Echezonachukwu Nduka

now that the streets are stripped
and keys lock themselves in defiance,
should nudity blind the eyes of minors?
now that the streets are filled with dry tongues
...

i
ENTRY:

with your hands in your pockets,
...

We met at a bar in Birmingham on a night
When booze baptized you
And the world lost its shape:
...

If in my sleep tonight I cut the ropes
And hear not the bell that wakes the day
Say me a prayer
That all may carry my songs to dark
...

Through my half-open window,
She breezes in unguarded, wearing warmth
As gloves and whistling atonal tunes: Lights out.
My radio sleeps too.
...

I
rise with your troubles from where you lay,
the love you seek here left last night.
she left with all her mementoes too.
...

purple robes adorn our bodies
as stench from decaying
limbs signal turbulence.
...

Sinners must go to hell or so I’m told.
That is, if they repent not.

Preachers’ picture of hell is doom. Hell is no home.
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Dry petals, broken filaments and anthers
Make mockery of my balcony,
These frowning flowers tell poignant tales.
On Val’s eve, they bloomed. Their scents wafted
...

When journeys begin and end at the beginning,
We question the place where life vanished.

When a flowery pen’s ink was snatched and spilt;
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I paid attention to yesterday’s promises
To my own peril; a furious flood carried
My hope to its tomb; it was buried.
...

I
First, we were tagged ‘the minority’ by men who
gave names without ceremonies.
We buried our grief in shallow graves,
...

I

To you kindhearted Night, I come with clean hands
and lyrics of praise. My guitar is tuned. My voice is cheerful.
...

Flames are fortunes when they burn stacks
Of thorns lodged in our terrain.
Brother, let me sing of the light from your candle,
For therein lie the answers we seek.
...

It wasn’t the peck on my left cheek
that brought tears to witness the wrong
you’ve done to my heart.
Rather, the loudness of your silence when my
...

Very well, my dear
Bless you, for the years I hung on your heart’s hook
Like a wet cloth spread under the scorching eyes of the sun
I knew the name we called love. But now, I know not my name anymore.
...

If I be the bread that feeds every hungry soul on earth,
I would make each crumb the stones that bruise
Stubborn toes when the eyes choose to see less.
...

Staring longingly at the starry sky
brings solace’s bed to lie in my bosom, troubled.
...

last night's whirlwind has
become an unsolved riddle;
as i stare into the blankness
of this sorrowful morn,
...

If cats are said to have nine lives,
Lives of poems are above nine times ninety-nine.
If poems have no life, let me not be counted as a penman.
...