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I think Achebe will ever be remembered as a pioneer in African literature his works are bold and good ... But Adichie captures it better

8 DAYS AFTER LIFE

This morning met me lonely,
My bath was nice and lovely,
I wished I moved an ankle,
Life, please let me see my mummy.

Night and day will come again,
I swell and float this wooden box ,
I smell, you smile, what evening sore,
You think "oh death", for me it's evening come.

A third and still alone,have my friends gone to Rome,
I wait two days no you,
Won't you risk a stroll

A sixth and then the seventh,
I can't feel my bones,
Six feet beneath your foot, a place I now call home,
Please keep my dinning seat, serve me bread and corn,
Keep the lights aglow,
Ah, I can't even go.


Tomorrow coming soon,
See me burst in piece,
You've wiped your tears already,
You think I will rest in peace,
Please let's cry for you my friend,
Who knows your afternoon,
A crash,
Two coughs,
Three strikes and you are here with me...

WE SHALL DIE LET US BE

He kept on speaking some times I would hear "cancer " then "death".He kept sounding like I would die in two weeks or so then my funeral comes a week later so that in month it would be as though Kenneth never lived.
As he spoke my attention would swing many sides he would try to win me by making some wired sounds even dropping his pen,ah what logic, I would find my self in this wired man's presence time and again

"listen up, I am a Pharmacist", I know much about poisons you can't imagine " aha he smelled of drugs
But what does he think , the government had it in printed on cigarette packs a gospel of death, I could hear of death two or ten times a day, it gets banal I didn't fear death any longer.

My logic was simple , why live in constant fear of death , on diet only to die in a crash?
Even if I quit smoking and drugs how long more than a hundred years would l live, even for so long, a life of fear of death? ..
As I thought , I looked into his widened eyes, his moving lips, his sparse hair for the first time I noticed his loneliness, the kind that brings passion along with it.

I should ask of his family a wife, some kids,
Just maybe he has baggy a son like me who would love to exchange smiles, may be he is a lonely, I was too.
Finally I would want to speak my mind 'sir' I managed to to cough, it sounded like I raised my voice, wired pharmacist listened with heightened interest
Of everything I thought to say none would just come, I could only look and manage these few words "it's my life," that was it.

He pitied me, his eyes now shinny as a layer of liquid covered the surface , was it what I said?
His voice, now a little husky and not as enthusiastic but still passionate
"my son, he's said this to me" all in one brief breath "I really would let him have his his way" he recounted stories of his sons addiction , Dan was like me and more, "like him you share a 'life's struggle' though a little more courageous than you are, he will listen as if he understood , he will nod as if it made sense just like you son" as he noted this to me, my eyes wetted as well, he paused a little and he called out to someone for water "then where is Dan" I thought to my self
He continued, "I got him a book , he could conquer with this book, I had faith, I would give it to him , but I didn't" , he looked at me once more moved by my tears, he speaks "angels took him, death, I found him lying helplessly, no heart beats, pupils fully dilated, his hands felt cold to my touch" " ah" he was in company of what excited him these few years, drowned in his passion , the smell of his room",
"Child, I killed my son", I would have saved if him If wasted not more than yesterday " I want to help you "
Frustration guilt and age bullied this pharmacist
he looks old and bald
" Here is it" , "a book, my son's, I wrote it my self" ... I read on the books cover " OH THAT YOU LIVE AND NOT JUST BREATHE "

Flipping through it was paradise,
Though we shall die, let us live

DESERT TREE

Hard, "why" ,
holding fruits.
Dry ,"how come" ,
leaves should have fluid.
Sacrificing some more, mother of all.
Yet life is from you, I wish you wouldn't fall.


You stood along two years or three,
Though shy ,so bright, heavens spouse,
The lumber with the saw,
your smile he couldn't see,
,he cut, you fall,the place a sandy hall ,
Our lives now few ...I miss those days of art

Who is your desert tree; your fallen hero...

Monk

ONE NICE GUY

It's rear to find one nice guy,
I found me, and things are fine.

I hear you, you say goodbye,
I'm still here, for one last fight.

Tomorrow I am Ill, still I'll try,
"your time is up ", hear this cry,


" skip the coke and candy,
The poor have lost their glory,
Fight for child and mummy,
Who knows what's up with daddy".

When you are done,
I'll pay in full
More than prize is one big smile.

Monk

emaculate99:
cool... please, edit this to "how men were killed for faith."

I appreciate, thank you

Story from the old...

Between this old man and his age,
Stories , songs, glory and graves.
The lips to speak was there along,
But strength, where have you been today,

He would have said the story of war,
" How men where killed for faith"

Perhaps a song of three young ones,
From fire, for what they knew was right,

Young graves that shouldn't be made,
But friends, they died before their night

Old man is silent ,
Though much has cried from the aged heart,
"if they knew how much blood was spilled ",
" Who will spare one drop for war..."

Monk.

llaykorn:
This one is a beautiful poem. Thanks for sharing.

Thank you

ngaz:
Nice one. Artistic

I appreciate.... Merry Christmas

GRAND CHILD DAVIS.

Small grey eyes with tender lens,
These lens are fixed on stray old rocks,
And stray old rocks was down in town,
Then, down in town is where I stand.


His legs won't move, "kiddy bone",
The teeth aren't there, "infant gum",
Amphibian skin, "could break from touch",
Davis is young, "for earth's own age".



He is child of two old graves,
Grand pa died in centuries past,
His" kiddy" looks was brought by age,
He got so old and turned so young,
Yet pa though dead will say" hey son ".




Monk" I still look from stray old rocks "

timpaker:
A thousand likes for you man.

However, always start a line with a capital letter and learn to punctuate appropriately.

Bravo!

I appreciate .... I will certainly take necessary corrections

NIGERIA, LET ME BRING YOU HOME


Then, I let you travel,
I wish you back back at home,
See, your legs are weary,
Your thirst has kept you dry,
Your Child is now with children,
Let me bring you home
.

The youth were slowly dying,
I shouldn't have let you leave,
Told them of your coming,
Their hopes have flamed again,
Come, give them that tomorrow,
They've asked me of their home

The rivers still flow South,
Don't mind the power dams,

The forests still have their fruits,
Don't mind the lumbar man

The food is just as tasty,
They brought in some cubes called royco.,
Things have changed thus far,
Still come back home to us.

I weep in dirty tears,
They sing the US anthem,
I killed my weakened self,
Those strong were drunk and wasting

You left us long enough, I must bring you home...


Monk "there is hope for My country"

,, IF I BECOME A POET

The soldier will be pained
'how come you have my all'
you look too young for war

must we stay at war,


Their sword,

a pen to my hand
With this I changed a preacher,
they'll rather chain a Prince


Their shield
It's strong
See them flight death
Then me, fighting the people
Who is death better than the people


Their all

Strong and Sandy
Weak from war
much stories to say
But who will spear an ear

then returns me from no where
Children at my base
They wish I said a story
but I never fought a war

Let soldiers be poets for their sword , their shield and all



MONK...

merit12:
It intoxicates me as I read your poems......

If I become a poet I write my mind .....nature ...every sweet thing I see on my beautiful shit

Kisses

.