A Place Called Home Poem by John Chizoba Vincent

This place called home is now the fire
that burns feet without a second thought.
Negros of our eyes bottled in their sockets,
if the dancing of stupidity can stand fury,
if the tenth of lust can stand knowledge,
if whistling of foolishness can stand love
if sighing of greed can stand wisdom,
then we have a problem here in our home.


Alas! Alas! Forest is better than here!
Jugs of poetry had passed through here
But never have there be any thing done here.
This is not a home to breed children of ours;
The children of the Eagles, this is not their home.
We have no hope for them to build on here
because our fathers never had one for us!


Do you sight any farmer on your way?
What about a flutist, did you see any?
How did you get here, foot or on air?
Agarau's words painted a finger of spot in me,
This is not a home! This is not a home! !
Its sand stands impatiently to many hackers,
What if we trust the penury of this godless place?


Find me another land, this is not a home!
A place called home should accommodate joy,
A place called home should stand for peace,
How I wish we are to choose a place to go in birth
I won't come here to perish in the suffering created by
our greedy selfish leaders, whose lyrics are lies.
Take me out from here to a place called home!


(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2019