Love nwa tintin

 Her translucent eyes to my ears whisper,

tales of nimble affection
Weaving aesthetic paradise of happiness in my heart
Like the triangular draft of a spider

I see your eyes
The twinkles are brighter than the thin sparkles of the shooting stars
I wonder why my soul never ceased into them to pry

You are one of a kind
in your heart the thread of tenderness I find

With adventure your world I will roam
Till your pulse flip and pause in Rome.

Your kiss I linger for lease,
  A thousand years at least

In your eyes are hidden the constellation of stars
An end to all worrisome and dark emotional scars

My pain you heal
My soul your radiance daily steals.

Be the tender Baobab tree on which I lean
Take me to the ecstatic sphere where passions gleams.

I will love you till the ends of days,
In your embrace, I will have
my coolest stay.

I love you.               @philo baba

Poet tree

poet tree

By Oloyede Michael Taiwo

I sat on the wit of a poet tree

I read lines in pages of poetic letters in threes

On several burning notes

we agree

Poetry like a pear tree

We pick rhymes for free

Our clothed nakedness we lucidly see

The nakedness of nothingness

The nothingness of existence

Our persistence in existence

The essence of existence

The sense in existence.

I chew one tenth of sane tenses that interpret the essence of lean sentences

I bit the fruit on the poet-tree

In chapters and verses

I marked oxymoron on my speech tree

Antithesis I chew for a gift

My pulse less understood by morons

The voice of sarcasm became clarion

The axe of pain is oxy

The hook of forgiveness is moron

I sat on the trunk of pun

It lulls my bumbum with fun

I swung next to paradox

Like a good father does

Bestowing kindness that opens doors

On the poet-tree;

I and wisdom had tea

Knowledge obliged me

Understanding took me to fish

I designed this three on peachtree

I met this three

On a fair tree

On a poet’s tree

My life from the regrets of yesterday became free

On the poet-tree

Swirls the personification of poetry

@PHILO BABA

December

Trimester  of a forlorn maid,

Unkempt symphony of a tattered Nirvana maid,

Love within the lattice of your tiny lips  got 

lovingly made,

December,

Beneath the slothful watch of your wet ship, sharply caressing tender turbulence,

and assuaging mushy whispers of the solemn sea,

I got intensely laid.

@Philo Baba

WAITED IN VAIN

You came in an angelic frame,                                                                             

Set this soul aflame,

Your lipstick echoed my name,

Set me on cause like a game,

love you made girdle my aim,
and my antelope of philandering I maimed
,
In my portrait of love you stood carved with the strings of my sinews and veins,
Keeping the memory of you in me as its only celebrity of fame

I willed your personality as the emblazoned character on the epitaph visible on my grave.

This heart meandering your ludus of flesh and fantasies grew and trained. 

Even in winters, 
The memories of your touch like an ivorian leaf never withers,

Now I stink like a prisoner in jail, 

The agony of the never flowing water in pail,

Separated from the romance of the seas and oceans in Niger
And their tumultuous sound during foreplay in wales.

This nimble heart pumps sick and frail
For this news of your broad laps aired by Jane;

Your amorous engagements freighted in human planes. 

The ashes of your love shall be buried in caves of restless pains 
Instituted in spain

In the mirage of love so pure and sane

I waited all in vain.



@PHILO BABA.

I MET NIGHTFALL

     I 

met nightfall,

in a huge, conflagration dusty hall .

she got eyes as owls and grins of moonlight;

She whispered darkness, crawled on limp limbs marked with scaly webs.

She smell of sour oil and recurrent mares,

She breathes brim-stones and fire, pestered on  by fiery locusts of hades,

she leaned on broken tripods of bad luck for blind  strangers,

she cocoons in fear and brokenness

She is the despicable taskmaster at the valley of the shadows of death,

She faintly fizzles like an expired syrup at the lingering of the high spirited sparks of the redemptive dawn,

I met nightfall,

I bent her crusty wings and my eyelids rose tall,

I play golf listening to sonorous pitches of ancient birds,roaring lions and cackling ducks at the valley of the shadows of death.

Isle of lying mirrors

Our names beg for ancestral validation

we seek accreditation from blonde tongues,

We prance in foreign shoes to navigate our native paths.

In the isle of lying mirrors,

we intermeddle with assorted wisdom to live in snow,

and spite the cracked whistling wind that hoists the flag of Harmattan.

In the isle of lying mirrors

We frolick the mirror to reflect a white face on a dark neck.

We relish the luxury of slavery in lost lands of fantasies to the warmth of history,

Our misery is posterity left bemused in the game of nomenclature etymology.

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I don't know my name.

I came through the dusty, wind suppressed desert; far away.

I got my footprints burnt on the hot particles of earth-grains,

I seek this boisterous  but lonely city with no name.

Each pilgrim  met, was startled at my stutter- less description of such an ostentatious city; spellbound and earnestly awaits  its name,so  with kindness, point the way.

'The city has no name' ,from my lips escaped.

Disappointed, they swallow some sun flies,shook their head care freely, and walked away.

The constellation of stars danced in my eyes  when a pilgrim attempted to tell the name:  If they could  tell the name of this city with no name.

Everybody asked me to ask somebody.

Somebody knew someone from such a realm called nobody.

I sprawl like a traditional adire mat on which a maiden kneels betrothed to uncertainty as she exits the peninsula of tolerated childhood fairy tales:

Tales of  a happy  sojourn into that love clustered euphoria of fulfillment,

into the vacuum of personal space and spacelessness.

Somebody said the  city lies somewhere, hidden  everywhere.

Nobody said somewhere is nowhere.

Could  nowhere  be somewhere?

I met the last of an unknown gloss bearded kind with arms akimbo. 

He knew this pristine, flamboyant  city without a name,

He, engrossed in my story, ecstatically asked for my name.

As I was about to enthusiastically spit out a form of constructed alphabets,

My memory fell apart,

I don't know my name.

He ate dusts in milliseconds, sniffed my floating brain , screamed in disgust and flew away.

I still don't know my name.