SENTINEL POETRY #27 (ONLINE) MAGAZINE MONTHLY  - February 2005

PIOUS OKORO

AND WE CALL THEM MAD MEN

They too are sons
Of the land
That we call mad men
Who forage the garbage
For the elusive meal
Like loose dogs

They too are sons
Who parade naked
Exposed like the desert
To the scorching sun
And riddled by the rain

They too are sons
Who refuge under the sky
In abandonment
Embracing the arrows of the night
Where they are caught

They too are sons
Who under the eye of the sun
Succumb to the overtures
Of vultures
Who perform the ritual
With flies as pall bearers


HE DIED LIKE THAT!

Silent bell
Many heed your call
Like the Ramadan goat
Baptized in fire
Tongue trapped between teeth
'Had I known'
Your call
He heeded this morn
At the 'secretariat'
The heart of the state
Pulsating with human affairs
Where cars lie under the sun
Like shells washed ashore
The Bonny River
To be picked
The Seagull does it
Taking the prey unawares
But that was it
Hands were upon him
Punches
Kicks
Whacks
A stoned to his head
Triggered a staggered dance
And down he came
More followed in a rain
Leaving the head
In a red pool
His night fell
With the tire baptism
Tongues rose to the sky
The hands recoiled their stings
The air held thick smoke
And smell of a tale
Cut short in the day
The journey died
With hell made hell

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