Post Views: 82

Poetry Corner:

Poetry Corner.

The Talking Pen of Winsala Muses Sages Vol 14.

RETALIATION

I was thrown into a city of melancholy
With a wistful heart
Amidst my feeble mind
I cries and cried
My cries weep
My weep laments and complains of its years wastage
My eye halts its weeps
Tears ducts stored my tears
My feeble mind has been reinforced.

I have gone through the ups and downs of the strange land
I have raided its to and fro
I have observed the structure and nature of its landscape
With my vitalized fluid of tears
I strengthen my valiance
I have summon my courage.

I will strike my hometown
With my poignant arrow
To its desolation.

I will become friend among my friends
An alien amidst my relatives
Stranger to my kinsmen
A crony to my foes.

I will bring confusion to the convinced
I will be a gloom that grimly gross the gleam.

I will be the mystical enigma
I will be unknown.

Emmy✍✍

Who are you POETICALLY.

I’m the voice that roars_
In the Mouth of the populace.
I’m the word that dries water in the Snail’s mouth.

I’m the wind that blows_
Around the North, East_
And the Western Part of the world.
I’m the Pen; that is penning out_
The right to light without holding a light.

I’m the Acacia piece of stick_
That’s chewing In the mouth
Of Illiteracy.

I’m the song that’s dinging_ and ringing the world.
And Wages war against_ Corruption, Social vices and
And Inequality.

I’m the first latter among the “36 letters” (A)

I’m Abdulwaheed Sofiullahi.

“Who are you POETICALLY?”

Game of Fame.

Some want fame,
some want name,
some want fame and name;
yet few knows the game.

Fame is a game,
played with no shame
by souls untamed
by their wishes not the same.

In the game of fame,
to those who came,
being seen like a golden flame,
is a deal ingrained in their frame.

Even the lame,
crave for fame;
hence no blame
to give to their poor frame.

The game is fame,
the names are the same;
each player is a flame
used by the god of fame.

OH DEATH!

Countless drops of tear
Rolls down, kissing my cheek.
In a burdened heart,
A grievous soul,
That disturbs the mind.
Life promised , a beautiful tomorrow,
While you promised , dark days.
Your eyes are myopic to see our pain and sadness.
Why have you come again?
From a distance where you Journeyed,
To embrace those we cherish.
Your knife is invisible
But it cuts and hurt.
How do we restrain our eyes,
From the floor stained blood?
Your axe falls Grown trees.
Your debris stops flowing river.
Your storm awakes still waters.
Your pronouncement,
Keeps us wailing all night!
I wonder,
If you read our hearts,
Or you judge unbiased
You leave us in memories of good and bad.
Oh how we grief in materials, black.
Assembled under umbrellas,
That covered the heavy rain down pour.
I walked my wobbly legs,
On the waterlogged ground.
Placing a bunch of wet flowers,
On the grave colored grey.
Oh captain! I wished you you were never gone too soon .
The little memories you left with us,
Shall forever in our hearts remain.
May your soul rest in peace!
Oh death! You are a stranger indeed.