I have tasted earth
in the lips of the dead.
When they travel into birth
with my words unsaid.
I have eaten flowers
that was grown in the sky.
Some grew taller than towers
where I jumped into a hollow bye.
I have seen gods on spoon
roaming the soup pots of old mothers,
rubbing their staff to reflect the moon,
some had guts to come with their brothers.
I have written these words to life.
So you make merry alive and get a wife.
Do all your guts says, if why just strife.
If life ties your neck, these words will be a knife.
There are your flaws
shivering in these clouds
winds fighting over inheritance
of night by its might
the same pale pricking strain of fate
dangling in the loops of dawn
Is a page of garbage eaten by today
swallowed by another, same as a leverage
intents with souvenir of poured calls.
Let the ticking sound stop the bells of
Continue to drink from the mystery of my mist
and never forget to put on the lamp of my fears.
My fingers have always itched your mind
like my words that teach your heart.
Whenever I begin to speak so much about love
re-read my notes from a before.
The day I begin to talk so much about before
unread the messages that talk of heed,
do not despair for the day death drowns on my doom
not of nights news knight a nice number to my noon.
Those days will not come, never!
Those days when you shall grow fear for my feet reaches the desert,
for wherever there’s sand, I’ll mold an oasis
whenever I find waters, I’ll mend me a boat.
Do not tire from waiting for a colored coat
even when the smoke brings melodies of a dead goat,
let your hopes always make you float.
Whenever you sleep, do not dream of nightmares
do not let your pillow feel too comfortable
and let your eyes grow hollow.
Dream of when everything has to go right
even when I have nothing except a solitaire of solitude left.
And just Incase you decide to reach me in your sleep,
hold the curtain of night by the tail of its hair,
circle the halo of the previous morning.
Write these upon your heart
‘I will break your legend into half of two,
one will become a bridge for a true king,
the other will begin the tale of a path love called roses’.
No be to dey carry holy words
dey come form flashiness like 4 fords.
Person need to dey make him money
with that poetry wey him dey tell him Bunny.
When the rainbow begin to sweat
Is how I know I’ve reached the sky,
I become bounded by the lie
I am a drop against the ocean set.
The most anticipated poetry show from The Red Cap Poet was held in the city of Jos in the month of November, spelling the year to be a complete one. It was an experience of innate joy, fun and laughter. Educative to the young budding poet, Ruddapoet thrilled the audience with highs and lows of his artistic side.
This discord from which you stare
Should be a light to burn from when you glare
Shadows befall and strangle your
Head from your neck so you’re choked tight
You have a gift of the art, itself in pots
A fall from the highest point of knowledge
The integral expressions of desire
Sets to its cloudy fragments
But nothing has been written on that sheet
Through the eyes of the past
I saw fear and anger
How metals clashed with bones
And how fires melted pure souls
When tears were manure to grounds
That bore our marks and earths bound
Through the eyes of the present
I fear for my anger
How automated minds will spill
Blood for fire and blood for water
Love will find its boundary
And murder for its flaming cause
Where words will find its own curse
Through the eyes of tomorrow
I want to see a smile and tear
Of joy to stay and wean peace
In war or words, fate shall not tire us
Pain shall subdue its sharp edge
Around the curve of life we go
To twinkling stars beyond blues
To loved ones who died with no clue
Through your eyes
I see fear and saw anger
Through your eyes
I saw joy and see sorrow
Through your eyes
I see the future of yesterday
The past of the present
I see a whole new eye
And eye that loves
With lips that curve.
Yes; through your eyes
Everyday concocts it’s trials in a hot serving tray from Earth.
Flowers of Tuesday fits this aisle
when the casket holds its sour death.
January comes to mate the hole
and prays for me not to rebirth.
You have dampened my night
with sour sound of your light
closely drawing me into fright.
I stare at you, I smell your sight
as you fashion my life from the height
of the dark.