₦airaland Forum

nairalife2013:
no. we are close tho...my own version is the autobiography of nelson Mandela

Oh then!

KingTom:
She smiled and turned left....

Kingtom, LMAO. You should start writing.

nairalife2013:
How old are u? U have an aesthetic dexterity in ryhmes and a literal flexibility in the choice of words. This is a poem worth reading by all youths as they grow to adulthood, esp the malefolk who are more likely to have thier dreams belittled or outrigtly truncated by certain relationship issues of life. When I was a teenager, atimes of serious mind issues, I took time out and write my pains and observations on a paper as poems and random musings - the pains goes off as soon as the ink hits the paper! I read with ease, passion and understanding, books like Long walk to freedom, Che Quevera and Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses when I was in high sch! They helped me grow in mind and head! Some Kids of nowadays prefare the opposite of what we craved for...
Well I had girls...they also inspired me to do more to impress them.
kudos op

We share genes.

Was 'Long Walk To Freedom' written by Zaynab Al-Ghazali?

...

He spent days and I've lost count of 'em
Watering and watching some little plants
He thought would grow into pink roses then.

He dipped his fingers into the wet soil on sunny days,
Touching each budding leaf with a caress,
And the sight of the field gladdened his heart in ways .

But, suddenly dots of withering scenes,
Spread across the budding leaves,
And his little roses fell in mighty heaves.

Why Won't this broken hearted poet
Liken the bitter rise and fall of false love,
To a field of rose that knew not sweat?

But he spent his days,
Setting up boards and dusting the gallery;
And he mixed some paint.

And he moved about the edge of the brush,
Dipped in paint over the boards,
Red, black, blue, yellow, white in a flush.

Behold a nonsense art that called on flocks
Of lovers to hold hands and gaze at;
Lost in embraces of kisses and hugs.

So, the piper played a tune that none heard.
It was distant in a language un-said, but he heard.
"Art over love. Art over girls" it said.

A happy birthday to the old veteran.

gtim4uall:
Graciously lovely,,,


Good one

Thank you very much. I'd like to see you post your works too. What do you think?

joseph1832:
Welcome back llaykorn.

Thank you, Joseph.

A path I know was frequent trod
by me when I loved rock and sod,
loved rain and stream and silent pool
below the peaks that spirit ruled.

All lit a fire, consumed my heart,
this me, this being set apart
who trod that path so constantly
to seek a share, to seek to be.

Searching spirit wandering free
but lost in that great entity,
to find an empathy with all
contained within its great enthrall.

Then on one day there in the mist
I climbed the col to visions bliss,
lifting the veil to give to me
a prospect of pure ecstasy.

I see it now with time aged eyes
a silver pillar out the sky
pierces the dimness and reveals
the lakeland farm amongst the fields.

Once more I feel tears on my face,
gaze inward on that scene of grace,
such loveliness in life to keep
to take to my eternal sleep.

This one is for a cute soul; it's her birthday. Her name is KizzyyRae. On the 29th of October 2014, she made a post that really touched me deeply. Somehow, it changed who I am and also, in someway, she is one of my numerous role models.

On your birthday, special one,
I wish that all your dreams come true.
May your day be filled with joy,
Wonderful gifts and goodies, too.

On your day I wish for you
Favorite people to embrace,
Loving smiles and caring looks
That earthly gifts cannot replace.

I wish you fine and simple pleasures.
I wish you many years of laughter.
I wish you all of life's best treasures.
I wish you happily ever after!

Happy Birthday KizzyyRae!

Omotayor123:
My favorite is Things fall apart by Y. B. yeast.

And you think the man will want to forgive you in his grave?

I have many favorite poems but I'll just mention one here because I was asked for poem, not poems.

And that is the witty, super-funny but interesting poem. It is Television by Roald Dahl, and thus it goes:

The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

timpaker:
WHEN A DOOR DIES

One eyed Sunday; will
You paddle me on my tears?
I've cried an ocean.

Ah, a haiku is most beautiful, sir, when it is written in bold brown ink.

Through the window,

The wave crashes,
And washes
Stones by time burnt
And ashen.

The world is gray
With flashes of colour.

Thoughts flow upon intangible ink.
Breaths weaved in contemplative silence
The wind blows an unheard melody;
Rustling leaves.

The mind wanders
Gliding with shimmering wings
Liquid crystals
Within streams of frosted fascination
Fog clouds the glass
Painting the world in a spreading blur
As the heavens gently weep
The pitter-patter rises
The light dances
Reflections shiver

A momentary glance stretched to infinity.
Unshed tears fall
Raindrops splash in detached harmonies
Whispered daydreams
Rippling across pools of perspective realities
The glass holds the view captive
The viewer captivated
Soaring through drifting illusions
Freedom or a cage
The words remain unsaid.

timpaker:
Welcome back bro.

And no more [b]e-suicide[ [/b]

Ah, sir, it hits me as transverse waves do; sometimes I get the crests, and sometimes the troughs. If another crest plunks with enough amplitude, the possibility of the emboldened can never be overruled.

AllNaijaBlogger:
Ohhh! It's about to go down!!!!

AllNaijaBlogger, are we still doing this?

The burning sun has had its due
my sight diminished by its hue
but this composer of my life
was worthy of the sacrifice

Let me show a song for you
that’s brought me joy my whole life through,
include the chorus of the trees
as summer wind’s do life’s hurt ease.

When all the trials and pain of life
engulf the spirit in their strife
a path through motioned wheat deep fields
fills me with joy and sadness yields.


Soft pliant sand beneath my feet
next to the rippling tide’s sly creep
twixt sea and soughing of the reeds,
some manna for my soul it feeds.

Best out into the land and love,
let nature be your turtle dove,
be deaf not to its bill and coo,
a song of healing, sung for you.