Author: Gbolabo Adetunji

The bushes in our
neck of the woods
They’re ageless
They’re ravishing
They’ve no choice
but to fall
for the virile juvenile
wildfires

The sunrise these days
They’re bloodstained
chewing up
the deep blues skies
leaving wastelands
and
shimmering jewels
of no value

Our throats are dry
eyes peppery
noses sour
tongues soothy
We would muster a  quorum
But the lighthearted movers
and shakers
have fallen asleep

The plowlands of knowledge
looted
Grey ghost wisps
whip up theories
The owls warned
long before they drifted away
Men of no mean value live a lie
While death is waking up
carefully dragging prairies
and persons in her claw

August is moving like a slug
Second half of the warmth is
here
Summer’s ardent beam is a
grind
The popsies tan brown
Fodder bleaching hoary
Bringing  the hush and fury of merciless noons
Waiting for the heat to pass
But the tick of the clock from a far-flung floor
Paints a scene of growing grass
Not anytime soon
Humidity is whistling a tune
I won’t sit by and whine or die
Or join the trapped travelers crying for rain
No bitterness bends the hand of
time
Its a pleasure that you’re here
But I dream of  heaven
I dream
of a little bit of autumn

The trailing edge of shadows fetter
on plain hills;
The fields and moods robed
afresh;
We were made for latitudes
Here to watch the green mountains
break new turf
The souls of our niches
pant for breaths
Enchanted melted blades
still blazing
Who feed the ravaged
with wild eggs
and dumb songs
Who banished the bossoms
from care and ruth
Tan our eyes
They’re blind to tender things
Spare our ears
They are deaf
only to reason
Save some buttercups
for butterflies
And some innocence
for the youth.

Maybe people will set feeble minds free
And give themselves a chance to ween
Maybe an epiphany will walk in
Without the usual trigger disaster

Maybe folks will ditch the theses
they pitched
And for once log into their hearts
Maybe they’ll stop the bickering
And return a decent man

Maybe the lion in the arena
Will stop roaring and show it’s face
Maybe none of these will be
And we’d still be fine with it all

Don’t

go to the king’s house

despite your cravings

Sure

There are no mouses

or spiders

You will be bitten

by reminders

of opulence

and splendor

A finger on the wall

will speak

asking what you have done

with the hands

that you were dealt

whilst the butlers come serving

some balms for your scalds

But have no remedies

for the scars

of memories

you can’t shake off

The perennial pain

you nurture alone

Now

you can shake

the hands of time

as well as

those of the escorts

It is

only

the hands of

the green-eyed monster

that’s glued

to the creases

on your palms

Your palm never lies

No

The flexions of a king

never lies