David Olusanya Poems

When you see my wife, Rebecca,
tell her I'm now a baker;
To feed and nourish my hungry kindred,
with buttered brown bromate-free bread.
...

In my country
it is a pity
that corruption is hawked like water,
and so contagious like catarrh.
...

This is not a song of woe
it's just the way I'd love to go,
when my days are fully spent
and my years, without a dent.
...

My soul was stolen by silence-
the deafening silence of lamentations.
My heart was full of emptiness-
emptiness of gruesome vibrations.
...

How shall we tell the heralding tale,
that you and I had our mother for sale?
Who shall tend to the bruises on our backs,
if the detest the truth that we are Browns?
...

When mourning voices wander,
and haunt the nights with wonder;
Panic not in fear,
For their dwelling is sorely near;
...

Mothers of my land,
would you idle your hands?
And watch your grace
to be tossed away like the days.
...

"They are all deaf and dumb,
with hateful hearts; so cold and numb".
Her somber song stills the street.
...

Her beauty is so black and bold,
like your mother's cooking pot of old.
All her stories have been told,
except this one, I'm yet to unfold:
...

Fine bread again from your favorite baker,
Out from my oven- a gift from Rebecca.
Relish all of it, to be a nourished partaker;
...