LINES AND VERSES

As you cast your worries And pains on us To walk that path, long and narrow Spare not a tear for world of wicked intents But say to the council of silent observers, "I did my best, I gave my all" Still, pass not judgements to the hands That wielded knives For the day of contrition eludes such lives Yours were lives smoldered at prime Wasted, wasted, wasted in no time But, goodnight youngbloods with dreams In their mind, goodnight sweet promises Never to fulfill, for this Darkness is forced to your eyes Jude Ifeme Subscribe to POETICALLY SPOKEN by Email

When the west tired of Sadam’s follies They sent the bombers to smoke him out Told the world he could kill the world “Come look at my backyard,” Gaddafi calls, “I only keep a lactating camel and a tent And a lot of female guards, too” The west applauds a lack of ambition The press jostle for the best lines Our finest prodigal son comes home They bring him out from the desert cold And rewards him with his Pan Am bomber He graces more covers with his girls “See, my people love me,” he says, “That’s why they only speak my mind And make sure I am a happy man” Now there are bombers in his skies How dare the Libyans speak their mind And cost the good man a peaceful sleep? © 2011, Jude Ifeme Subscribe to POETICALLY SPOKEN by Email

It’s been one year since the chaos and bloodbath in 12th Mile, but the relics of the violence and destruction still littered the streets; burnt-out cars down the alleys, a few houses razed to the ground in attempts to smoke-out their occupants, skeletons of motorbikes posing here and there – the human remains were buried in a hurry, their eternal homes unmarked. First, it was jealousy, but the town was now blighted with a more dangerous malaise – greed. Like all easy-comes, the looted clothes have faded, the shoes worn-out and a common enemy gone. Those who haven’t squandered their loot were stuck with it half-swallowed. “Get away from here!” Money ordered a herd of louts, simply called ‘the boys’, who have come to the shop to demand for money. With his hand frantically groping the counter, the boys reluctantly ambled across the street. “The shop is for us all.” One of the boys uttered stubbornly. “Who said that?” Money demanded, his loud voice bulging the roof. A teenage boy

They pretend to lead us – Self-sent messiahs, con geniuses Milking the cow, starving the calves, Blowing up the people For the love of the people? "Arise O’ compatriots..." A call to obey if you are still in Erstwhile dreams! O’ mother Nigeria, raped by her own! They pretend to lead us – A barrel of laughs for the rich and famous The poor look to Mohamed and Jesus Praying, struggling Praying… To tell a glance from a scowl A dance from a prowl Subscribe to POETICALLY SPOKEN by Email

If you can’t see it, it is spiritual. If you can’t explain it, it is illogical. If it’s too good to be true, it is magical. If you are slashed as you read it, it is surgical. And if you have d-dancing feet, it is musical. But this poem only dances to the drum of the heart, Whispers no rhyme and waits on no reason. This poem washes in rivers of redemption, Teaches lost souls how to walk on water. This poem preaches not hell or heaven Yet reaches those with blunt inclinations. A blade and a needle if your soul is missing, This poem is a stitch for what was and will be. A launder for pure minds turned public convenience, This poem casts aversion amongst rogues and saints. A call for the soul to return to its shell, This poem is illogicalspiritualmagicalsurgicalmusical, If that is universal. 2011© Jude Ifeme Subscribe to POETICALLY SPOKEN by Email