PENMIND MEDIA & CREATIVITY

There is a full moon at your doorstep, a silver coin placed on your navel rubbing  its metal which Perches on body of humans, Clouds walk on the horizon and etch new rivers  on your body feeding the offspring with meaning.  Summer locked between your lips, winter beneath  your feet, your hands can fold your body in half.  Time tickled in distance, a shooting sun zoomed  down the empty scary earth in a long line of fire; that was that fateful day you escaped from the womb. Enitan, a child with history in his eyes, this is the wish of the moon you stay among the natives,  We will look at your face like the mermaid of ‘amageldom,’ we will dance this planet of wishes with empty hearts for the history of this land lies in your folded palms.  We saw distrustful eyes of the appraisals glared  from helms of your clothes, secretly envying. you didn't come like an Ogbanje,  you never give your mother ab...

With her flab toes, She murmurs her feet With the colorful dust, Goaled her half-visible breasts Beneath her elbows But her nakedness  Takes a disarray queue on the retina. Along the market, Eyes fold arms In dismay to watch The nakedness of a sensible lunatics. She flings her heavenly gifts, Beautiful irritations they are But eyes consume more like honey. Maybe the flogging sun could dry up her shame But rather colours her colorful colour. The sunny wind raced the clothes To cover up her bountiful shame, But knife had cut a child's finger Before it was thrown away in aggression. Hence, clothes could not clothe Omóye, Omóye has trekked to the market in nakedness. Ololade Akinlabi(Ige) © 2017

From the expression of love We hate  those things that makes us uncomfortable. Then, feminism comes to mind at once.  Flayed heart beckon,  systems governed  lust,  another whitish world at heart,  fragmented substances made us, we're scared in the pit of horror.  This is who we are with only eyes,  eyes that breeze away those nectars and petals of the glorious hollow of us.  When this currency of treasure is at hand,  Women changed from manicure to pedicure. That’s the remainder of a whole life,  a life spent in treasuring women, a life spent in tolerating men.  this is man's  Clay and that's woman's.  different dust and will,  different eyes and strength,  different hair and behavior; Nature made it so and so, women timid, men stronger,  Men one sided reasoning, women two sided.  Now drop your ears in my palms, I have a tale papa told ...

"Hurry Hurry, Screen Zombies"  This is the sly command of modernity. Oh! Modernity, our divine connectionist. You pack us in the internet ballistics. And we hang there till polarity runs empty. Your mass-mobile is in truth empowering. Now we are all gainfully employed: typewriting. Modernity, you mute under your vast disguise. You have robed us of true living. What is virtual life trapped behind screens? This transcendency is without our notice. Streaming online,no more stream,hook and lines. Sun,Moon and Stars; beware; flashlights has taken over. We run from kindergarten to job meetings. Woe to your cause,you wicked modernity! You triggered marathon race of exhaustion. Our baton being  smart typovisions. Oh, your bidding is non negotiable, But I should pay less heed to this bamboozle. Seldom, I should connect with me, alone in the wood. 

The sky abounds, spans Beyond rivers and lakes; The Egret a-flight, searches For the epilogue of the stretching sky. If a bird bothers not a bird, Fly, they would on the high-tracks  Of the wind without clashing wings. Lekeleke, ta si mi,* Lekeleke, ta si mi; Mun dudu lo, Mun funfun bo wa le; Ni woyi ola oo ti dele... Unsullied, the Egret's ennobled silk Throughout decades of royal livelihood: Where the Egret whitens his gown, The wretched partridge is oblivious of. If a bird bothers not a bird, Fly, they would on the high-tracks  Of the wind without clashing wings. Lekeleke, ta si mi, Lekeleke, ta si mi; Mun dudu lo, Mun funfun bo wa le; Ni woyi ola, oo ti dele... © Ogunyomi Israel Abidemi * O Egret, spot on me (my nails), O Egret spot on me (my nails); Take the black away, Bring the white home; By this time tomorrow, You are home... NOTE: We sang this song repeatedly when we were little (...

