THE WORDSMITH
I’m the wordsmith of the night,
when the night fox howls
with its entire might,
I dip my pen in ink
and find my muse, for tonight,
I want to punch my name into history,
Even if it’s for this one night.
For I’m a wordsmith,
Straight into your skull,
My words will hit.
Mr Waduud.
THE WORDSMITH
In the furnace of a blacksmith,
Spawns the roughly fine sword;
Finely processed by the swordsmith;
A tool in the hands of sages and inklords.
The sword leads, cutlasses and hoes follow;
Father of all harmless weapons.
Inform the sparrow to give tongue to morrow,
And morrow to take barrow from bimbo.
A shout out to all my sons abroad;
Tell them to sip from my pot of knowledge.
Use me as an antidote to save lives,
As I lie beneath the poetree.
Poetry is a double edged sword,
Piercing the souls of readers and bards.
A word weaving machine,
Dispensing the thoughts with poetic cards.
Esv_Keks.
We Need Help.
soft made hard
rough made smooth
sinky made strong
thanks to the puncheon
we, like raw gold, thirst for a refining caress from the creator’s puncheon
so our acts may towards morality pave way.
our garden, green and white
now dust-turn-brown is on the verge of a “pitiable pismal-dismal”. like noon handing over to dusk, we have uncontrollably fallen off the high-heel that made us once a giant. we need the savior’s touch!
our societal ills are resistant to pills
our heads are knaves
we need a clean shave
with your puncheon…
harden our land and make it not turn to a grave!
look not away, for these we crave.
Afolabi™
MY PEN;MY PUNCHEON
My pen, my sword,
Weaving to the clock’s tick,
Penetrating blocks,
Dividing bricks.
My pen, my megaphone,
Announcing to passers-by,
Breaking bones,
Soothing lullaby.
My pen, my music,
Appealing to my soul,
Enriching tonic,
Alluring tole.
My pen, my mystery,
Twinkling set of clusters,
Creating history,
Amazing wonder.
My pen, my muse,
Supplying my motive,
Providing clues,
Enhancing additive.
My pen, my puncheon,
Wielding with creativity,
Mending truncheons,
Mystifying captivity.
MASCOT.
MY POEM, MY INNER TRUTH
I lie to myself
When I say my poems do not depict my thoughts
I lie to myself
When I say I don’t get hurt
I lie to myself
When I say I like being alone
I lie and I know
But I also say the truth
They say the truth will set you free
So I lay down my truth
I love and I hate
That’s what makes me human
I feel jealousy because I care a lot
I have a lot of heartbreaks which is really sad
But I hide it under my smile
The truth is I smile so you won’t know my weakness
The truth is am not proud but I have a functioning Ego
The truth is i want my name to be written in history
But all I do is write in my diary.
Olubunmi Sanyaolu (Mcbumnik)
DIARYOFAYOUNGPOET
THE PEN; HIS SWORD
His quill is his sword
The parchment, his shield
The words he writes on it is authority
With these instruments he fights battles and wins wars,
Against the evils of this world
Revered by all and disrespected by none
His words are law for nations
He stays true to his art even during times of adversity
Making sure to uphold the truth and nothing else
He is a poet who shapes the world with his pen.
OLABODE TAIWO.
THE PUNCH
Alas!
The crooked road has been punched
Thus made straight
Thanks to the punch
That makes way
For the society has danced
Into flame of shame
And all that snarled
Through the punch came
To witness the fame
In the fist’s name
In the field of thorns
The punch waded through
Now a road of torts
The punch made full
Thanks, the punch
The society renders a bunch
KMIXERS
I AM POETRY
I am the mace,
I stand as your alibi of unity,
I am the gavel of morality,
I am the voice,
That speaks of your ‘heels,
I am like liver,
That metabolizes your nutrients,
I live,
You exist.
I am the wind,
That blows truth in the world,
I stand, when some minds want to bend,
I do not jubilate at a sight of immortality,
I do that, which will uphold the society,
I am alive for criticism,
I detest racism,
I represent every conscious minds,
I speak nothing but the truth.
I am poetry,
The one who speaks with authority,
Mother of creativity,
Father of morality,
Friend to a moral society,
Enemy to the follies of politics,
I am the symbol of your conscious minds.
