Olutayo K Osunsan

At the sun's roar, African lions rise.
Brave in their crude strides in a pride,
They survey the land for what to eat.
...

How pure and true is your dwelling place,
Where the sparrows build their modest home
And the swallows release their shielded young,
By your altar, in your courts, in the sanctuary
...

To hold you in my hands
And offer to you all I have;

To move the shadows of mountains
...

Lotus blossoms
Bloom with the smile on her face.
Lips of hot cherry,
Face powdered with the hand fan;
...

Dust climbing the sky.
Debonair in my white shirt.
Late to work again.
...

I saw twilight
In the garden with a tree,
Its leaves dry and coy.
...

3 Autumn sets her gaze
2 To undress the distant trees
1 Seduced by her voice
...

Be the hero, the one that saved the world before breakfast twenty-four seasons ago.
The lunch time millionaire who sold his bread in crumbs and made a fortune in an hour can be you.
If its pity you want, I can brew it like fine Sunday evening tea and serve it in priceless china with affirmations.
The victor and the victim can be crafted and placed by dinner time. It will go well with blue wine and green eyed monsters, under the lilt of Masai music.
...

I have roamed the night streets till its lights weaken and the moths retire. In my head, all the sad thoughts made way.
I have smiled at early morning strangers returning from sweat drenched work. In my heart I always question the subtle madness of life.

How the sunrises without a seconds delay for any soul or the moons departure without consideration for anybody's sleep.
I have searched my spirit as I search the street for an overdose of midnight gladness. It might cost, but still it takes me away from my pitiful self.
...

A lion staring at the caucus
After the great hunt and the hush
And the stupid hyena coming to join
The feasting and perhaps become the starter.
...

Shy like snowflakes, you burn patterns into my head
And all I can do is see them in everything that is transient.

The lady walking by in the paper-bag suit under the
palm of a damp umbrella shedding a fat droplet onto the pavement.
...

If I live on a pebble in the sky,
Then why should I bother asking why.
Why the sky is not always blue.
Why people are not always true.
...

Pieces of midnight sprinkled on the ground. My leg wads through as the blanket ripples and the pieces disappear into the ether. Soaked in the cold with the darkness remolding and the stars collecting. I stood still to see the mirrored constellations of a lucid sky form. Moments before everything was shattered again by the tugging of the wind. For a second or two, it all made sense and everything had its purpose. Till the wind blew it all away into shattered pieces.
...

The blue in black is that sad void that echoes that something is missing. Maybe black is less and definitely not blessed. History tells of it, the future predicts it. The nagging insinuation that poverty is a black man's disease and sickness is his bed of straws. Billie Holiday sang of strange fruits, but maybe they still hang on trees in minds of a dark continent's complexities. It's sad and it's blue because many see it as true. It's sad and true. But it's true: the blue in black is true.
...

Mountains are gray and valleys are green.
There are days and nights.
We will live.
...

My entire life is in your tea cup.

Sometimes you sprinkle sugar
other times you stir viciously.
...

Flapping in the light like a dark omen,
Casting flickering shadows across the room.
In the hour glass the last grain drops and the candle is silenced.
The burnt smell of moth is smeared across the room.
...

Her curly black hair does not glow like crystal brooks on the back of emerald hills
Nor does her face compare to the scent-burst tapestry of a flowery meadow,
But her very presence regulates the beating of my melancholy heart.
...

The day you were born, I saw you.
Crimson like a wild flower yet to bloom,
Your white cry scrapped the silence like a mute TV.
...

I
When I held your hand
The day you were born to me
Life made perfect sense.
...