Homecoming (V)
looking back at the lake
asleep in her solitude;
in the distance, the orange decline
of the day's final thoughts
wrapped in grey mist--
these are the memories
that come with your innocence,
the cloudy rhythm of the lake
at rest in her solitude--
serene touch of your innocence--
these are the memories
that come with your silence
Love Song
i know when the seasons change
            and the earth puts on new makeup,
i know when the child's cry gives way
            to the soft purr of its soul,
i know when the drumming of the rain
            becomes the caress of a soft tune,
i know when these wrinkles begin to fade
            and virgin skin starts to unfold,
i know when my heart ceases to growl
            and discovers its own healing voice,
i know that my bloodstream has lost its fire
            and reaches out in faith for your warmth!
Hold Me
will you ice these broken fingers
burning with hunger
& the heat of broken promises;
will you walk the narrow arch with me
layered with fear
& shredded screams from an internal emptiness;
will you hold my hand
when the mist rises
& casts a shadow over the music of sunrise;
will you wash my insides
after you hear the screams
pounding from within;
tell me, will you pick me up
when my feet refuse to dance
under the magic of dusk?
drifting over serene clouds
like melted feathers doing their own thing,
my princess hovers within and without
submerged in all the ghostly calm
of this celestial vault,
and within the thunder of this silver coffin
she spreads her miracle;
i have to summon my princess
to spread her wind over all my anxieties,
i have to reach out for my goddess
when the majesty of this vastness
is clogged up
in the sinister embrace
of innocent clouds
wrapped around this metal casket
every step you take
carrying with you dull memories
that dry up
lost in their own melting taste,
every step
from this turning point
after many seasons of night--
unseasoned and listless--
when you smiled without laughter,
every step, like forgotten footprints
watered with pregnant rain
at the first coming of spring,
every step you take
from this crossroad
comes close to a smile
with the music of laughter
for all seasons

i dream a dream come true
of just me and you
and if my dream turns lie
instead of live I'll die
or twist my dream to true
for just me and you
what is the feel of flesh on flesh,
the whisper of feelings lightly spread
            across dark lips,
the language of skin brushing, hardly touching
brushing away a decade of red anger?
what is the frenzied magic of blood
            running against blood,
the sacred taste of dark brown skin
            on light brown,
the power of touch, when she touches
            without touching?
if prophecies were stories
            that came alive when you decreed
i would cease to starve all alone
           and refuse to withdraw into the anxiety
           of weak invocations,
if only i could take the shadow of my prophecies
           and mold it into a soul
i would steal away, captive of my princess
           and drown in the true myth of my genesis,
if only i could mold this prophecy into a soul
            and construct visions visible to the modest eye
i would sink forever into the distant bosom
            of my flaming princess
Our Rhythm
it is the rhythm of my hunger
alongside your footsteps
in tune with the tempo
of this wild blaze
that burns in our eyes;
it is the spirit of true passion,
the pulse of our anthem
lost in the beat
of our throbbing sighs
inviting the warmth
of a raging flame
that will dance forever
free me again
when i lose myself in me,
free me & fill me, tell me things
that nurse my wake,
fill me with pictures
of your mystery, your grace,
fill me with words
that fill me again
fill me & feel me,
free me again
feed me, not from the wisdom of yesteryears
laced with a child's vision, unbaptized,
feed me from today's reservoir, of spirit & blood
soaked in your breastmilk,
this is the final hour of reckoning, the frozen journey,
the last call, into the depths of an invisible frontier
where life unfolds her colors, where life resurrects again
with spirit & blood, with soul & ritual, the rebirth
not of yesteryears trapped in a child's eye, unbaptized;
this is the last reckoning, the cleansing in the solemn waters
of my angel's tomorrow, at the shoreline
where dreams are set ablaze
Thank You
perhaps you should have said thank you
           with another hand
           in a different calabash
with lighter condiments to chew!
Friendly Thoughts
out of my sight
and beyond my nightsong,
footprints, lost along my morning path
like untold stories of lost stars--
your brief passage wears the sweet taste
of stale honey, auctioned to mirthmakers;
your passage, coated with sour breastmilk...
crown of thorns, throne of my princess
or is yellow really the color of gold
of my princess, the light of homecoming,
i inhale your incense
bathing in your fire, i inhale your incense
the smoke of your laughter
leaving me alone, without sign or signal
Your Eyes
give me a piece of your eyes
free, on words that float
sinking below flesh
drowning in marrows
warm & free,
give me a piece of your eyes
the fire sinking deep
to bury me in the hearth
where sleep will coax me
floating on words
simple & free,
the fire of your eyes
from the dead she breaks through
in spirit and with flesh
my angel, my misplaced queen
exhumed from a past
preserved only on pages
from which i have read silently
to myself alone;
my goddess, once interred
preserved on worn-out pages
from which i have nursed a dream
that breaks through
with my queen
from the dead
wearing new flesh

the poetry of words from within, without depth,
the poetry of hands reaching out, and touching
without holding,
the rhythm of waters that dry out
before they flow downwards--
this is the aesthetic love walk of man
distanced from the magic words of my queen
in celestial glamour, as she speaks with tongues
that dig far inside,
as she lets the tears soak away my being, tearing away
at flesh, to bare my godhead.
you are tomorrow's inspiration, my princess
in your poetry, not of skin & bone
as you pass out bits of poetry
washed in God's unknown voice

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Celebrating Biafra:
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Remembering Professor I.  Ikiddeh
1938 - 2008
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In memory of my father,
Philip Efiong I, 
who died on 6 November 2003