Akinbode Israel writes

A WIDOW BY THE WINDOW. 

. 

A widow by the window, 

Peeking over a large street;

Children playing under the sun, 

Sweating away their Today. 

. 

She looked the more and saw

Little girls rubbing white beards,

Flaunting their games on beds,

Soaking their Tomorrow in petrol. 

. 

She looked again and saw

Men punctured to boys, 

Playing football with shoes, 

Shoes of responsibility. 

. 

She looked through the window;

Nothingness sat, 

Emptiness posed, 

A sleeping portrait.

. 

Widow by the window;

Angels by the rainbow

Reporting to God, 

Then I saw God cry. 

 

Grief (Widow at the window) -- Felix Nussbaum

Akinbode Israel writes

A MARKET WITHOUT A SQUARE.

.

Rushing feet with naked bodies,

Disfigured hearts pumping noise,

Suffering trays with wicked pepper,

A market without a square.

.

Premature bargaining from poor tongues,

Shining goods with no living-good,

Sick buyers, ghost sellers,

A market without a square.

.

Cheap baskets, costly pitchers,

Naked beings selling clothes

To blind tailors with fake threads,

A market without a square.

.

Fierce rain with friendly drops,

Silence distorted,

No shade to keep our heads,

A market without a square.

.

A market without a square,

Triangle without a tip,

A life without purpose,

A market without a square.

 

 Pepper Market -- Ayeola Avodeji 

Akinbode Israel writes

THE CHANGE. 

. 

The rain last night came tip-toeing, 

His bag was full of iced promises,  

Soon they melted into seas; salty, 

Our eyes regretted beholding. 

. 

We begged the night with dying words 

On our sick-beds from broken wards,  

Our pain stood as witness, 

Our cries became never less. 

. 

A new sun rose from the north, 

His first touch carried rays of top notch; 

Rays that can strike a beggar into a lord, 

Under, we dried our wetness and blessed God. 

. 

But this sun loves blood more than ordinary, 

Like a parasite he sucks stylishly,

Our thumbs now cry 'Weak-Low' (Wicklow);

The thumb that pushed this sun to glow. 

. 

With our minds running backward 

Through the paths that pierced our soles - souls,

We only wished the rain never took our hats - hearts, 

This sun won't be a  'bored-den' -  burden.