My Mother’s Day

My mum told me a story
of what I could be: anything
that my heart so dreamed.
She told a good story
with the way of an actor playing a story
with cries, a smile, and a host of poses
of how I could live with stars and heav’nly bodies
guiding me with a bit of algebra and a pound of Archimedes’.
My mum told me a story
of what I was, am: everything
I needed to be with no wit less.
She sold me the story
of how I could be myself without a sorry
(although sorry I would be if I did not have a clean bed!)
of how I had the rights to my own story
(with a reminder that God is the best of all stories).
My mum told me a story
that I long to tell too
with her chuckles, her frown, and my own host of poses
with a bit of algebra and half a pound of Archimedes
(perhaps Ṣóyinká too)
a story of strength and hope
that I’ve only now retold
for today, My Mother’s Day.

in the end

there is no grand end.
no, the birds would not cease
their songs; neither
would the wind delay its travel. we
have no grand end,
dust to dust, flesh to rot,
such is the end
of all men, women too,
with nothing grand about the end.

when flesh finds its rot
and the end has come and gone,
a new life becomes
or death returns
a relentless tormentor,
a choice* all yours.
there’s nothing grand about the end,
it is that life after that sparkles
with grandness that has no end.

*The Holy Bible John 3:16

dark times

where I am, the stars don’t shine. the moon
is left to rule the night. ghosts of stars
float on city waters, but they sneak away
at dawn, in the shadow of the sun

on nights when unruly clouds join forces and haunt
the sky with hardly a respite, we are left

at the mercy of the night