Ayoola Goodyness Olanrewaju writes

a muse for me

i dance tonight...

so i dance over the face of the moon
in the regalia tailored by euphoria
the night is a friend on a night dance...

the stars send me coins of whispers
in twinkling letters
they say i am the tickling laughter
that mends the broken ribs of gods...

they say i am the ankles of a sugarcane
too hard too sweet
for the crush of villainous teeth...

they bring me the sun cake and
plead i make a wish...

so i wish only a smile...

that one smile that took my lips
in a snapshot over a rugged background...

Trying to Smile -- Scott Spencer

Ayoola Goodyness Olanrewaju writes

friends

if life laughs in rocky rhythms 
and the heat
is the younger brother of fire...

if there
is the similitude of hell
and all you can read is the frown tucked into
dried clouds...

if here
the white eagles in the van of life
are septic pits
where fallen angels dump their remnants...

if in the cold there is heat
if in the heat there is cold...

do not be troubled
there will always be friends
who make me your gold.
























Adoration of the Magi [detail] -- Domenico Morone



 

Ayoola Goodyness Olanrewaju writes

onions I

they promise us promised promises

an eden of alleviation

and abundance of apples...

they feed and cloud our imaginations

of the pleasure in the pleasures to eat

apples from the lips of keen knives...

we gulp the brews of sweet deception

vow and vote the votes for their vows

and we whet our knives with stones of hope...

but when the sun shines on their shoes of aspirations

they lure us into the fields of rotten onions

and force down our throats the bulbs of tears...

our whetted knives blunt with the rust of sadness

and we cry pools of tears

only that our tears have just begun...

for as our knives eat into slices of onions

our eyes errand the river of new tears

tears without end...                                                   

the task masters relish in the baskets of apples

and in strange happiness

we munch our obese bulbs in sizzling cries...

we are stoned with the seeds of apples

and men kill men in the rush for seeds...

our children die from the knives of onions and blood...

we belch onions

we breathe onions

we become onions surviving from onions...

our plead for rights is plagued covetousness

and whenever our children cry for the taste of apples

we slap them hard with the satisfaction of onions...

Red Onion Apple and Garlic --  S Josephine Weaver