let my eyes weep
for all that’s lost.
let my belly have no bread
let my tongue be weary and dry
for the dead shall be mourned only by the living.
let their graves be burdened with my sorrow
let their silent hearts be quickened by my elegy
let their blow fly and cheese skipper be kept away at my wailing
for all that are dead will be brought to life.

Isaiah 62:6-7


This side of heaven

There’s an emptiness that lurks in my heart still.
I give it my scowl face, but it won’t leave me be.
I give it no bed space, but it finds room, a squeeze.
I look away, but sad is my heart song still.

my psalm

there’s an unresolved note inside of me
dragging on like the tension between
the string and its bow,
drawing me close, nearly, almost
to despair’s silence
then coursing in violence
like unruly clangs of cymbals
invaded by clashes of drums
and the string and its bow
wrestling like my heart and soul.

pluck me, Lord,
pull me, Love,
like the bow does its string
from this song my heart sings
from the hum despair brings
and play with me a note so sweet.
Lord, your song let me tweet,
its chorus let my heart beat,
and as the bow does its string,
play me the sounds of peace.

there’s an unresolved note inside of me
waiting to reach its end
waiting for the song that comes
waiting at the end of this note
waiting, until I am
drawn into a tease
or so it seems.
there’s this unresolved note inside of me,
waiting for my Lord
as a string its bow.

òrìṣà kan kò sí bi Olódùmarè!

is there any
like Ọlọ́run the King?

they call to Ṣàngó, for fire and thunder,
singing odes of Yemọja set to the raging blue-eyed sea.
they dance, to rhythms for ànjọ̀nús not born, for the sake of the unborn.

they have cried to Ọ̀rúnmìlà
and gone to beg Ọ̀shun for favours.
why do they not seek Olódùmarè Himself
who breathes powers that Ọbàtálá could not boast?

they bring rum and a he-goat to Ògún Shibirikí,
palm oil and a cock for Èṣù Láàlú.
but what do they come to?
Ọlọ́run Ọba asks only one thing,
(unshed) blood of ènìyàn, (beating) hearts of said men.

i will have none of Ògún
who needs spears and guns to save me
nor do i want Ṣàngó who may be shamed
by Yemọja or Yèyé Ọ̀shun.
my song will be for Olódùmarè alone.
it is He i will give my life, to keep my soul.

in an ode to the Maker of the sea

image credit flickr/ashu mathura

the tide rises, slowly it rises,
and a gentle sun dares
to caress the Sea;
but the Sea has no lover.

it rides alone,
with the sky it orders,
over the edge of the earth.
the sea has no friends:

alone it bathes
in beauty guarded fiercely,
those who linger become as rust, withered, ugly.
yet, the sea has no foe.

for as a mad woman,
she spews out them
who venture in.
still, the sea has one it fears,

that its salty waves harbour no evil
and like an army of ships, wave
after wave arrive, in uniform regalia, at shore,
giving a resounding thunderous salute

to its Commander.