THE HIDDEN CRIES
to say it all–
we are bedevilled
on the trail traps
of the giant curmudgeons.
pa’s growl
ma’s mewl
wantons wail
in the midst of blood.
halt! O god
pour a non-leaking mesh,
over the north—
it’s red flow in flood.
ETCHED
and so—
i lean peevishly.
thumb traversing tasbih.
belly sniffed like droughty oasis.
gut got grilled in grandeur.
it now crisps like hot–rusted
ore centenarily asleep to sun.
WHEN I DO
when i sit/i recall things/fluxing in mind/pulling in brain/it’s
tale/sullen tale/telling tank of trails. when i read/eyes see
words/ink bleaked/like jews blood/trifled on berlin soil. when i
sleep/i nightmare cries/of what/i know not/wallowing in tempo/but
still/i see days/coming/and happiness waving.
THERE’S A COUNTRY
there’s a country—
which bore to bury the minds of it masses
which is curious to hook the voiceless
which ripple to sieve the sieges of blood.
there’s a country—
which offspring clamour in danger
but heads look loud with laughter
whom they vowed to put it
but clandestinely to flame it
there’s a country—
which body lost its soul
with hope, optimism, patriotism and all
there’s a country—
which devotes its land to egocentrism
whom lions graved it altruism
and exhibit it to pessimism
and still—
there’s a country—
that’ll soon stand
If the sun shine
or the moon beam.
TO MY DYING TALES
I—
crippling in solace
to scrawl some
mystic metaphysical verses
with a brewed–red ink
reeling in my pen.
i—
camp of woe tales
pouncing to pour
from the brain of my
pierce–etched pen.
i—
myself quivering
beneath the fur of a wounded
bear with thoughts dancing
in my balded brain.
i—
now yawns on the shore
in the shack of woes and throes
i pray—for my days—
let me be man of lores.
MY AURORA
per se,
i remain silent
to the plain trunk of ginkgo
with an etched bark of sere serenity.
I uttered.
‘oh my gosh!
my feet never feel a
tavern,
though to taste a
liquor,
i’m drunk after
glancing annabel lee.’
and i muttered—
she must be a persian tapestry
of glitz and
past pure pearls.
and i took a lead to plead.
‘please let me peep
into the ghazals of
saadi
if not,
sail to tagore’s gitanjali
or slip to the greasy inks of rumi–
for my heart,
it all aches love.’
Abbas Rabi’u Adamu is a poet and short-story writer. He’s from Nasarawa State (North-Central), Nigeria. A bibliophile and logophile. One of his poetry appeared on Column Weekly. He’s 18.