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Note:- Insights in these chapter have been coined from the perspective of the poets holistic encounters with Christ.

Poem (1) title :- Murals: Reflections on Daffodils and Genetics

Incognito of your unpreferential love, depths seek our cubits and cubicle; unrelated to the psychics and physicality of one’s fate – ours unending and vast as the Jordan. He. The Lion.

Oustre here if the nudity squirms ones satirical soul, lamenting of dusk on soil and of his ancient old soul, he lurks somewhere in these woods. Warming in the bosom of nature.

Music like this is love for souls in fire and food for the hungered hearts whom make merry in rubble, in floods and under water. Lack. Slumbering into the deep.

So he unfolds like layers of flesh eroding underneath the cosmic day coming at me in the greenery, when I’m red eyed- on dogged heels like a ghost.

POEM (2) title:- Cacophony and Camp Boot’s

When eternity becomes as frightful somewhere i find the wind and surf with the Holy- ghost on each sweep of sadness, and now of a sudden plight that saddle’s till one keeps a fortress of faithful sun rest.

Be awake! Eyes like as of a waiter motioning with sleak champagne glasses. Do I relapse, redirect quick in a hoax calling on invisibility, and you calling rigorously. Lips faltering, resolutely lays as landscapes. Quickly to heal.

You make me feel unafraid, my knuckles buckle in these nooks and crannies, I laugh as flutes when mother Earth whimper on our word trajectories, punch tightly as of the loss of still born. In late April the twenty fourth, one battering with the dear dead son’s – Where could you be Imole? Your name means light and I hope your light shines brightly somewhere. Rest on son.

Poem (3) :- Fire and Ice

The perfectionist in a pitfall is the mad nomad on scene letting of blows and punches in the ring with himself. A torn reed. A green watered tree, bartered by sparkling torrents of a life on a nightly lighted garden.

Unleavened by his peak and or his distaste or lack of warmth his eager putrid mind is done in the left over of space in the living room, when the fireflies bloom he is true of his worry and way of life.

Burning by you I see a tear that could’ve fallen beneath the stars, such grace in bits and rag like turfs through the cold eyes of snow. The dreams lingering, of cold nights roaming, laughter in the streets at midnight, and death. A volcano. Christ. Lament. War.

ii

Now, when these dream hang on a neck it is often heavy like million dollar chains, especially those of the adolescent on the gutter side’s. I parted ways on hungry toes, sequestered by the cold when the sea ghouls sink their beaks. I remember red road maps to Dysney at all cost – daydreaming.

Sometimes our down syndrome when our eyes meet in derision when our bodies touch and the air is tense; the lost sheep cowering on the fence is a piece or an amulet to be worn on the wrist, And to be meditated upon is my hero or so he the king says. One should learn, unlearn, sleep over, relearn many toxic manners, agitate in his or her cage, her space. My. Them. Ours. Whose space?

As every slave envision’s in fear my sunk in eyes asks, ‘whose fear carry you?’ whenever the hours in their loom, slithering a hue on the wall. Repulsive can these daffodils bloom? Would this petals even yield and bud?

iii

When we war. At all cost. At the borders. We frighten these little birds budding in their nest or flying lazily on the wind.

iv

The most hidden truth untold is surely the pure undying, unending reckless love of God.

Some poems where written in smaller alphabet’s due to the author’s discretion.

Poem (4) :- Untitled

Note:- nil

Where have they come from burning and easing away cursing, making a mess of a whole new sunlight. Long rides from holes, whistling of death while we, sunk in cold caves render potions on and on and on. At 2:45 am to our gods if they wake! They came. Where have they come from calling the dead, calling her man hunt ajar. What anguishing spirits do not wail?

Riding our farms like they own it. They, on bikes and mini vans take away our young and killing the old. Our old,. our oldest have been slaughtered. The quiet hurts more when these chiefs cower in silence folding arms with feathers hung on their caps. My mother. My mother. My mother. Can we both dance under the rain? Can you scream out my name so loud? For one last minute can I let out a breath without noticing you aren’t here anymore?

poem (5) :- untitled

Hidden in a cave

underneath the jig saw,

sweetened Halloween,

Slopes enchanted by acids

Rockets meander along the

cape mountains, little lads

wander along the fallen

rubble’s humble unto death.

Oh, how do these earthen voiceless vessels

breath? Dead or alive?

note: The two last pieces i dedicate on behalf of the inhumane killings in Jos, Ukraine, Hamas, palastine, and lastly Israel and any other city where bandits attack and murder innocent victims.

Poem (6) :-

Bonus poem……..

Title :- Grandpa’s Legacy

Dedicated to all my family and friends.

i

Vines could stick to branches, and they could but this seems too elongated fidgeting on it’s phloem and in it’s dull brown charade serving the leaves with water simmering down it’s furs. I feel a back lash. I halt. I imagine the flames you’ve ignited and if you’ve turned grey and white. Now I imagine the red soldier ants in chains. How you’ve burrowed and drilled a water pond on our earbuds. These somber petals under a cacophony, by your grave circling in circle’s barricaded by your loss. Alone and wrinkled Mary my love is in good care. Potent as her will, redundant. I would only be ignited by her tree tired knees, an hungered spirit soaring as an eagle.

ii

How about the cold seaports and the gift coupons you won gambling? will you still sip a little whiskey? Hey! Now I’ve become more of a shadowed pessimist. I sing to ladies on most of my travels. I’ve visited a shrine, can you imagine? Ten children and lots of relatives. The garden. Oh! it isn’t a dump yet. Mary still leaps around with her walking stick pruning aloe’s, oranges, such pleases her thrills of optimism and passions, her lack and unrest. Her want, crave, burden, a plight, joy,….mood swings, moments of unawareness, forgetfulness. sometimes a ghostly dull stench when we cower away, say good bye before leaving. Never could neither did i have to witness even on a blindfold your eyes even as they toll one against another. Can you tell me about the intricacies of what made you so strong? As i cower on the seats staring at empty emotions staring at us invisibly.

III.

What if religion was just a rig on human instincts? I think all Christians must not have to go to church. Grandpa, my uncle now is a Reverend unlike me. Chastises me on my addiction. I never like alcohol cause of what the physician who nag on my liver. I still wouldn’t have been one who falls like a palm tree after a drink or two. I love the times and moments i relocated and traveled to new places like you did. Was it England? Spain? Belize? Portsmouth?Paris? Italy sounds like a place here, a place where people gather to worry about their unwanted past. Now grandpa the world isn’t really as safe as it was when you were alive. I’d love to write you when next i ink on plain sheets. Love. Till we meet closer than ever.

To my dear readers, poet’s and writer’s have a wonderful productive month/year ahead – From Azi Mamman John – Author

I am a Nigerian born writer, poet, blogger in the creative writing process. I am an indigiene of plateau, Jos, Nigeria. Izere is the name other tribes or people’s across the region identify us with. I am known for my poetic enthusiasm right from college. I do not speak my indigenous language although I grasp very little of it and am keen to learn.

The End.

See you soon. Be of good cheer!