THE CAVE BOYS RESCUE OF THAILAND

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The boys sing,
They cry in their
mother's voice,
agonistic poems on
The walls,
I am 13 little boys,

 eloped
in darkness
Exiled in
horror's superior,
 2 kilometers

Into a labyrinth of death
uncertainty
Curls deep into Rocky
And muddy
unpleasantnesses


the torrential
rains approached,
The pandas mimics
the air, the boys
Smile in tufts of
Agony

Thailand's snake
 fighters sing in
Tears, and the
monsoon
whispers death
 in
Patios.

Goosefooted men
Are weaving waves,
They'll be here

I am tears,
I can't wait to
Hear you are rescued

A navy laid his
life for you,
I beg the monsoon

......................................................................
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THE WHITE DOT

The Dot of White

Here, a voice of the sky chimes in tufts of illuminations, this genre of point that ignited the symphony of the universe, it's a language of the geoids, alien to Sheol and its derivatives, it unhitches the world from itself, this are the memoirs of our visionaries ,  reminisce!!! , here is how the universe knifed into our consciousness, this point of reminiscent is meant for a sage, a person of blissfulness, you are one!!  Its a point that gives you insight beyond the edges of the universe!! This point unites the world, it ignites peace, this kind of dot calls us to twirl our neck in the same directions,
Both friend, fiends and foes, one direction is a synonymous phrase to universal unity. its  that ancient Nirvana of light, that originates out of the blues in a be darkened Geography.

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Autobiography of a poet For the un-fiend-ly friends

He is lonely ,
he works along the lee shores
 , with slow lids and
Ashen pupils,
Turgid blood,
Sordid feet,
Numb brain,
Reminiscing over
his would be stay in the tomb.
cliffs of problem
made their way
out of his skin , inured to
Sorrow and
solitude intertwined
In a terrain parallel to bliss.
A sage said he should be
a poet writing
His Autobiography,

But I said no,

A poet said he is not a poet,
 a poem versified
 towards the onset of infinity's end,
An opera of ingenuity in
 folds exiled in the
land that time
 forgot,
A land where the cuteness of
 tentacles romances
the deadliness of
jellyfishes and
 the reef's white
And black tyrants ,
too cute
to slay one but
half a trillion.


From wolverines
to loons
to wildflowers
to thrushes
To ferns
to the coastal halos

To

The deceitful look of
The white
Caspian Tern

I think this is the onset of autobiography of a poem,
Autobiography of a poet.

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In OKENE, KOGI STATE NIGERIA where I serve, The land of crises

Until the boy was squeezed into a sack, bruised to death with
A heavy iron rod as the blood that draped his head
Was dropping from underneath the sack while the
Criminal behind this was walking fast and wearing a face
of guilt in a bold way.
As he was ambling through the side of the road, the heart of justice suddenly became unbroken
as he was challenged by a craftsman who noticed his culpable face
And the line following him, a line of blood
, so he replied that he was carrying a cow’s head, one which he bought
Just from the nearby butcher, so they let him go,
But the trader beside
The craftsman called him back and insisted that he opened the sack,
Hmm, it was a dead little boy forcefully crinkled into layers
With some of the rough, rusted irons dip inside him
In a narrow sack with lots of wasted iron placed on
His lifeless body
As a wee lad, my dad regaled me and my siblings with
Stories of sea anemones and the black geography of
Disreputable Africa.

But on this day not far from my shanty in okene, kogi state,
A boy’s plea to listen to his father’s stories was short-lived,
A little boy crawled to their backyard while her mother was
Asleep on a local half swivel chair,
It was a mother’s mishap, the criminal was one of those men
Well know for moving around in the neighborhood
Picking metals, steels and irons into sacks and trawlers.
All happened here some weeks ago.
i know we cant undo the past,
but mothers and all would be mothers,
please be much more careful with the protection of your children,
evil men in every alcove and cranny.

ELITESDOME POETRY- BIRTH OF THE SUNSHINE

In 1976 her Blazing Geography and Geology

Scorched the shoulder of her plains and redrafted

The map of her mother as she existed earlier than

 Her birth.  And the mothers of her daughters were

Busy frying a story for their children and the generations

Unearthed from the sky’s wall to swig.

Her mother

She is eye of a continent that unearthed 

Black people from the sky’s floor

Eye made of pupil alone,   

Eyes made of brooks, exiles, homes,

 And shouldered by plains and mangroves,

Eyes made of sylvan and urban,

Eyes made of the harm of God or the charms of gods

Eyes made of tales and chronicles of the wind

Here is where Mother Nature held the eye

 Of the sky and dipped it into a landscape,

Where the voice of the arctic quivered slowly and grew dumb,

Where the harms of the glaciers shudder.

This is the state that is festooned with a

Song that slays even the neck of a dirge unsung,

 And beheads the un-serenity of an horrific geography.

She held her gaze to the radiance of her own glee,

She‘s a kind of Iraq that edits the woes wore by war away from her ways.

She’s the voice of an oboe that sings the peace of a river

Editing the woes of flood away from her annals.

 She doesn’t mooch around a spot  

She’s busy illuminating her niche - Nigeria  

This is Ondo state, the sunshine state.

   Temitope Awogbemila is a Nigerian poet, who writes poetry and short stories, he loves the poetic artistry of Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Gbenga Adesina and  Kyper mensah. He is also a mathematical statistician, a deep thinker and a theocratic public speaker; he is crazy about his love for animals, good emotions, the voice of the sky, the taste of palm kennel, History, Serengeti, Safari, Yellowstone, families, friends, future paradise, the complex meaning of a typical poem, and mountains sitting like rebellious oceans, making themselves invincible to our world itself.

PARTIAL POETIC JUSTICE

Blind oxen in red chaos, lived but yet never living,

Fearless old woman living alone became a ghost,

Died of a sudden buzz by an ancient wall clock,

Wicked kingdoms ended by killer subordinates,

Made frail mice burrow into human intestines,

Heat driven they were, bitter taste the bile gave.

Moored with no forensic proof,

Wicked criminals back into modern day Asheville,

Innocent convict on chains,

Better feeling had they done evil,

Walking on the grass side of every day road.

Found a million dollar bag,

Hallucinating to kill boredom.

Killer whales stranded in coastlines,

Seals rode on them as edible horses.

Heavy snow fall in the Serengeti,

African lions ate them with their mane.

No fear, no surprise, no worries

The wild mammalian world came begging,

Mentally deranged rangers pulled triggers,

Killed the last surviving hermaphrodite rhinoceros,

Enchanted sorcerer cast spell over moving bullets,

Brain scattered like seeds with explosive mechanism.