A Word is Born

The quil blots its ink and a word is born

Hot Ether

whose gorgeous aura burns lambent like ether set on fire

Girl in Mini-Skirt

because a nubile girl in mini-skirt just walked by;

Spirit Soaring

and the Spirit soars in seminal poetics;

Poet's Muse

as the Poet's mighty muse parts the skies;

Universe Rattled

then the Universe is rattled avant-garde;

Whispering Hands

as two anonymous hands whispered to a heart;

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MY POETRY HOME — trespassers welcome

dry tree Goin' Downtown Written at Home (GRA) Ilorin — Nigeria.
(Sunday, July 18, 1999)
A spotless white shirt and
gold clipped silk tie,
then the jacket, coat or blazer.

Black Oxford shoes glistening
spit and polish are smartly wiped
just above the lace knots by
a pair of trousers black,
held at the waist by a gleaming
tobacco-brown leather belt
with brass buckles.

A white kerchief adorns the
hand that holds the swagger stick,
whilst a jaunty hat perches
on the pompous head.

I am going downtown,
so I grandiosely saunter along the
pavement full of fulsome airs.

Imperial steps I dramatize if
it had rained some hours before;
and I make sure I strictly
look the business from hat to sole:

An unapologetic, relentlessly
measured pace of advancement as
I take my stilted steps,
and you would bet your last
meal ticket on it that a lord of
the affluent glitterati is walking by.

When heads really start turning my way,
I make sure my poise snaps
more high and sure; a style
elegant and upbeat I display,
and them that stare at me would
soonest swear I am an aristocratic
member of the House of Senate.

As I go downtown awalking,
I make sure the chiefs of
neighbourhoods are fooled into
taking me for a potent sovereign;
and to every fair dame I appear
like a prince conctipotent.

Among them are certain forward madams
who would forfeit the glory of their
wedding rings just to kiss my shoes
as I glitter past them with aplomb;
and the fantasy-prone adolescent
girls whose greetings I return
would have their pulses ruffled
for weeks to come thereafter.

Then, when I return home, I make sure
I quickly but quietly pick up
my brush and towel to begin
scrubbing madam's shoes and tiles.
Her clothes I wash and iron.
Even her undies, too.

That then accomplished,
I make sure I remind myself
that I am only a mere houseboy
after all, and not the rich lord
I pretend to be whenever I go downtown.

© 1999, M-Auwal Gene III. All Rights Reserved
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