has them!

I think?

I think.

Going off the handle?
Better to say, gone?
Broke the neck off the bottle,
When you were just trying to
Get the cork off?
Perhaps you twisted too hard,
Slow down & be gentle.
Love isn't a race,
It's a marathon.

A rhyme heard from when he was younger,
For there was a love perverted for the Greeks & Romans.
There was more, but I won't go on.

It's really easy to write
Like you're for the hardline right
And far-flung conspiracies.
Easy to address as a member of the left
Like you believe in extreme liberalism
And wild ideas.
And then there's a center,
Or so I've heard.
For the intellectual or versus,
For the institution or against;
For the fascist,
For the anarchic.

It's all so archaic.

on your left you'll see whats left behind
the unburnt lungs and unsound mind
on your right you'll spot a cliche scene
grovelling by the anthill's queen.
up ahead we're blocked by some debris
left in tact by king's decree
the driver's blind but this holds true:
the only way around is through.
so seatbelts on and hands in prayer
hope your God can get me there.
(a man jumps off the second floor
then crawls back through the roadside door
begging to be welcomed back
as if he never lead the pack.)
there's not one stranger in these seats
but swallowed by the hungry streets
do not inhale the asphalt breath
lest we're gifted our first death.
last stop is The Royal Us
you'll never leave this tour bus.

                                                                ...this has been your tour guide
                                                                      at least i can say that i tried.

To touch your lips before dawn stretches across our skin
Similar to The Creation of Adam

On the eve of your departure

Where whimsical scripts meet sacrosanct words
Wrapping themselves around your tongue
And ripple like kaftans when sung

We hold these truths to be self-evident
And your vision is honest

I refuse suffering your absence amongst the hunger I feel
Cooking up a plan to capture your heart
A pinch of your perspiration's salt
The kiwi sweetness in your sway

Even if you appear in my dreams, although miles away
It's the best homecoming yet.


Ifeanyi N. Okoro II - © 2018