Rapture

 

A boy searches for God

in swirls of sativa.

He reaches out to be held

by the hands of music—

to be ferried by sacred rhythms.

He will find light in the lyrics of fire

burning at the mouth of a stick

& float out of his sad skin.

 

Published in the Freedom-Rapture anthology by Black Bough Poetry.

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verse

after Beth Brooke's 'Vase'

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night is complacent

a plastic sun sits in

a vase of cracked sky

a poem bleeds, runs

down dawn's throat

the red cock yawns

cracked morn voice

beckons virgin light

we pluck a stalk each

a prayer & wild verses

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Published in Duet of Ghosts anthology by Black Bough Poetry

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Blindspot

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There's part of you

shrouded in a mist

of metaphors—an

expression light does

not touch. Your heart

is hidden from view—

a garden in awe

of dew & sunrise.

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Glass

 

This poem reaches for

my heart, exhumes

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the remains of a song.

There is no sound.

 

I can't find a worthy

synonym for silence,

 

or distance, or bitterness.

How do dead things grow?

 

We tend to forget a leaking roof

until the rains arrive—again.

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A grudge isn't wished away,

a grudge isn't washed away.

 

I'm tired of your blind axe

tearing me to splinters,

 

of burning in the

hell of your tongue.

 

there is an unopened

bottle of forgiveness

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on my breakfast table

but there's only one glass

 

& i have lost my appetite.

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from Jide's book, Obaluaye, Flowersong Press 2022

 

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Dynamite

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I'm a stick

Of cigarette.

Put me between your lips

Take a drag

And feel the flames

Burn inside us both

Feel me explode

Like dynamite.

 

From Jide's book, Scripture, Sevhage Books, 2018.

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Danfo

 

etymology of hustle

beaten & exhausted

rugged, you breathe

through the smoke,

through the mist,

through the ghost

of gold streets,

thick black veins

loud on yellow skins

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how to kill a man

 

take away the things

that make him want

to stand from his bed

at dawn. chew his name

& spit it at shame's feet.

break his dream's spine.

incite his shadows.

stir a rebellion

in his blood.

deprive him of things

that make him long

for his bed's bosom

at the death of day.

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Surds

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I.

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In multiplication,

negative integers

are predatory.

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Grief is polynomial

—a sum of losses.

 

II.

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Darkness is infinite,

vast in vocabulary,

rich in emotions

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but a particle of

light is voracious,

impeccably fluent.

 

Hope is a slice of yam

in a pot of salty tears.

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Healing is an active verb.

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A Sea of Desire

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At dawn, boat of hustle,

I plunge into ebbing traffic.

Tide of wheels & soles

grab at shores,

grab at the heart

of a budding storm.

Mast of dream, I'm

drenched in salt—

tossed by ceaseless waves.

Taking cue from seaweeds,

I learn to stay afloat, survive

another day.

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Green Zone

 

I.

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The sun undresses

before lounging waters

as though for a swim.

 

Today, Lagos is soft.

Dusk fills potholes

with withering smiles

& a sliver of optimism.

 

But night takes

everything away.

A dream overheats.

A prayer is stranded

on wooden wheels.

 

II.

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Heaven's clock is broken

& time is hungover.

 

III.

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There's no place for tears

in the eyes of war.

No shield

for vocal slugs

from kindred guns.

 

No place for grief

on this manifest

 

& where we find repair

is where we call home.

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First published by Afrocritik

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The Fabric of Things

 

Your smile is cotton

wool dipped in spirit

—a miracle, audacious,

burning.

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There's no molecule of lie

in the velvet of your light.

You laugh like a chandelier—

joyful, buoyant & sometimes,

wild like a rocking chair.

 

This denim of love,

over erratic seasons,

did not fray nor fade.

We share fluffy memories—

soft song nestled in a shawl

of time, cashmere metaphors,

silk scarf around igneous heart.

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first published by The Amistad

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Darkroom

 

I'm at the riverbank,

fishing for memories

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but the line comes up empty

—not one moment of a smile

 

not meant for the camera!

Your love is twilight, tepid

 

—your anger,

a vibrant waterfall.

 

Father told me not to read

too much to the sun's temper,

 

to see light rather than wrath

But you're not the sun,

 

you are dry wind,

warhorse for sandstorms.

 

Mother said you are rain,

I should embrace you

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like the sea—but

you beat me

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with furious tongues

—I ripple in silence.

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I'm at the riverbank,

fishing—it's getting late

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& not one room of your

memory left a light on.

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From Jide's Obaluaye, Flowersong 2022

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Paper Plane in the Rain

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I wrote my pains—the ones I could

give names to—on a piece of paper

& folded them into a plane—of miseries.

I hurled a prayer into heavenly planes.

But how do you spell salt in aqueous fonts?

How do you carry wilting sighs

on the wings of an ellipsis?

Fear is bad weather for a flight!

How can you tell if god is in a bad mood

& would send rain to crash your kite?

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first published in a co-authored chapbook of the same title