THE SONG UNSUNG

The songs unsung

These are times when the ringing bells
become the whisper of gold,
times when silence is a chewed spit.
I hear that night unfolded the sky
as it searched for her queen.
Midnight puzzling along the box of day
trying to break the rules of dawn.
I know where they chew the sun for breakfast
and leave it's seed beside rivers.

Please, please and in peace let us bury our ears
with the loud mouth of death,
let us be like the wailing wind that knocks upon windows.
Mopping around the edges to soothe skins
and rid them off nightmares.
Shall our heads keep shaking,
and nooding to the stories dreams discarded?
Where fires burnt for fun,
and children danced in it.
With their arms eaten by hell
the rhythm is also one we all have heard
as they are chewed by one we all know has lived-life.

©2016

So help me, if there's a god here

We molested our guts to live in peace
my grandfather knew people who built in pieces.
To house a home, that contained strained spirits.
From the long walls of the North to the southern waters,
From the eastern green homes to the western wisdom.
We ate from pots made by continuing Kingdom.
Until I chewed sand and spat snakes.
I noticed you sat on improper folding from mis-trusting legs.
The ideas crippling the cups we sipped from
with barm of unforseen future masked in a bad odour.
I saw the stars for what they were,
a lifeless form that doesn't say any truth
it just rests with the brothers from the fellowship of the sky.
How have I written stories in leaking parchments
as letters keeps stumbling on empty quills,
re-enacting my prowess to dig wells for my thirst.
Wells for my thirst and not you to test,
whether oil stains has a crude impact on eyes
or fishes that with eld calamity in the face of nature.
Sing songs of our grandfather's
before the chicken's egg is hatched into a reptile.
By that time you will find thatch hearts in mud flesh.
I will discuss your existence in artificial earthquakes,
if I compromise then it means I will bear the bearded man's curse and cross this Red Sea Moses will divide.
Another man's story is another man's myth.
Shall I be the legend who discard those papers
of the philosophers stone with my hands?
For when I arise those dead notes in a rotten compatriot
Shall God help me because he is the end of my pledge?
Well! So help me if there's a god for this.

For the late firstborn son of Adidi Adamu Song Kurmi

The town crier has lost his voice
from the gathering of clouds
the great one has called a meeting
and asked why the waters fall on only this roof today
from their eyes, upon their roofs.
This same song sung by the night
the silent dance taught to still
to steal our feet from the footpaths
footpath that led to the market square
where we smiled and laughed
as we drank zumunci to the heart.
Ah!
Is there no market today?
No chattering or jeering of happy children too?
Hmmmm, is this music too for us to dance?
that the drummers have misled the drums
to beat thunderous noise that evokes the bad masquerade,
shall our doors find their frames and lock?
what is this thing that is lost?
I thought the only fighter that fights
is the one who understands the language
spoken by the ground,
so when his back romances it
we shall cheer with tears.
Baga!
Hen ka'at a goe, gurum goe na poe ni ka gong.
you have become the hunter
watching over as we prey (pray) the creator.
this voiceless song you have indulged our lips
will never be forgotten,
this dance shall our bones draw maps on the ground.
For this battle you have being summoned alone
we remember you for the victory we have called upon your name.
as you always led the battle always and become
a blinded wolf of Song Kurmi.
teaching us to hold good eyes
and bear soft hearts.
Carry our greetings as you always bore
and tell them all of the stories we shall write (right).
Rest well Miskoom, we will now tuck in your bed well so you can sleep
this is a small piece for you to rest in peace.

Ripped

There you stand in the bleachers,
screaming your guts and chanting those silence
that I still hear and pick words to write this poem.
Is it really a poem?
If it is, is it one for you?
Will I tell you how much I didn't want to loose?
Whether you or to someone else?
I have but showed you all I am,
you have seen the better bad part of me
dancing naked feelings on the stage of emotions
raising the dust from your early morning glory.
I scouted the negligible iota of truth to unmask
said the shameless stories of dreaming at day by night
with you on a high pitched note of this center.
The very one that defines what I am
who you are.
Why did you have to pick it up like a ball and leave?
I mean, my heart?

I am a god here in this town

I am some god here

I am some god here in this town
I make my own decisions
whenever I find myself in the crossroads
I create an alter ego,
who sits and listens to me like I would listen to him.
He's 767 years old and still sneeze childhood
the caricature mood of a lazy fan propelling winds of sadness.
I am some god here in this town.

when I am in a fist fight with my emotions
he comes and settles the quarells
he understands why Jesus is God
why colors are moods.
He designed the art of multitasking
as he fed my mind on the leaf of nature's tree.
I create people, I make them breathe.
I am a god
I am a creator.
I am an architect.

As still as the January dust

As still a the January dust I moved
into the nose of the world,
Settling on the fine hair of pretends
so I make her sneeze out of control
even till her eyes wield tears for fear
and her mouth showers spit as rain.

I wavered the air as I passed home
to watch my father ground
lay dead to the drums of feet
on his head and his back, on his aching mind.
Nobody cares for him they even spit on him.

Even when the cloud cries, he suffers
but that is the only way I travel
or when the rhythm talks to heels
they send me packing away from home
but you O air has lifted my hopes
for you travel along with your children
and take our messages home.

Iam_Circiut - NIGHT DIVINE

DOWNLOAD AUDIO

Its Christmas season we all know as it is no news, and our stereos and tv's are blaring up the songs and videos of the yuletide season. Okay, this is it.
This spoken word piece by Iam_Circuit (a young Nigerian writer and Spoken word artiste) is an appreciation of the nativity story laced into the death of Christ in the light of his passion and our joy unto salvation all in nights. I should let you say the rest don't you think?