poeticjusticedaily's.Art.Blog

Table of contents: –

Chapter one- Ash on stringent flaws

Chapter Two:- The Veil and OTHER poems

Chapter Three:- Sneaking through Class Rooms

Chapter four:- Light Tunnel : Colour mutation’s

Chapter five:- Murals : reflections on Daffodils and Genetics

Chapter six :- Finger On the Wall

Chapter seven:- House Arrests: under Duress

Chapter eight:-

Chapter nine:-

Chapter Ten:-

Part (one) Title: Ash on our stringent flaws.

‘written from a compilation of the writers fearsome crave/need for self actualization’ and the romanticism of the writer and nature’s crave for acceptance’ enjoy!

[ I ]

GOD IS A LION AND I SAW HIM BATH IN FIRE. By the valley of death, nights are fragile now, and they atimes speak from the mural on the wall bespoken of our entrenched individualism, Idealism

Our passion for realistic art, words, hills, and the lessons that could overtake the dead and fall asleep too. we took our walk still into dusk, we toil in hot blazing sun floating like ant in their chains surfing close to the riverie lakeside’s, tearing at this worm.

They ganged and it frightened me that there was their bumper harvest afloat. And yet still we spurn free burning plots to seal visions like themselves little tiny ant brute and suffering in a hole.

[ II ] He is foremost fearless and can be if challenged brute as a ferlon nail such as the one burrowed Jesus the Nazarene,

metals  recycled burning so much heat, he was there lurking in the streets, ducked in the dark with dragon eyes

He’s there and we must try the laws of God one more time to actually grow and be invisible like Elijah to fly on

Chariot’s of fire, To adhere to our remaining unchanged hopes evolved. Our values, trajectories. Genetics. Soul,

Note from author: Of our once peaceful towns and villages, when my race bleats on  bended knees, our falling implants ingested is soon to reemerge as the creation of black is wasted before the world power

[ III ] It was August in the  northern hinterland. It rained and the two of us gossiped of what to make of falling stalactites, unmotioned by the fence

crossing at 3:05am Nigerian gmt dated June 1995, After the coup unsuing Nigeria Civic acknowledge rights. It was the rise of freedom

Africa danced to the rhythms of blood, hunger and bribery. As earlier broadcasting houses noted in BBC and voice of America

[ IV ] Oh our own humanity. But these lord’s sometimes are tied beneath the surface, as these sulphuric droplets of rain, simmering down while we listened to j Cole sing hip hop and jazz from a stereo jam box.

I listened to the cool beat, i sit and write and imagine what he loves to write most about, I need to become bright. Shooting into these seem like leg walks, i don’t speak

Riddle’s and neither do I write them folk-tales, I enjoy Tasuniya by moon lit fire nights, to these fearful brain jotter’s journeying through Benghazi

Writers note: But beauty yet emanates from the distress of our falling heroes and especially that of the missionaries, those that always stood for justice, human rights, pollution of every kind and the disaster of  heart break. That Nigeria cannot walk alone. That it will remain crippled on a three leged walking stick.

[ V ] But beauty emanates from all the distress in depth in gazing at an early morning moon bright, pale and sad. Aren’t these gods seen visibly in this clay pots?

God is a lone lion he makes friends with lillies, stones and invisibly he’s sad somewhere in an old woman eyeslids  bored with mans trouble, an indeed we war and kill and barter for unfulfilled hungers

Back to our origins and the Aborigines I’ve read about Ben Okri’s mystical power to make angels hang on threes, I learned so when I wandered lonely as a cloud hovering in silent turbulent vents

[ VI ] Little lads hawk in the streets of darkness with no street lights, in the heat, the whiling blades of bus engines rattle, the smell of fried fish smell, everyone everywhere ablazed!

where no one hanging a thread of empathy sleeps in actual peace but the cannon blast I hear seem victorious in the Eastern plains somewhere in Africa, particularly, raging,

Ignoring the black events and that of power, the swaying daffodils however feel agitated, they now have become earthen residues 

[ VII ] Entrenched in toxic wars of waste and neglect for the untold stories of our pessimistic childhood

Each memory with these pretty little flowers do bite, they’ve become like pathways  and can’t be ignored, and this blazing

waring hours reflect the continent and citizens that would die in cold blood- so I must be a fallen tree felled to meet housing before the millennium age comes by trolling, meagrely or insufficiently. Or lost.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:- Ill love to thank my readers for the support since I began my projects over long periods of time. I appreciate my God, My entire families, To mum and dad, Sarah, Stephen, To WordPress, families home and abroad. I’m honoured. Thanks. Underneath are more notes and ideas written by the author:-

“To love is insufficient in these war on black soil. Life teaches us something and we learn and realize from nature,  it then put us in a test, and we’ve been depressed from the middle ages, the lack of justice in our system at home and abroad( talking of our So-called black negritude, and the fall of the church. The church is falling but God speaks in volumes to many who listen keenly. that a time is coming where evil will find depths to hide but will find none. Are believers of Christ meant to be in dilemma? The visions of actual disaster and danger. Times change thus so, political dragons keen to the cries of our mixed colour, a blonde almond yellow or Congolese black, a little Arab boy in caftan Hawking hoping to be an example of hope, the beauty resonating in isn’t dead, we just idle and no African names can be on a watchlist by police radars if we remain innocent to evil.

Human nature is complex, we must know that revolution mustn’t be blood rifting by bullet shells. But by becoming the next ideal bet, we must remain sure of our adaptations. Even in poetry, music, prose, drama, painting, society, ‘The ghetto-slum where personal casual thrills of life are lessons from life’s symphonic beat and riddle. NEGRITUDE has become merely an idea on Black Lives Matter where many live below the standard. Statistical average And the rights of Blackhood has been trampled or neglected. some of the good times can no longer affect the subliminal black neighborhood. Kids become vanquished as these wars in Africa stands as a vase, a bouquet of mixed soup rioting in different universal languages. and the sheep did bleat before my very eye’s, it remains so now a dispute of Lords.

Thank you for reading! Cheers and Love.!

Thank you to my worthy readers out there who support me directly or indirectly. and everywhere my works would reach I hope it touches a soul. A life out here.. I’ve always doubted in my dreams but my father always told me to be patient and work smart, hard, and be relentless, resilient and to ever be blazing black!!!