The Painting

Time really does fly by. It’s been a busy past couple of months, and this phase will only end in June hopefully. I have neglected interactions on this platform for a minute, albeit unintentionally, it has been devastating. I didn’t have time to pull together a story this week, fortunately, I  have this poem for “writing crisis” like now.                                                                   I love all art forms and often imagine that if I had the time I would project my creativity in making paintings, so here’s a poem that’ll stir your imagination, I hope you enjoy it.  Au Revoir darlings.

 

A lone man’s dreams these stories

Corals of ox-blood and ultramarine.

Delicate pieces of happiness, beauty & lust

War entwined onto the canvas on the wall.

 

Beauty floats in a meadow of virágok

Maidens of silk ebony skin,

Their radiant eyes veiled like morning dew

with voices like canaries.

Ensnaring them are men of power

Missles fire into the air

Corrupted soil turns crimson.

Volcanos give off condensed smug

Rain.

 

 

Feathered fawn, persnickety lots

A doe beside mossy greenery

Announcing it’s meek spirit

as if it were home

Wolves growl hastily at their prey

The blood moon runneth over

Flirting abstractions on tempera and pastel

 

 

The silhouette of a man

seated at a table

Elegance stares back at him

His bride by his side

Their hearts meet in the center

Knowing each other.

Finding each other

Completely free in each other.

Alas, evil stirs the ego of his brother

Consuming him, he unleashes  a wrath

Thus bringing an end  to a beautiful home

Man being his kin’s worse enemy.

 

Etched in brass beneath the painting;

“Her love although late, saved me,

but not before I forged a decree

and descended on the cul-de-sac to self-destruction.”

 

The fresco hangs haphazardly on the wall

Creating an imbalance between light and darkness.

Love and valor. Life and honor.

Archaic to the tides of change.

 

 

Virágok: origin; Hungarian, meaning; flowers

No Man’s Land

We come from the same land

dear brother,

I trusted you

unheedingly,

We walked through the desert

me, yearning for a new beginning.

 

 

Your skin like mine is dark

your flag like mine is green

I’m not a slave.

But like the Portuguese pirates of the old world

you’ve branded me, a cow

and while you feel safe in your lofty bed

I cry without end, locked in a cell.

 

If dehumanizing me earns you a fortune

then our bureaucracy has failed us

the Nigerian police can’t see us as equals

Buhari is blind

and my brother

even as you stand before me

I know you can’t see as a human

In no man’s land,

only money talks.

 

See my hair,

they twist and curl in the wind like yours.

Oh, how naive I was

to have resurrected hope on sighting you

but when I learned

how  hedonistic you’ve become

With my last strength

I yelped,

My countryman, help me! brother, please.

You told me,

there is no brother in the jungle

before you disposed of my virtue

to a fate worse than repatriating to Nigeria,

Death in the Mediterranean.

 

 

 

 

A piece in light of the ongoing slave trade in Libya.