Osazee Dankaro

Osazee Dankaro Poems

There is a bottle in my head,
Whose lid I keep tightly shut.
But even with all my might
The gas within, long over full and bubbling

Let pride be damned this once
And then be damned again, and again
Until my peace be returned to me
And my soul is fully assuaged

From my vantage spot by the window
I looked into the darkened street.
Only a crescent moon gave off any light
As all generators had been hurriedly turned off.

I sit to write a poem
A poem of love and life
Of beautiful lines and golden sounds
A poem to tickle the ears and freshen the mind.

I wake up once again to the sounds:
footsteps, muted voices and motor cars.
The night had been very short,
and the same noises kept me awake

Do not preach to me and flog me all at once
Do not impact mental pain
And physical torment all together
It is cruelty to do so

When I think of you,
I do not see you lying on the hospital bed
Hours before your death
I do not hear your voice on my phone

I am lying on my bed of feathers
My eyes slowly close of its own volition,
It is cold, very cold,
Cold rain is hitting my tin roof gently

Night and day I see,
Crushing pain, piercing your entire being like a spear
I see, I feel, I perceive and I hear.
I have suffered this terrible loss with you,

She's only on 30, but we all call her "Mommy"
Even those of us twice her age
She was not ordained, to be a Mother, like the Catholics do their priests,
She has her own qualifications that has made her ‘Our Mother',


There's a plastic can floating in the middle of the river
Guided by wind and water,
Moving leisurely, blindly,
Unhurried, uncaring,

In my country, there are two species of us:
Those who sit on our heads;
And we down below who bear their crushing weight.
They are our rulers


On my head is the crown,
Around my being, the gown
In my hand the scepter, my wand
And at my feet, the world

On the discovery of my death
Do not make any noise
Do not cry, do not weep
I did not die that day.

I am the afterthought,
The one who is reached
For the whereabouts of another

When finally I stand among the sea of men who have lived
Those before me and those who would come after me
I will not marvel at their numbers
Nor stare in wonder

We are lying on this flattened mattress,
On the bare floor of your ‘friend's' room.
Sweat has fastened my chest to your back
As we desperately grip each other in the aftermath of our love

I fear for my soul.
That it may not end in the fiery pit
After my many sins are uncovered
And it is laid bare

I have dallied so long in penning this:
A song of praise to two wonderful friends
Companions of my journeys across the earth
Companions of my life, companions of my work

It is 4.30am
I am dressed in my corporate formal banker's attire
And walking towards "bakery" bus stop
To catch a bus, on my way to the island, to work

Osazee Dankaro Biography

Osazee Dankaro was born in Benin City, Nigeria. Educated at the University of Benin, he is a Chartered Accountant. He currently resides in Newcastle, the United Kingdom with his wife and two sons.)

The Best Poem Of Osazee Dankaro

The Bottle In My Head

There is a bottle in my head,
Whose lid I keep tightly shut.
But even with all my might
The gas within, long over full and bubbling
Still try to get out
Though I do not wish it to.
Because, for every whiff that escapes
Out comes biting cynicism and a disgruntled personae
For every puff, a physical out lash is the result
Of anger and rage and madness.
Perhaps I have kept the bottle for too long
And its contents, my despair, has festered
Frustrations, disappointments, anger, malice
All mixed into a bitter foul smelling gruel.
Maybe it is time to let in air
To run and scream, and shout and dance
And cry and laugh and live out dreams
To gradually take of the lid and let its contents dissipate.
Throw out the bottle and make it disappear
And be free.


Osazee Dankaro Comments

Adebayo Adenrele 20 May 2015

Hi Ozazee, it wasn't my fault about the overtightment of my poem.Can you teach me how to separate it?

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