My Poetry Diary

We found a spot on the pipeline along the way, We cracked her open so the golden fluid gushed and spewed the hay: Our jerrycans wantonly filled and like rain we got soaked in its splash; We struggled for the fountain but without a clash; Alas, we sprouted chaos in the clans that it’s a gift drawn from our soil, So we fought the authority to give us good return from our oil. Amidst shouts and excitement, my clansmen drew the carbon blood, Then came a bang from the hay amidst the flood, The fluid o’er the stone and flesh starting to burn, While she spewed, danced and glittered in the sun, The day suddenly dawned and I knew we were wrong; I pushed beyond the crowd but the inferno came with a thirsty tongue, It licked our mixed sweets and the innocent eyes far aloof; I lifted my head and I saw the vultures hovering above, This was the last thing I saw and I knew it was the end; We cracked the pipeline and we are dead. Gafar Odubote, “Golden Fluid”...

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

Ólóri ! A beauteous being in a black woolen dress stepping on snowing silkily earth; Thou an European goddess but thy countenance is like of an African birth, Ólòkún the Mother, bestowed thee with unfathomable beauty like the old, Thy resemblance is of Osún, so beautiful and virtuous, as often told; I saw thee in Saaremaa during my feat at the Kuressaare village square; At thy footstool the friars and the gods wantonly swoon and swear; A warrior thou hath, thou command the beasts to bid the commoners' wishes, Thou like Queen Sheba hath command and freely give the finest of earthly riches, Thy eyes in the day are like emerald touches of western witches crystal ball, Within thy grasps are the magical beings that warmly heed to thy call, So mysterious; thou highly revered, beautiful and untouched; Betrothed to the Viking king that made thee a savage crutch; O' Ólóri thy charms inspires and am in love with thee no doubt at first sight; Thou ...

Mother Earth;  The climate now chokes;  Thou that make the green thy pillow; It's all gone and touched by folks, Thy sanctuary has been disintegrated; Now we are plagued by flood;  Thou is meant to sleep in peace; But my people especially my clansmen now claims god; My ancestors saw thy abode in the forests and the plains; Thou is meant to sleep to uphold the soil; Our diggers and dredgers have crushed thy skull; Now they will reap their spoils; War has ravaged the land; Peace is being drained out of the atmosphere; But some people think thou hath asleep; They are ignorant of thy departure from their hemisphere. (The image of the sleeping goddess at the Lost Gardens of Heligan, England. The Gardens were created by members of the Cornish Tremayne family, over a period from the mid-18th century up to the beginning of the 20th century, and still form part of the family’s Heligan estate. The gardens ...

Throw more pebbles to the sky and they will come back with a sign; Thousands of infliction can hold not the disconnect... That rattled every fibre of illumination from my eyes though I sigh; Seeing humanity professes over mundane flesh that won't resurrect; Over shackles of misdemeanour that rattles the blood; When hunger strikes were aggravated by empty minds not tables, We taught ourselves the act of wars by acting demons and gods; Can you see beyond the disconnect amidst the blinds and fables?; Not a new breath can immortality bring forth without a dime; The essence of existence is like a leaf to its stalk; That oxygen you breathe may thin out as you climb; The line between life and after may get tangled and you stuck... In between a disconnect of an uncountable archaeological waste; Or lost within inks of conjured spells binding the quills and parchment; Not so symbiotic affair that transpires when the other dies in haste; Can you give a lif...

To the leaves at every fall that falls; They melted away and with the wind they swayed; Their chlorophyll became ghost to the stalk in their stalls, Though separated from their stalk but their essence never fade! I stumbled upon death and we conversed thrice lately, A warlord of beauty with undaunted pride, She pounces, pant, and braces stately, Wanting my mortality within its whirl tide, I have no grave within death's abode or beneath; Do not cry for it's emptiness when am gone, My flesh to the dust I humbly bequeath, My leaf has flown with the wind waiting for reborn. (Poem: “Empty Grave 1” by Olorunleke Odubote)

The memoir of twenty sixteen, Plenty pages, but empty in-between, The sky was crimson red in summer Naira to Dollar came like a stunner, The menace of power came like the desert sun, Even the extremists came with their purging  guns, They scorched my kinsmen to an ovum beat, We lost some good people to their flaming pit, The Cemetery was heavier in autumn; Its wind took my town-ship to the bottom, I heard their wailings even at the dusk, They lie on the street and smell like musk, Our solace came from the freed Chibok girls, After nearly 3 years in the devil snares, Those with the Sceptre took covenant with the devil, They used our girls and resources to settle… The Falcons soared through the hideous clouds, Amidst the lightening shredding their shrouds, Back at their nests, those golden eggs were gone; They were taken and re-laid as spawns, The roads has swallowed more on its lanes, It spilled countless bloods from our tinny veins, Plenty pot-holes t...

Seven years ago, Old buddies made a pact; Just seventeen months ago Gladstone took the ethereal path. The Saxophonic of your voice; Like a soft rain that appeases rancour, The silence now from thy seamless toils; They awaken me to thy candour, Another of my clansman is gone, Another mighty star has fallen; The finest of the stars of a sun; Gladstone has heeded to another calling. It's well beyond three days, July 6th 2015 has left a trace; Lazarus received his after three days; Unquestionable God, we bowed to thy face. For Gladstone, we again asked Why? We all one day will surely die; Never seen a man so kind at heart; Until Gladstone crossed my path. The last time we saw; It was the last time we played; The last time we saw; It was the last time we prayed. Gladstone my mate ! What a fate !! Is this another test of faith? Now Salvation is late. "Pressy GQ, a dearest husband" Like Abraham, you are a father to many; This generation w...

From my little room window I saw, A silhouette of a being in grey like hay, He was hollow, lost and worn, His face brazed like a jointed clay; He muted and he sauntered;  He squeezed the pint for another drop; He kicked the dust and muttered;  That when will he get nourished at the top? To meet the redeemer, saviour and friend, A better place from earthy hitches;  Where torn souls can rise and mend, And forget the thirty shades of his ditches. Thirty years, he traversed this road, Soon he will be sixty years old, How many stories of him being told, Maybe none or just untold, He has neither diamond nor gold, Even a blanket to keep off the cold, The luxury of love is a luxury load, Those lonely heart has just been sold.. Sold mysteriously with a deity code, A code those tyrant has sowed, Within their circus this being leaped like toad, Wondering when will he reap all he sowed? Faraway thou seems O' dream, So far like...

Adieu  Eugenia The windy sky has ceased to blaze, She left the horizon with a tethering trace, The end deeply rooted below the ground She slipped away forever without a sound Thou was away to the river for a night, Who told the sky not to bear its light? The sky has shredded another shiny star Though sad; I surely know where thou hath, When thou saw the heaven at a glance; In thy spiritual journey like a trance Thou saw its beauty and its jasper stone; So rapturous at the sight of thy brethren Gladstone, Will I now summon thee for a second? The mortal sullenly beckons.. But thou has gone beyond, Far from here, but thou is still young? Let’s unwind through our parchment soul, Thou through thy poems thy lyric glows, A writer, giver and an active citizen, This life is short, all ye please listen, Death came in his sulky trot, Wantonly took Eugenia with the illness plot He wrapped her with an eternity cloak, The inevitable came...