Such thoughts

maul through

this mind

of mine

as cloistered as a nun

one ––

by ––

one ––

by ––

falling down as dominoes

kicked over in the dark

Ideas, theories, questions,


dam up like logs my upper pool

draining old instruction

onto the surrounding ground

to wait in scattered queues

for re-entry






Stirrings in June

A poem for Youth Day — June 16th.


Stirrings in June

There, hung black and white

on that photo wall,

In the frosty air of museum halls,

Young Hector

is carried away from harm.

Like his sister, Antoinette,

I run

not from

Youth Day police rounds

with the hissing stench

of tear gas

reaching close behind,

but to

a horizon of revolt

where conformity

can be as harmful

as oppression education

taught from the blackboard.

I want to scream against establishment

as loud as those children on Soweto streets.

But, if not with my voice,

then with

my pen

sketching riots, barricades and protests

in the form of defiant prose.

Hoping, like that Generation of ‘76,

that a brighter dawn will rise

upon this midnight society of mine.


Flowers of Chibok


Flowers of Chibok


There, you had resided in a space

that shielded you from the chaos outside.

As you walked the halls of that mental garden

the desk was your soil,

the book and pen your well-spring.

Caring hands cultivated your being,

grew you in maturity and knowledge

from seeds, to saplings to young flowers,

our flowers,

meant one day to pollinate the continent

with your wisdom.

But now we look in anguish 

at your garden burned to ashes.

We decry how religious insanity

snatched you from your roots,

now holds your tired, withered

stem in its clutches.

From Chibok to Lagos,

New York to London,

we search for you and demand your release.

Like farmers with stolen crops we hunt for your thieves,

while setting aside a homecoming patch

where the desk, the book and the pen

can help you grow again.










Parting words to Passing youth

I will be on leave all next week so this will be my last post until Christmas. The poem I leave you with is one I read at my school’s cultural evening (talent show for American readers) and one I promised myself to share on this blog as soon as I finished high school

Parting words to Passing youth

Farewell I say

to the end of days

to blissful innocence

and rebellious adolescence.

For we are butterflies

and our soft cocoon

has opened us to the world.

Where the wind will pull us,

birds will try and consume us

and until we mature,

a resting place will forever elude us.

I still recall with some sad irony

how the school and the home

reigned like monarchs,

and reminisce with passive longing

how parties seemed to never cease,

love brought shots of joy and pain

and long weekends were like paradise.

How like fools we tested and experimented

with that loosening domestic lead

like amateur scientists with Uranium

and how we who knew so little

thought we knew so much.

Those were the days when the future

was but a line on the horizon

and family, career and degree

was on a bucket list for a later time.

For we lived for today.

We were bold.

We were alive.

We were – young.

And only the law,

parental lectures

and careful doses of reality

kept us mortal,

kept us sane.

From across that threshold to adulthood

were I came of age,

I stare back, perhaps wondering,

if that concluded stage

will let me be in its six act play once more.

But it has ended.

The ovation, the applause, the last hurrah

has happened

and the curtains have closed.

All I can do is turn around,

spread my wings,

and fly.

With sweet memories of yesterday,

hanging by my side.


Always in November

 Always in November

November should be the child’s month,

as much as June or July.

In those fraternal twin summer months

the joy of summer vacation

has often worn off to be replaced

in late July by high temperature

boredom and monotony.

In November, Fall’s blood and gold child,

the mind and body are trained as one

in the classroom, Football field

and soccer pitch.

These equal involvements, sport and school,

are features near December; always in November.

There, too, is the seasonal sensation I’ll personally

claim to be the same as diving into the community

swimming pool or blue and ochre ocean:

squealingly bombarding a poor leaf pile.

In the company of brotherly buddies

we would leap in, dust hang-ons

from our smokey wool jackets,

reform the pile and leap in again.

The Millennial trial

Here is an attempt at prose poetry:

The Millennial trial

 One late spring day a debate raged: ‘‘Is this a stolen generation?’’

The lecturer, a baby-boomer expat, both warned and proclaimed,

‘‘Technology and Mass Society has corrupted, abducted your minds;

bred an ignorant, child-like hopelessness, an entitled will of nothingness –

this ignorance will only breed your decline and eventual destruction…’’

But I failed to listen. Within the headphones of my Samsung smart phone,

rappers, pop stars and indie rockers attacked existential questions,

social sins and life’s subtle meanings In loud-voiced lyrical diatribes.

Commentary of the observer


Commentary of the observer

What left is there to say?

When profit has more value than life

When religion is a machine gun that mows down the dove

When young girls sell their virgin bodies

When information is shackled to those in authority

the media a fly in the web of the state

When mature becomes a commercial commodity

When children fight mature battles

 and education becomes careful indoctrination —

What rationale’s worth explaining

that one changing action

a thousand times can’t say?