Teazhy's Pen

A SEQUEL TO YESTERDAY BY OLUWAKAYODE TAIWO Tomorrow is a dreary sky , darkened the rays of my forthcoming sun, The altitude, form and thickness of the clouds, become factors affecting the cooling of my Earth. Tomorrow is a twisted roadmap, Full of faint track, nocuous path, and a tricky trail, It sometimes thrills or scares my paces, It's a route of rough road and rugged transit. Tomorrow is an elusive phantasm, Presents to my eyes, my mild mind, and my saint soul, A future of fortuitous events or imaginative fortunes, Dreams of wishful thinking or life of desperate changes. Tomorrow is a rainbow of possibilities, Presents to my eyes, my mild mind, and my saint soul, A sensory overload of beautiful colors, Passionate love or danger-bearing emotions, Days of joy or overwhelming periods of sorrow, Years of success, or deadly durations of failure. Tomorrow is an unseen paradise, Presents to my eyes, my mild mind, and my saint soul, A home full of bliss, peace and delight, ...

(A SEQUEL TO YESTERDAY BY OLUWAKAYODE TAIWO ) Tomorrow is a distant feather Crowned in her shadow She propels my bullet in a starlike shape She twitters in my ears like a mistral When I face the North from the South She perches at the West. Tomorrow is a pregnant elephant in her barrenness She breastfeeds my hands With her dry and gushing milk She howls at chance The end could be the pride of her neighbor. Tomorrow is a Shakespearean poet She paints her lines in colours Deep from her Greekish heart She rattles Greeks to my ache. Tomorrow is the active baker of my bread She pampers my lips in suspense My teeth may kiss themselves in pleasure My face may squeeze into my trusted tray. Tomorrow is an itinerant peddler The street is not even her home She toils my sweat in a circle But only to spread the diminution of yesterday. Tomorrow is a shapeless mirror She feeds me not with my own shadow But her face will always show the fate of my faith. © Dominic Achile

Yesterday Yesterday is blue begonias Planted in a purple vase beside my window Yesterday is a smiling moon in the sky It's a stainless cone on an empty shelf where there's an empty poems and prose to write, to read and to show dramatic lines. Yesterday is a lonely highway the road that leads to the lands of regret It's an artist with a quill, a board and colors Yesterday is a broken canvas, shattered dreams  a bent pine tree where birds sit carefree. Yesterday is the rumbling wave of the deep blue sea  a milestone founded under the long bridge where street children are tattered rags whirled by winds Yesterday is brown, pink, maroon and white It is an iroko tree where I was told a ghost lived where vultures took a turn to eat the dead Yesterday is the reggae song granny puts on repeat It is the thud of Mama's feet on blank nights when electricity is like fallen London bridge. Yesterday is a calendar, a date and a number It is a pallid gown worn by a trooping ghoul Yeste...

If the rhyme of black is back slack and crack will work with clack if bat is said to be rhymed with cat matching heart and hat is not perfect chat don't take glow to match a stroll  when there's droll, scroll and roll why will you rhyme fold with coal have you forgotten foal and also goal? don't rhyme deep with pimp when there's sleep  end rhymes if not carefully used might bleep  and the poem will become a black sheep grief is not a perfect partner for give but thief and chief can allign with brief even though end rhyme is so common and there are some cheats we can summon to make it perfect you need something common common in words, spelling rhythm and sound like bound, ground, pound, found and round try to repeat these words twice or thrice rice, dice, mice, nice, slice and spice can you feel the rhythm in your tongue how it sings ding ding ding with no dung? poetry is a honey when the rhyme is clean  to the readers it'll be like a fitted jean pronounce the word o...

A night like this is an umbrella covering my shuddering feelings,  feets and frozen eyes too  as green coffee's smells draws a boundary line to sleep and Me whilst your loose violet pyjamas  swings lifelessly on a rope behind the wall filling the air with vanilla smells of your skin and reviving the lost egos we both purchase.  A night like this is an evening breeze  brushing my memory of you in a subway  making it swings and fly in the wind with thought of feeling the warmth of your hands on mine once more as we plant a happy smiles on our cheeks cruising around our right and wrongs.  A night like this is like Lagos traffic that fills the air with hoots and honks lousy noises and profusing sweats for me to remember the uncertainty  we both ride through  when coming up with different views as we howl at each other like a hungry wolf yet, we'd cuddle before dawn.  A night like this is like a springboard  to days our he...

When papa told me about the boy on a swing he never mentioned the piggyback on  prickling thorns affectations traded for a dime  sacks of sugary lies, the ones his forefathers kept under his pillowcase he never mentioned  the broken gourds of trust and how his brothers slit his sister's throat  he never mentioned  the pool of blood, of hatred  of pains that built a nest in him he never mentioned  the hummingbirds that sang ballads of sorrow, of broken emotions, of grief depression and shattered feelings When Papa told me the story of the boy on a swing he never mentioned the blank nights with no breeze when breathing was seized,  guided by a barricade of sighs he never mentioned days his head rested under his palm for seconds, minutes, hours,  for days unconsciously  he never mentioned the seasons of drought and emptiness nor did he tell me about his trolling bills & stream of responsibilities the ones that drowned his ...

