Stephen Omolori

Under the moonlight,
With our buttocks on the sands,
We'd sit and listen
To legends of our forefathers
...

Sweeter than groundnuts dipped in chocolate,
The only one who stays with me under my blanket,
Especially when the rain pours,
Forever, I'll be yours.
...

One, two,
I'll do anything for you.

Three, four,
...

Pretty, yet your head doesn't swell like a bread
Mixed with leaven each time that I tell you,
Like I'm telling you now, that your beauty is true.
Dress in black, blue, yellow, orange or red,
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Your smile sends my writer's block on a dart,
Stressing, "Tap your WPS and type
Poetries comparable to Shakespeare's art,
Especially now that the night has become ripe."
...

My heart used to be buried under the snow,
With me thinking it won't be visited by the Sun.
Though the weight inside weighed more than a tonne,
You came along with your helping hands, warmth, and glow.
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For you only, even if Poseidon troubles the sea,
I'll sail back like birds soaring with ease in the sky.
A grieving heart is the catalyst for eyes that cry,
Especially when the pain stings the heart like a bee.
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When I looked at my notepad's blank page,
I said that I should write you a sonnet.
Sitting down to meditate like a sage,
I thought of metaphors to place on it.
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Scared of heights
Like wingless birds of flights.
Love may fail me
And trust on a daily
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I fear telling you my favourite colour is red,
Because you loathe the family Scot led.
When I step out in overall coal black,
You think crime isn't far from my back!
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You only hear the truth from a poet
Because he gladdens your heart like your favourite duet.
A poet writes fire that float on paper sheets,
Especially when he has the wits.
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Her skin used to be her treasure
Before she got demoralized.
She shined not in meagre measure
When her beauty was idolized.
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Mother died during childbirth
Father died few years after
And your smile got stained by a dirt
Never giving you any cause for laughter
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Pour slimes on my canvas,
And watch it become a chef d'œvure and
Every art collectors' most wanted;
...

Flipping through the pages
Of the books written by mortal sages,
There's something I don't understand,
Like the birthmark on my left hand:
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maybe i'm the daemon
to my daemons. they fled for their safety
like a gazelle a bullet missed,
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Fraudulent politicians hope to reach Trump's height,
But they treat their constituents like trash in a dumpsite.
In state owned arsenals, their thugs captain like Thierry Henry:
They made that happy mother down the street a teary mummy.
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Wùràọlá,
Òdodo tó gbé gbogbo labalábá
T'in bẹ ninu ọkan mi wà:
Iwọ nìkan ni ọkan mi yan.
...

Instead of Death to go on a strike,
He comes to strike the existence of our loved ones.
...

Into the dark, Nigeria limps.
Bloodshed everywhere like in horror films.
Her poor citizens and masses shed tears;
They live in squalor and perpetual fears.
...