LEGACY
PUNCH ON ME
Punch on me
As little as the sun rays
A touch so soft
Yet so destructive to blaze
Far above the reach of human thought.
Punch on me:
The raw metals,
The shining gold,
the glittering diamond petals
The beautiful emerald unfold
Punch on me:
Your nature no such felt
All creatures worth
The beauty of what’s ought
And my search will be all sought
Punch on me
The golden knowledge
The axe of fire
The sword of justice
The boldness of heat
Punch on me
For I am here to receive
The punch of transformation
To fight the fight of truth
I am desperate for the punch.
Justus Ogar.
THE SEAL
Affirmation from the elders I seek
Considering the knowledge he has gained
Widely, then was it revealed to me
The mystery behind what I seek
The affirmation is the delight I get
Ye from the bleeding of my own pen
The confidence I derive from my hands
The pleasure I derive from adding
Oh to my own knowledge
Thou art the affirmation I need
Now that it’s been known by me
What I ye needed to do
Is work harder and build on it
Lest I become a better personality
And incoming generation can also seek
Affirmation from me thereof
I DO
I do express my words in pen
I do expose the deeds with words
I do make imaginations wide
I do make sake fake seems realistic
I do configure your thought to resemble mine
I do more than you can think with my pen
I do know for sure my own is mightier than the sword
I do need to remember it needs to be sharpened often
I do need to make sure its life is retained
Hence make
I do refill my ink
I do make sure it never hours dry.
D-/PRIN’SES/
SUPREME COURT OF POETRY
A
Place
Where they
Subtract one guilt
Add some ironic sugar
A bit of rhythmic ointment
Then garnish it with salty words
An image here and a symbol there
Personify it with the ills and norms therein
Then state their problems and woes a-lyrically
Proverbialise their thoughts or- state in clear terms
Then add Shakespeare without shaking the Sphere
Osofisan becomes the hoe to sow the sun
Then
You know
In that place
That multiplication will be the shortened version of addition
So economic paralyses becomes historical euphemism
There is no room for defending epic successful failure
Then the hyphenated characters there, forever is lost
This is how you know that poetry isn’t just a diviner
It is a seer not just to command or demand
When it reprimands, that is the result
Of intellectual provocation
Then they enjoy in happiness
And
Drink this glass of wine ‘cos
Poetry is just extremely divine!
MUTEEHEART
POETRY
In the beginning, God created poetry.
Poetry birthed every thing.
First line ever would be:
Let there be light.
Never of His words would go unfulfilled He said.
His blessings and rebukes through His words.
Prints became immortal sister of words.
Piercing the soul or soothing the heart.
AKEENS
WHAT IS POETRY?
I write in the wilderness of anger
Where i command the pen
To speak, write and proclaim
What it sees, feel and think.
Poetry sets from the North, East, South-West,
It is the mother of every children,
The one who does not have father
Yet, with many unborn generations.
Poetry is the voice
That does not have mouth
But with a melodious tone
‘Cos it wont sees not to tell but the truth.
Poetry is a soothsayer
That tells the truth
And proclaim authority
With a manifest audacity.
Poetry is a composition of verse
Exhibiting conscious attention to problems
Through the minds –
The ink through which it tell.
Poetry is the bile
That liveth in the heart of the personnel
To correct ill manners of the society
And foster credibility of the moralities.
MR. PRINCIPLE
PUNCHEON
The prison is also for human beings
Saith their crappy voice against ours
And we thought we brought them on
So very better we Re-think
Forever seeking freedom; humans
Never running dry; our pens
Only tool they hate; our minds
Their first antagonist; the poets.
The long term memories
The day changing secrets
The sooth revealers
All God’s works are all ours
Powerful to rip apart
Unashamed to mend souls
Hope for the weak
Medication to the mind
Medievalist we are
With just a message, she’s off her feet
With lullabies in poem, he’s won over
With emotional poems, we stopped crisis
With written texts, we are all over
Got the keys to the locked gates
We hold the stamp to blueprints
Alas, the voice of a poet resounds
The works of a writer talks
The beauty in our poems shines
And behold! Poets don’t die!
