My Poetry Diary

At the patriarchate side I woo; The cemetery in silence and at lone; Where the European ancestors lay in frozen wool; As they mellow darkly in their medieval bone; Long gone lost are their sonorous cord; Whisper of sounds only comes from shattering jaws; From their sockets they stared at an African god; Me’ an erstwhile slave at their door; Only here to have a chat; With the masters we served in temperate blood; My slave master that fettered mother to iron cart; I ruffled their soil now as an African god, Bring now out thy smoking whip of teeth, Those with blades that ate so deep; It drips even to thy bottomless pit, And this will haunt them as they sleep. But to the spirits that once walked with love, To them I will play my poetry song; As they make stories at their gravely doors, Still, their beings bow to an African God; Their internment gowns askew on holy bricks, On their beds, their bones quake at its legendary; With incense and beads, I bid a requ...

Play it back, show me those moments lost; Not of the darkest losses or those scornful years; In this silent yard where some fleshes has been to dust; Some alive has gone buried in fear ; Life is to live, only for a brief;  Wantonly full for those liberal with wit, Dust thou art, when thou returnest don’t grief, Hence a sunset at the wooden box in the pit; Many times in slumber, asleep like a lost soul, But thou In eternal slumber, six feet away in the unfathomable realm; Bounded by brotherhood; now severed at the crossroad, As the soil upheaved we wailed in whelm; Life is but an empty space adrift; Though voided with shouts and untimely climaxes; The air, The flesh; is just another makeshift; While on this side; I plead take all the fantasies; If thou could, wholeheartedly stay burnt in the sun, Fly the clouds like the birds in summer, Both the sunrise and set would be thy rhythm and song, Though the end knocks - life is just as normal...

My bosom kinsmen just came from dead, He brought a tiding from the underworld beneath, Alas! Their world is full and over-populated, “All these tender souls are not from Death; What a despair, what a shame! Their ghosts came with empty skulls and gravely wounds, The graveyard swarmed with toddlers from warring zones, Wantonly their lives were so greatly ruined”; So remorseful I am, for the war and strives we caused, So sorry for the trees and birds that died along; The wailings from the plateau still hauntingly bites, From the grave also came the elergy of songs; Sheath all swords and all fighters be still, Break up the guns and let there be peace; Disband your army for the grave is full; Peace is Possible; all conflicts must cease. Gafar Olorunleke Odubote, “A Peace Message from the Dead”, copyright 2018

Their chaos has drawn farther to the dark, In its embrace, the fallen angels thrive… The acclaimed clerics have fallen to the mark, The almighty cathedral has taken the dive… From their robes came the pungent of death, Empty gloomy eyes pierces like an inferno rays, The hums of chaos came from husky obnoxious breath, Within their grips a wanderer strays in their maze; They came loathly in musty cloaks, A coven of kinsmen of battered souls, Their palms drips of clotted fluid they broke, Will I tag along; O’no… definitely no! Leke Odubote, “The Coven”, copyright 2017

Eleven days after June 12th, So notorious... so unprecedented; The military gaveled and nipped at the bud, Their ravenousness was unleashed after nine days on the leash, The General can't withstand to alienate from being a god, They matched up my street which was dead at a start; My father bellowed "today we must fight"; My mother mellowed "let's hope for the light"; From the window the silhouette of my father lost from sight; "A mere Nitel staff and very far to the center", The burden of memory severely hurts, We rented our clothes and in ashes we laid, The memoir of bullets deafened my thoughts, Our mandate was spewed from us with bandolier, We were just mere pawns in a military manga; We ended the day with my father favorite Fela's song. Eleven days earlier... The day called June 12th... My kinsmen buried their hatches and all rivalries fade; We matched to the barracks with our banners in white,...

I was summoned to the land of the mountain and cloudy gods; . Those that tamed our clan with a mirror, holy book and the sword; . Their darkness was overwhelmingly thicker than the covens of the black, . They smoke like a chimney to commune with their gods with garlic rods; . At their abode are gloomy angels that stand in ravens cloaks; . Those martyred for the mundane fleshy feat; . From their cleavage flows the source of murky greyish dip that hid the sun; . The darkness is at their horizon, hovering at the tip of every wreath; . I know It beckons... the end of the world, . The apocalypse have sucked out every tiny air with its wooden pipe, . Those pipes that connect our world beyond the path of redemption; . The air is gone, so choked we are yet the harvest of the world is yet to ripe; Poem by Olorunleke Odubote

I'd conquered death  twice with the  blood of the lamb, Death came again  with spikes and  a softy guise, She fleshed up her  bony tail with her  stinging balm, I looked at her  eyes and I said  name your price; "What's your  favourite meal aside  blood and bone?", My blood is bitter  and can't be spilled  even for a pint, "Then what's your  cherished Jewellery  aside skulls and thrones?" So go away,  I am a body of light; I have no grave,  my place is among the  people of scented lips, Dig not the hole  that goes six feet  into the land of the hades, I won't sleep there,  I won't step there, I won't dwell among it's keep; My clansmen please don't go  to an empty grave,  Am not there, I've said this... I won't be in the shadow of  casted beings of death  for thousan...