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POETRY BOOK SERIES – “God Is Lion He Never Sleep’s”

Author:- John Solomon \ Memo number:- 002

POEM TITLE:- The Veil Unturned

[I]

In this furry stricken streets blood and fire squabble in mud

When the hinterlands snow scream on trees and for bush burning

Of her imaginations savouring the supreme

Energies and blast of sulphur In the air dances, and a ghastly glow entrenched

Of our individual rage one could collapse and break a wing and refuse to fly

[ II ]

In the jungle parameters are set, for one must manage ingenuity

to repose, and be juxtaposed like stories of the wind and be of sunsets veil like God’s

I could be poised as rocks resilient, I can become a nomad

I can live on irrigated crops and rig the pipe ways up the hill

But humanity has some fearsome buds in it’s flowers

[III]

On stage we rage for our negligence and lack of proper child support

Yet I only have to be truer to be refined on the center stage

Destined for colonial shores in sweaty shorts ignoring by intricate flaws the foul in a brawl.

And when truly the days became narrow exits, to open doors, we feasted eyes closed awaiting God.

Note:- I have decided to also include five poems of my not yet published materials. Thank you!

Special thanks and appreciation for the love from my family here and everywhere. Thanks alot for reading my debut poetry collection . The front cover of this work/publication will be out soon.

OTHERS INCLUDED ARE:- “DEAD MEN TALKING & Solo &psalms[I]\ Untitled poems written (2017/18) [ II ]\ THE FIGURINES WE SAW LAST NIGHT[III]edited, Blood river bank, -year written (April,2020), The plow men and Goodnight Magdalene,” all edited before highlighted on these poetry series compilation.

Title: Dead men talking

It was tragic when we lost faith and began to crawl on tiled cold floors, it’s ballistic truer than words can explain

Moisture appears from the heat of evaporated land in the evening there comes rain, there was a cold silence in the room

And the whistles blow early enough, we walk and talk and laugh and make fun of each other like squirrels on Palm trees

They scream let us be brothers and that we should ride on bicycles like Bill Gates, we should be feminist we should never wage war again.

Solo’s & Psalms and untitled verses

If i hath not forgiven thee thy past whilst I indulge in and hatch these fresh chicks, and toil for the sunlit grass at the poultry farm, i ought not be fastened by your sin or be carried away into oblivion before thine very eyes, whisper to me and uplift. Do not leave me burdened heavenly father hitherto my once sacred space of prayer, and it is to commune forthwith with you and to allow the chill wind blow in my nostrils, when we could gossip, I heard a laughter in the darkness. Are you there? Father!!! Where are you? A still calmness. Long Shadows bite.,profound days unfolds our residues as my true friend does, when I lost you my ambient dreams faded away like gulley erosions, and I gambled with the pebbles offshore to relinquish lost tastes of disaster, please are you there father?

Title: Figurines we saw last night

Aside these moonlight I am sitting under a curve waiting by the pool in the squeaks of the gooses, I cannot wait to be cooled after I linger on hibiscus scented paper and chewing cola nuts, I didn’t mask at my feelings  or fight to no avail in the avalanche as it was, when we held from each end our plights I saw you crawling on a wall and you were calling my name in my dreams.

Ife made metals and we whose hope was about to be grounded saw these moonlit dawns, in the wild forces of darts that stray in ones nightmares, erosion comes to wipe away the hindrances like these jaguars pulling through the meshed moist plains. It was raining when the mist overshadowed the hills by our blistered foots

Like many eclipses we were in dark fearsome shadows, afar night crawlers swerve and dive and coo in songs. A jotter, a pen and some rough white paper, behind the Garrison barracks a few insights torch the pressing motions of worry, doubt and fear.

Title: Blood river day

The continent is slack, she invokes the premier of plights that seats in the open theaters, playwrites do condemn with antagonism the nights when the masses had cold feet’s and eyes bulged and couldn’t lift an arm or feed on grain but, hunger struck, she dug the bay of our flesh by cold temperate hours and the minutes passed away in un motioned bits . Shreds of passages lingered on the polished black dinner table, we whispered softly the verses we recited in the warm room, and coldly too our lack of the word at our disposal made mad our ego. We became paranoic at past Dawn. It was 5:13am. In a hidden Russian prison. 1887. After the Holocaust and evacuation of British to missionaries.

Title: Good night Magdalene

Once I became fluid like a child’s ego trying to hold onto a dream of shadows to cry and whimp and tomorrow forget about yesterday because I wasn’t human once I cried before. Who dared to climb those elongated walls?

Mother was the blacksmith panning the iron wheels and she was the mirror with which I saw the world, like Tarzan and the gorilla building trust in a natural habitat and laughing and jumping in the wild; it was so we lived by the nile when mother lost. Gone.

The alarm rang at exactly 3:02am west African time, we sailed on the lake Chad wearing elongated faces and life jackets in fear, water whales gulped and snorted and splashed. We squeezed like icebergs hiding underneath the surface shrunken like sun heated daffodils.

Title :- Goodnight at Dawn:

Note:- This poem was written in the night in a cell before been taking to court on trial.

Soft blows emerge from dark memories and places one has been, especially to the crystalized areas in each of our Antartica’s and the dark wild too where love is absent, underneath the fibres of loves torture.

In the room female mosquitoes met my rebellion as they sang, I slapped and saw that too i my self had become a misogynistic being,

Each second that lasted I saw my soul endangered in the dark smell of the room as like unto these trunks that fell at dusk and the leaves that dangle dryly, hope pulling it to the water shores

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