Olukayode Gbadamosi




Father I pray for Rita

The days are going by without her cruise missile!


Iíve found mine

May she find hers!


I hate to see her laugh her laugh alone!

Let hers come to her from the pentagons of cupid!


It is the students of the wayward angel

That dine alone

And you have redeemed her from their ways


Let that rock from which her granite

Came come to her in no time

Then grind their breaths at your

Prehistoric mill


And mould one true being to dwell

On your hills

And bring true comfort to we of

The valley





Without the mortar,

The song of the pestle

Is one solitary croak

Rampaging a corner...


Without the pestle, the mortar is one

Thick madam yearning for love with a sun-tint face


Whenever the mortar sights the pestle,

She bleeds with joy!

Whenever the pestle sights the mortar,

He pounds with joy!


The kids, the lambs are partners in

Progress on the pastures of life

Donít talk of one without the other and

Expect the village to retain its firesongÖ







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      Olukayode Gbadamosi

Sentinel Poetry (Online) #51 ISSN 1479-425X


Editor-in-Chief: Amatoritsero Ede

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