DUST

DUST
Health and wealth we lust.
All debtors to death’s cost;
We pay then we rust 

We mortals! God caused
us to live; but we are lost
in immortality; and paused
when our breath is frost. 

Die, we all must;
Life, we all crossed;
Dust is man; man is dust…

 Ajayi Angel-Simon 2013

WE WE

WE WE

Unknown, strange faces;
We are united
in the experiences 
of classes to halls,
of tests to exams,
of rainy and sunny days,
of tears and laughter,
of fear and hope,
of friendship and enmity;
but in Love’s loving arms.

In the darkness of ignorance, we began,
In the light of knowledge, we part.
We were early risers,
We were late comers.
Sometimes united,
Sometimes divided
in this intellectual confinement:
We are imprisoned to embrace freedom,
We are nurtured to become the panacea.

 

 We are departing, 

Known, familiar faces. 

We We

 (for all graduating students especially University of Lagos English Class 2013)

 ©Ajayi Angel-Simon 2013

AN EXCEEDINGLY GREAT ARMY

AN EXCEEDINGLY GREAT ARMY

Because of the missing sword
A soldier falls,
And another,
And another,
And another…

When was their birth?
What hastens their death?
Christ paid the debt
He fought with that sword
Till all forces bow…

But for this missing sword
A soldier crumbles,
And another,
And another,
And another…

They are well dressed:
In military attire
But are armed with brass weapons:
With spears!
Where is the amour, the shield,
the breastplate, the helmet and the sword?

Yet, for the want of that sword
A soldier falters,
And another,
And another,
And another…

On mountain tops,
Hills and valleys:
Day and night;
Toiling, preparing and waiting
To combat the enemy,
But never search for the missing weapon.

Still, for the want of that sword
A soldier dies,
And another,
And another,
And another…

Their camp is ravaged
Each soldier runs for his dear life;
The night of horror came,
But the dawn of victory followed.
Each soldier remembers the missing weapon;
From their hidey-hole, loudly they scream:
“The sword! The sword!! The sword!!!”

 Will the sword ever be found?
No army is declared the Champion
Without going through a battle;
No victory is secured
With the parade of cheap weapons;

Then a soldier returns
And another,
And another,
And another... 

And the SWORD was found
Removed from its sheath; and sharpened
To fight the good fight
And take their rightful place

Then a soldier fights,
And another,
And another,
And another…





Now the SWORD is found
The army of God has risen
With bleeding skin
And broken bones.
Like the dried bones, they are awake:
Covered with the sinews of faith,
And filled with the breath of fire
To thresh mountains
And dominate their enemies.

Then a soldier lives,
And another,
And another,
And another... 

 The camp is restored
The enemy is destroyed
An exceedingly great army has risen
To root out and to pull down
To destroy and to throw down
To build and to plant…

Then a soldier rejoices,
And another,
And another,
And another... 

© Ajayi Angel-Simon 2013

TO YOU ON YOUR BIRTHDAY

TO YOU ON YOUR BIRTHDAY 

It’s your glorious day!
Shine like the sun ray.

It’s your lustrous birth,
We are celebrating in mirth.

It’s your fruitful season,
Our faces glee; you’re the reason.

It’s your precious time,
Once again in your prime

It’s your victorious moment
Your hour of fulfillment

With sweet melodies, we will arise;
Singing songs; no more cries

We will radiate joy and charisma
Because today you’re a year older

It’s your special day! 
Rejoice! Happy birthday…

© Ajayi Angel-Simon 2013 

TOOTH BRUSH

            TOOTH BRUSH (A poem)

I didn’t scoff the grub;
for pleasure and sanitary I scrub.
To doff trite piece of food
is my calling from the wood

When man meets assorted meat,
I grieve for the chewing treat.
I’m man’s aurora friend.
Like the Ultimate man, to the very end
I search for decayed morsel particle;
to restore man’s fresh breath is my hustle.

Cast me away and man’s teeth will hide;
his tongue won’t glide – that’s my pride.
I’m his quotidian servant-master
adorned with creamy butter
to evict stinking gums from vocal isle.
Never weary, I renew his oral smile.

 

© Ajayi Angel-Simon 2013
 

CHORUS FOR DOOMED YOUTHS

how fortunate are you, child?

I couldn’t abort you.

now I’ve given birth to you.

nothing shall kill

your breath till

you tell this truth.

you have come:

to live and to love.

I name you Deft-Daft.

you’re like Jabez,

borne out of the sorrow

of my marooned heart;

you’re Ichabod—

hasn’t the glory departed?

you’re my child; now be also my herald

Go ye

to that tribe of kooky tune-smiths

and tell them

how deft their sound

how daft their lyrics

how doggone their voices

how gaga their listeners

how savage their songs

how brief their existence.

tell them, tell them!

tell those loony song-smiths—

whose choruses are chanted in all

wacky-wacko-psycho muster—

to sing the beauty of Nature

and cover her nakedness.

tell them, tell them

how their ignoble lyrics

defile the minds of the young

and ravage the mind of the sages.

singing, dancing, capering

grinding, swinging, raving

smoking, drinking, popping

buying, selling, fighting

cursing, prattling, puking

feel-high-ing, bubbling, hurting…

dying of excessive pressure for treasure

dying for excessive measure of pleasure

tell them! tell them

their errant lyrics

bear bawds and brainless brawn

whose thew thaw in stew!

sing—dance—darkness—phew!

watery lyrics filled with bhang

to rouse doomed youths.

their music, their fall;

their melody, their pall.

tell them. tell it to them.

then like an Abiku,

die your final death.

when you are reborn

to live your final life,

I shall rename you Deft-Deft.