FUN POETRY If there's a key to open my head what would we have found in the thread? a burning blue flame from a brown gas cylinder a katio calculator, and an outdated calender  black coffee, a jasmine tea and a dish of pears,   sat in pairs would be sam's teddy bears, a jotter, blue biro and words flowing streams some missed opportunities, some broken dreams the grey ashes of burnt relationships brewed beers, soda and potato chips striped jerseys, jerkins and jazzy trousers fast flat screen laptop, brand new houses  candies, chocolate and lollipops    poems, songs , raps and hip hops     black sunglasses, unread stories    junk poems stored in stuck lorries    unfinished paintings, magazines links    a subscription code to type this on lynx.   If there's a key to open your head what do you think we would find in there instead? ©Iamteazhy  ®Oluwakayode Taiwo

Remind me of the path- the one I draw on your heart's wall.  If my legs are walking astray  to the land where my dreams  fade away like bubbles.  Remind me of the shelters- the ones I've packaged    for the street children.  If my heart becomes cold and pity finds its way out of me.  Remind me of the shoes- the ones I yearned to wear.  If my wounded feet got healed  from the injury of life's thorny fields.  Remind me of the love- the one I painted on my wall.  If my heart fails to beat to the smiles of my  longtime dream girl.  Remind me of the Pen- the one that  heals countless hearts.  If my ink encounters drought and I forget to become a Poet remind me     remind me.  ©️ The Living Legend  ®Iamteazhy

I sat,  atop the lonely hill a flowery flying dress,   listening to the hymn  of the hummingbirds  echoing in the wind.  I sat,  at the edge of an archaic cliff  watching the waterfall  flow beneath,  listening to the music,   pondering if I should jump and give it all an end?  I sat,  under the shade of a hazel tree   watching the silent wind,  russle dry leaves through the  barricade  the greenish aura kissing my lips and gently caress my silky soft skin.  I sat,  at the crossroad  watching the bees,  explore the early morning flowers,  foraging on their nectars to give life to both themselves and the flowers. I sat,  in the hospice garden watching the twinkling stars  as they glint like fireflies,   beside the smiling circled moon looking at the infinity of the universe.  I sat,  on the lonely street bench  counting t...

I stopped being the tea-mug you remember whenever you need a shot I stopped being the wooden fan you search for when everything gets hot I stopped being the onions that drives water out from your eyes I stopped being the horror scene that repeats in your head whenever you close your eyes I stopped being the tickles you had whenever you feel a touch I stopped being the man that handles your waistbeads without a touch I stopped being the streetlight pole that brought to your window panes vivid street views I stopped being the bolt and knot that ties you down when everything get screws I stopped being the doormat that cleans up your feet when things get dirty I stopped being the man in your mirror with filthy fingers and hair so dirty I stopped being the poetry lines you read with furrowed eyebrows and soft hisses I stopped being the apple fruit you couldn't spare just tiny pieces I stopped being the black boy in your gallery that looks like a bat I stopped being the careta...

Tonight I'll ride a flying horse, to visit my childhood days, feel the heavy punch of Biggy  on my cheeks once more and listens to the fading noises of crowds before I shuttle my eyes. I would clearly draw it on my canvass, a timid boy with doodling glasses on, witty blonde hair and oversized shirt. as growing up gave me the chance to paint his cheeks red and white restricting him from danger, even though  I knew well the days won't ever come back. I would feel the thumps of his chest, and hear his legs murmuring, staggering and trembling to Biggy's voice. I would feel the taste of my launch, and perceive the sweet aroma of my breakfast from Biggy's palm while he devour my meal, leaving me to cuddle the smell in the air. ©khalid ®sparrow

  When evening breeze  halts   saturates       my vagabond mind owl hoots replaced by the hum       of hummingbirds sooth and serenade me I'll be at the end of the river  On a walk      to the region  of the summer stars  then reckon the bruises    on my skin  and mend my broken bow   When bellowing tornadoes  twirl yellow leaves                 and offspring  dance to the soft smooches    of dewy dawn breeze  like lovers on twilight picnic   when hearts are unleashed from pains  and love flies in the air                         Like a loose kite   I'll be in the middle  of the field  Smelling the fresh flowers scents     When water stops lapping on crog   and palm wine is          ...

Before the foggy dawn merged into brood daylight I stare at him   eyeballs to eyeballs He was holding his fears in his palm adopted false smiles to his crinkled cheeks he stood there with tattooed shoulder the ones broken bottles and dreary past drew to his chocolate skin and his face could make Tony trouser  wet with pee. When the sun reached its park  then smiles on forehead making sweats gush out of albinos I took two steps at a time to check up on him in his world He was there, clothed in despair nursing hurtful love, bruises and scars as he mend his broken bow with twiggy knuckles. When the sun sank into the dark horizon And wheezing wind took over the stage When trees dances to breeze melody giving night lovers perfect moisture When the moon sets its fairy tents and stars aligned up in the sky. I open the curtains of his world to see how he reacts to darkness He was shivering like a sucky duck wincing like a trapped rabbit and broken like my Superma...