ODE TO GRANDPA

Grandpa,
Under the tree he sits
Smoking his long pipe
Made of fine clay.

Grandpa,
Carries me on his knees
At the end of a long day.

Grandpa,
Telling me tales
Of hunters long ago.

Grandpa,
Wonderful stories
Set my heart aglow.

Grandpa,
When he was young
Hunting the antelope.

Grandpa,
Urging me on
Filling me with hope.

Grandpa,
Saving the town
From the enemies invasion.

Grandpa,
Wishing I'd do
More than he had done.

Grandpa,
Showing me how
To load his old dane gun.

Grandpa,
Very old now
But oh,
He was such fun.

Copyright © 2009 Ajayi Kingsley

EKITI

Ekiti, a city built on a hill.
Ekiti is now a dreadful place
Thanks to the politicos.
Dread has plagued
The once beautiful streets of Ekiti.
Men have become victims.
Men have been slaughtered
Thanks to the political ten-ten.
We are the prey chased
By the masquerading beast
Let loose by cruel titans
From the cape of death.
The blood of innocent
Citizens now water the street.
We must rise up and fight.
We must come together
To stop this political bunkum.
At nightfall in Ekiti,
Murderers with daggers
Glued to their hands
Lurk every street,
Nook and cranny
Waiting to strike down
Their hopeless victims.
The city bleeds
The blood of the people
Flowing like thick yellow
Pus pouring out of a terrible sore.
The city is in chaos
Because the scavenging
Dogs are struggling for the powerful seat.
How long will this go on?
How long will innocent
People litter the town square?
How long?

Copyright © 2009 Ajayi Kingsley

DANCING GIRL OF BOMBAY

Dance, dance, girl of Bombay.
Let us watch you dance.
You are as graceful as a palm tree,
And your breasts are clusters of dates.
Your hair dances like a flock of goat.
Your teeth are white as sheep
Just washed having none missing.
Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon.
Your neck like the Tower of David
With necklace like a thousand shields
Around it.
I am trembling because you
Have made me eager for love
As a chariot driver is for battle.

Copyright © 2009 Ajayi Kingsley

A CRY FOR SUDAN

Sudan, a country
Whose princes were undefiled
Pure as snow
Vigorous and strong
Glowing with health.
Now they lie unknown
In the streets, their faces
Blackened in death,
Their skin dry as wood
Has shrivelled on their bones.
Those who died in the war
Are better than those who
Died last year, who starved
Slowly to death with no
Food to keep them alive.
The disaster that came to
This people brought horror;
Loving mothers boiled their
Own children for food.
No one anywhere even
In foreign nations
Believed that any invader
Could enter Sudan's gates.
But it happened because
Their prophets sinned
And her priests and imams
Were guilty of killing innocent people.
Her leaders now wander
Through the streets like blind men
So stained with blood
That no one can touch them.
Murderers roam the countryside;
Hunger make them burn with fever.
And their daughters forced to submit
By rebels who themselves are no better
Than slaves.
Nothing is left of what
They were proud of.
The city is now empty
And the wild jackals roam about.
A city that was once
The glory of Africa
Now the ruins of Africa!

Copyright © 2009 Ajayi Kingsley