My Sin On A Sunday Morning Poem by Echezonachukwu Nduka

Sinners must go to hell or so I’m told.
That is, if they repent not.

Preachers’ picture of hell is doom. Hell is no home.
Its tenants are homeless. If that be the only abode,
I need none but a pen to build a weird world.
Winds shall carry my words and I.

In my dreams, I wander like an oji onu masquerade
with whips for sinful consciences.
An udala tree provides me shelter. When its fruit falls,
I write a verse and read to willing ears.

Burgeoning daylight hold stars captive. As darkness takes
to flight, a voice pierces through the morning silence:
Hey! Sin no more.
Do not work but worship your maker.
Those who hear God’s calls and heed not are sinners!

St Peter’s bell tolls tirelessly.
God’s call is the tolling of church bells.
To her members, the bell says:
Hey! Come to church.
It’s time for worship.

Tolling of bells incite my muse.
Towards me, she flashes her charming gaze.
In her bosom, poetry lives.
To me, this tolling of bell says:
Hey! You’ve one more poem to write.