I’m a poet
I’m an icon
I’m a puncheon.
SamTemmy.
AN ODE TO POETRY
You were there,
Announcing yourself like the town crier,
And passing a message,
Like the sound from the talking drum.
You are here,
Bringing words together,
Creating a platform,
One that would project what you speak.
You will continue to be,
For words will not cease to be,
An edifice,
You will forever make out of them.
Whether you stand or sit,
In paper or in voices,
You will execute the purpose,
For which you exist.
StarBabe.
PUNCHEON
Lines, stanzas – emotion
All in one, words flow
Anthology – attention
They are one in spirit – the glow
Never underestimate poem’s power
It always work where it could save
It’s nothing but a life saver
The true nature is a heart safe
I speak seventeen syllables
All combined to give a haiku
Five – seven – five words syllables
All fused in three stanza-coup
I’m a coup mastermind
Punching words to pierce the mind
Never scared of using metaphor
To cause my opponents fall
I’m just a learner who spew poetry
Although I can’t spell onomatopoeia
Or differentiate innuendo from irony
I’m not a faker but a word wielder
I write rhymes but worries about rhythm
Wondering if they could add up to create sonnets
Plus if poetry could be sung in church like a hymn
Maybe poetry will breed a lot of Saints.
To who that refuses to see beyond,
Survival of depression without expression
Is like driving a car with no petrol!
Poetry is my expression and petrol!
Emaculate Ife.
PUNCHEON
And who says a poet can be put into a dungeon?
When he has not lost his poetic lines,
Neither has he lost his muse,
He possess puncheon,
Forever with his bleeding pen.
Living with the memories of when poets are neglected,
Kept most poets in emotional trauma.
Their pens remain in everlasting oubliette,
So rusty and dusty,
Only the brave ones survived the agony of the atrocity.
Poets are meant to be celebrated,
Appreciated and not deserted,
For from their celebrations,
Come muse for more word masturbation,
Which produces life beautification and titivation.
Oluwanifemi.
AN OVATION TO POETRY
Dark and frozen mysteries
You lighten and turn up stories
You unleash hidden truths
And teach mighty fools
You crawl into deepest thoughts
And make minds courts
You cut through noisy hearts
You rule over gentle minds
They rejoice in meeting their kinds
And they bring nature into art
They bring kings to meditate
And write even on slate
You hold famous legends
And can predict a good end
You exist to help souls
If they are ready to act their roles
You do no racism
For You join Euphrates to Mississippi
You are not god
But every poets knows your eulogy
For you are the voice of the poor
The lyrics of every couplet
And the power of greatest minds.
poetry!
You are a puncheon
That sink through every mind’s
And you never cease to exist
For I heard Solomon wrote you an ode
And shakespare borrowed from thee
And I read of Oscars lines
And am sure you’ll travel till the world folds
And until the earth ceases.
QUEEN NICY
MY POEM;MY LIFE
Deep down am lost,
feel like am shredded,
but you found me and gave me hope
of years to come.
I wallow in nothingness,
you supported me with your loving ness,
day by day I’m charged towards my slate
wherein my life dwells.
when am dejected,
I find love in you,
you know the every me,
even the darkest side is like mirror to u.
Hordunlaryor.
PUNCHEON
Aged Golden Rod held highly by world’s wordsmiths,
Powerful sturdy stamp that commands both kings and slaves.
Purely colourless translucent drinkable water of the wise,
Unsavory tasteless unswallowable solidity for fools.
Faceless faces breathing heavily with bodilessness,
Call it the immaterial substance that covers space,
Call it the whispering winds in hollow sphere,
The immortality of gone mortals like Shakespeare.
Should I say it is Fairy Power or Real Authority?
Or should I simply call it what it is; POETRY!
MISS LOVE
PUNCHEON
Give me this sword
Let me hold it by its neck.
Only this can show to the world
That it is I that has been ordained.
Just this I crave to have
A symbol of hope
For the nation that I have
Been ordained to dominate.
Give me my strength; our strength
Myself and Shakespeare’s
This poetry is our blood
Myself and others.
This poetry is our own authority.
KING JUSTICE
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