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Beneath the boughs where I rest,

from twilight to wee hours, as my bed can attest.

Searching for sleep, the night sounds a pest,

my legs thrashing around, seeking refuge from mosquitoes with zest

.

Beneath the boughs where I rest,

my co-tenant, the squirrel had in the ceiling made its nest.

Of its gender I was not certain nor did I show interest,

as a low thump told of its arrival with today's heist.

Beneath the boughs where I rest,

with buckets and sundry cans in place, lest;

the leaking boards discharge the rains in their trickle fest,

upon the cracked floor, it's face now a mason's jest.

Beneath the boughs where I rest,

tonight's shadow on the wall seems clad in a vest.

And seemed to have lips, swollen like a nursing breast,

a flash of light later and it's my jumper hanging from the drawer chest.

Nnamdi Wabara.

The Sounds of my quiet

The Sounds of my quiet

Whilst I waited, my breath bated,

The Sun outside was shining, the trees caught in the wind, billowing.

A little bird against my window was furiously pecking, at its own figure reflecting.

The clock kept ticking as if in answer to the fly’s constant buzzing.

And I was in my bed lying, waiting yet listening.

Whilst I still waited, my senses jaded,

There was a swish of the Hawk swooping, and a Hen began crying.

The aroma of freshly fried beef was rising, my nostrils moistening.

The vulture soon arriving, onto the roof, its wings flapping.

And I was yet in my night dress, sans worries nor yesterday’s stress.

Whilst I yet waited, my mind feeling eroded,

The thoughts mostly fleeting, as my pulse kept racing.

My fingers began twitching, as the air outside began changing.

The sky quickly greying, as the rain drops began falling.

And there I was in my quiet, tired but thoroughly content.

Nnamdi Wabara, 2016.

A mid October dream

If i were a body of water,
a lake,sea or a river.
And i could ebb and flow,
that i would join kin tributaries,
or beget many sons or layers to form a delta.
i would run roaring , over stones and small rocks like a brook,
sometimes falling from high with a splash, a waterfall,
I would be fine!

If i were a road that led to somewhere,
not mattering if i was paved,tarred or formed.
And i could branch off to join sibling highways or busy motorways,
that i would sometimes create mirages, aided by a naughty Sun.
I could go through hills,valleys and over mountains.
I would catch my breath and hold still for the trekkers, cyclists and vehicles,
sometimes laden with signs and pointers,others ridden with gullies and potholes,
I would be fine!

If i were the wind , that i were invisible,
yet every man and being felt my fluttery presence.
And i could blow hot, or cold,
that i would create a sandstorm, teaming with the right measure of dust.
Or blow in spirals like a cyclone; or trunk extended like a tornado.
I might just for a laugh, shake the trees ever so slightly,
sometimes sneak in under the curtains to smack the pots and pans with my rattle,
I would be fine!



Nnamdi Wabara

Another day, another requiem

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER REQUIEM

I am certain today, there will be many flowery words.
That bouquets of roses and carnations will be plentiful.
The priest to extol, in a lengthy eulogy,a fellow he may never have set eyes on.
The mourners to gaze in pity at the casket, piety starched throughout their dark garments.
Dark mournful garments!

Whilst the welcoming angels and their wings will be in radiant hues;
When the streets of paradise,where they all affirm the one is headed, are covered in brilliant and blinding light!

The old lady checking her wrist clock intermittently, hoping her presence has been registered by the grieving family!
The younger ones typing on phones, their minds long departed here.
The landlord, sat there by default;pondering how long will be polite before writting for his rent.
And am sat at the back, sad at another demise,yet bored of the usual things.


Nnamdi Wabara, 2018.