Body Language
When you came in through the
door,
language followed you.
The way you held your
head,
was in itself more eloquent
than speech, high ,
regal like a queen decked out in
pink petals which decorated
the ruffled neck of your gown
flowing, its own smooth river.
No words tumbled out
of your mouth, or crashing
waterfall, yet your eyes held
a vocabulary more vast
than Shakespeare. You sat
in the window seat to watch
the morning sun
speak
to the gold-coloured curtains in
soothing phrases.
Your presence was meant to calm.
Every time you raised a slender finger
to smooth your hair
each strand
was a personal idiom that admonished
me.
About mother’s death? Wipe
away your wretched frown.
In your presence, I flourished in the
flesh
but memory floated higher
and higher
each time you stepped through
the door, language, an epiphany
like a dog at your heels
chewed dead consonants.
Firsts
(July, 1969 - Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon, the fist human )
First time I appeared in
school. Maiden journey
to the moon started, scribbling
paths on the blank page
across
the Milky Way.
Mother handed me and my wet
cheeks to the class teacher.
First time I kissed a girl. My virgin
mouth
savoured a taste of nectar. Her pink
tongue, red lips suppressed bright
colours like secret intercourse.
First time I held my baby in my
arms,
stars filled my head, my
heart and loins.
First time you betrayed me .
A wormwood-bitter memory
of sweat, hot breath and a
lover’s whisper
seeking a hiding place in moon craters.
A generation of firsts. Yet,
they never reached fertility. They inhabited
the dormant eclipse on this marooned
island.
I hope to make another
first attempt,
leaping across to Mars.
Seeking
In the ash-coloured dawn, I
have stared at the sequence of
petals, their ring.
To discover what will stand
erect as a tree trunk or lie flat
as the horizon.
The crimson-cheeked flower
possessed little knowledge of it.
I have gazed at the long road,
its endless hours rolled into
open-ended pouches.
A hope for something I
could hold up to the
light.
I have stood by the roadside,
no sparrows
twitter in
the hatching reddish
dusk.
The gloved hand turned
inward, dipped into me,
touched something equidistant
between the heart and the mind,
bloodied but
stainless. So, I knew I
could see the shape of tomorrow
veiled in floral patterns.
Too Late to Change
It was the names
through their rainbow-coloured reefs
through their poison of the stingray , paved
their path to the tears.
His name wasAndrew. Meaning?
Pestle arms, palms
cupped into a mortar,
he ground nearby
sapplings into dust.
Manly, tough.
Firstborn ; Felix. Meaning?
Happiness. He walked the night
right into a speeding
car.
Secondborn. Aurelia, Meaning?
Golden girl. Her nostrils
of white powder nudged other
girls heaving bosoms.
Father disowned her.
A name he could have changed.
Andrew, rough, strong.
No wonder, his arms swung
constantly.
Hurting feelings, breaking
wills crushing even
Deborah, the
Thirdborn; a bee. Deborah
stung without speaking,
eyes green as buzzing
leaves.
Fourthborn; Allen. Meaning?
Harmony yet the raging
battle of blood generations
continued.
Till death ploughed
Andrew deep into the ground.
A graveside full of strangers. Faces
he wished he had changed.
Agholor Leonard Obiaderi holds a Bachelor's degree in the English Language.He lives in Delta State, Nigeria. He loves poetry, crime novels and wrestling. His poems have been published in UptheStairCase Quarterly; Barnwood International Magazine; and Shortstory Library. He has been featured as poet of the week in Poetry Super-Highway.
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