Poetry

I’LL LOVE A DANCE WITH YOU

I’ll love a dance with you
Under the moon,
With your scarlet lips on mine,
Your caress
Slithering its tentacles on my body,
And your waist swaying on my reverbs.
I’ll love a dance with you
Under the embers of the February’s moon.
You, yes you, my bride and pride,
Your dance, your waist beads, my joy.

©TurksonQuills❣️

Poetry

WHAT SHALL WE EAT?

Meat and fish, gizzard and croaker,
All rolled into one steaming hot and large bowl
of hunger as harsh as the sun in Sokoto,
And lack that grips us as firmly as a vice
as we sing in fuzzy voices: what shall we eat?

Rice and beans, egusi and fufu,
We hope for some but are fed full
of empty promises and malnourished dreams;
We ask only that we be allowed a chance to live,
But for that to happen: what shall we eat?

Bread and tea, yam and oil,
The stomach wants what it wants,
But breadwinners have won nothing
for the past eleven months and counting.
How we do we survive? What shall we eat?

Indomie and egg, macaroni and cheese,
The prices of foodstuff are higher than Everest.
Not that it helps but the biting reality of our crippled
economy has forced us to slim-fit our stomachs.
Yet the question still persists: what shall we eat?
Salad and baked beans, pizza and chicken sauce,
These are just fancy dreams, top-shelf ambitions.
It is not good to give the children’s food to the dogs,
But what happens when even the children have no food?
Again we ask: what shall we eat?

Garri and groundnut, plantain and pepper stew,
The cries of their fat belies in utter delight,
Suffused with all manner of delicacies while we roll
from one end of our mats to the other assailed by pangs of hunger.
To these ones we ask: what shall we eat?

Eat to live or live to eat,
It hardly makes a difference at this point, as we cringe at
the belching of our bellies filled with hot air,
And the sinking of our spirits in utter despair.
We keep asking with no answer in view: what shall we eat?

It is beyond reprehensible that the supposed
government of the people, by the people, for the people,
has succeeded so spectacularly in failing us again and again.
They enjoy three square meals a day; we can’t even get a square meal in three days.
In our own father’s land: what shall we eat?

© Pendulum.

Poetry

THAT’S ALL I WANT TO HEAR

I dug till I met the crust of your smile
And realized it wasn’t mine.
You should have told me
‘Cos I’ve fallen so much that
I can’t find my way home.
Hey, you should have told me.

“I wish I could show you the way out,
But I love you so much that
My heart’s jungle wants you lost in it.
Yes, the love you saw behind my smile wasn’t yours.
I can’t hide that truth.
I’ve been lingering around
Believing he will return as promised,
But he sent a matrimonial missive a year ago.
I didn’t know how to recover
Until you irrigated my tattered soil
With the rains of your love.
I’m forever yours.”


That’s all I want to hear.


©TurksonQuills

Poetry

WITHOUT THE SIRENS

Without the sirens,
Our fathers heard the marriage bells.
Dear wind,
Please ferry this plaint to
The sons and daughters
Whose umbilical cords knew this soil,
Tell them,
Yes tell them
That to be someone else is expensive,
And ask them
To choose between the apparels weaved with our toil
And the garments that swam the sea.

Without the sirens,
Our fathers heard the marriage bells.

Just remember this.

©TurksonQuills

Poetry

MY EROTICA LANGUAGE

…but all I need is you.
I want to be the one of your everyone,
To soar the comfort your duvet gives,
To be in reverie when your thoughts flood my mind,
To be your desire when the dawn is cold,
To be that log your garden prefers in its centre
And to lick the sweet fluids from your inner lips,
For your touch does more than tickle my desire for a gentle caress.

I want nothing more
Than you in my arms
Till forever and a day
Becomes the past that never existed.

© TurksonQuills

Poetry

BEFORE THE CATHEDRALS

Before the cathedrals,
We knew good and evil.
Before the cathedrals,
We knew the way to our GOD.
Before the cathedrals,
We knew.
What happened to us,
Sons and daughters of the soil?
Why did we call our sacred land evil?
Why did we call our cultural values primitive?
Why did we look down on ourselves?

We’ve allowed people kill our essence.
How do we then enjoy the fruits of our land?

Before the cathedrals,
Our oaks knew.

©TurksonQuills

Poetry

LOST IN BETWEEN DAWNS

…I thought ’tis one of the odd days of love
Where the curls of your hair will walk away from me,
And still, respond with a wink.
Where dashing for the doorknob
Was just a way you expressed anger and disgust—
It wasn’t.

At least, it could’ve been voiced—this breakup,
Or probably said over lunch,
But it came with a beep—
A text laced with thorny swords—
A text as deadly as a serpent’s venom—
A text, midget-like, but full of pain.
It whispered it’s over,
For another sits on the heart’s throne.

At that moment…

I’m still lost in between dawns

©TurksonQuills, 2021.

Poetry

WAILING QUILL

Have you ever seen words

That pierce the heart like arrows,

Or a nest inhabiting not birds,

But a crowd of bedfellows?

Maybe, just maybe a yes.

I met her on the sunshine of March.

Perhaps shining, but she was an angel of mess.

She seemed a perfect match

With glows of the august colours of petals.

Her aura defined betrayal’s serenity,

For her beauty portrayed meaning of lethal

Outlining its sin to love’s eternity.

She made my heart bleed

the inks of a wailing quill

© TurksonQuills

#SAFE