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Simpa omoluabi Poems
I am wistful; your relic in perfume, a souvenir, wisps
Nightfall is a mountain heap of ashes for the day is a legendary bird. Cinders sedating the world to slumber, remains on which an enmassed sleep cashes,
The Heart Of Liberty(beginning stanzas)
All things began with a virgin whored nothing began until Love was made. In the beginning Love was made,
Out Of The Loom
Out of the loom I pluck a rose, out of the loom flows flowers of the beheaded, a deity slayed of a deity laid.
Keeper At The Loftiest Iron Dream…
In the breaks of vagrant crusts Upon prostate adulations The tranquil oriflamme of omniscience Yeast the valiant essence with surefire.
Muted dreams denies us our inheritance in stout patches; and the Lord knows that I am aware of a lotus
The Days Bleed
The golden swans come out at night when the harbour sleeps; they believe they tread on the dark clouds of dreams
From the trees, from the grooves, from the fountains the brides are compelled to a weaver's shed. Who are you with queer workings that detains ghosts, leaving chores, to observe you instead?
Seated In Tiers
Seated in tiers, in decorum for the unknown, after a vigilant sacrifice.
The Timid Shepherd
While the fields are blessed by the dew and the stars rosary the firmament a Shepherd against the curfew attend an intimate moment.
Into your foveola gathers the evenfall; I eavesdrop on it, odd it appears for foreplay.
Tell the vendor that for every paper sold to strike out the unworthy headlines, give every pretty passing girl a bleeding heart for her hair; a heart boned with love is broken.
White dove silenced with a leaved olive stem, standing on a fissured headstone,
For The Maids Of Chibok
Nightmare in a chimeric splendour Of ember-hearted pigeons moving aloft to the sunset, While women, old and young, out of the grainfields, Bemoan the Seraph of Daybreak in the dunes of nightfall.
Comments about Simpa omoluabi
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
I am wistful;
in perfume, a souvenir, wisps
from under my breath.
The place you deserted
by the wall side of the mattress,
makes the nightmarish.
Bad dreams make a man
watchful against the bewitches
and now I alone in my squirms
twist the bedspreads to deserts.
There are spaces within me
I am beginning to know,
that I never knew were there,
mines long there waiting to be sensed,
and am amazed how I could contain them.