I can hear; it says: "Let self die". Can you too hear the recurring echoes? At two plus half-six, I worry-less without my panties. Whence, I freely grew from nourishing meek. Now at two less half-sixty, Presently caught in a regress, thanks to arrogance. Mystified by the new gray hair by my right eyebrow. Swiftly, I forbade it a short notice for the ending of my organs. Likely, my organ system just posted a status update. Perhaps, I still have two times half-sixty. Come away humility, your height is progress, not numbers. Behold the days of self-elevation are numbered. I have been building me a castle of self-abasement. To be furnished with your politeness and character. But a turn away from Big Ego is like self-slaughter. This high self-worth is in truth a high altitude. But if it is an escape from this regressive pride, I had better take a free fall from this high self-exaltation. The death of my Self is imminent, For I ...

I'm the silent audible voice  Speaking down from my heart  To the hearing of deafening ears  In the midst of flooding naira notes.  Who am I?  I'm the intellectual voice  In the jungle of demands  For the collective cake  Of life and justice.  My voice echoes hope  For the hopeless soul   From my clean sheet  Dirty by my bleeding tongue. ©By Winlade Facebook:Winlade Isreal  Instagram: winladeisreal   

Even when this night closes its gate, Some minds sneak out, In search of hearts that were but now aren't.  At the end, when morning comes Their eyes become so blurry That they fail to see those hearts That come with the morning. They get lost chasing shadows Shadows that only appear to disappear, Who repair minds with spear Drowning them with frowns Listen to your smile Listen to your laughter Not your tears,  Not your pain Not the many things That end again.  Listen to the night,  Listen it's the end When morning comes Shine those eyes And find that self lost in another That will one day be yours. © Mide Benedict   

For the girl who went.  Emptiness stares in blank pages,  another dirge written in torment. Your face I never know how pretty it was but you came with a shaped cry. What eyes will watch my large mouth, tell this?  What heart will be sober with this tears to my attractive tears, to my wild cry?  You never did pity me but left like Ogbanje,  left without another faint cry to my ears.  That night I picked up the spade to dig your grave,  that night my throat cracked and men's tears grew in their eyes like tumour in the heart; that night I arranged those broken letters on your grave,  I remembered you were just three days old- I remembered the name I said I will call you.  If I cry roughly of this pain, my heart would reject me. In a spreading fluttered sack I put you,  Why don't you grow up to be buried in a decorated coffin?  May the wind never be in peace with you for  leaving...

our friendship got erected by the passion of togetherness cracking the truth that might unveil the yoke of the shell of hypocrisy: the fate stitched our souls together like the eagle’s wings one left,                 other fell, with the whole body, the fate of our friendship flied not with one wing. together we rode in the air of amity. one side of our friendship’s eagle, the right, is  my liver that fuel the right wing of this amity               yours, the wing donated,               my body to fly in summer of faithfulness your focus was to drive the fate of friendship with my body and heart this friendship bird could fly beyond limit of others our friendship of kindness, this we call it:  be kind to me when your TREAC...

Do you remember those times? When gateway of memories marries the cloudy storm When death is pleasurable than living blood And tears is tastier than coconut sugar Do you remember the toss of wind? That passes through the desert dream I want to climb high, but feet fray fiery furrows It’s my joy to smile jars of strength, but moon mourns the welkin Plumes of honor burnt along the terrace of naked streets Broken chinas of hope on slippery lines of pleasant dreams. Inclement rain drenched the last costly attires And sun refuses to minister on pulpit of sensation Even the erected house of refuge crumbled unnoticeably Solitary grave is enviable than this beautiful journey For I will rather play with rotten bones than this healthy flesh It is not in our uttermost aim to twist hands moving on dialect But timing is useless in the underneath darkness of musing mind It is not our agendum to break the lens of binoculars But even the beggars-blind know the...