3 POEMS BY AYOMIDE ‘WES ORIOLOWO

Falling with my eyes closed

Walking through a garden
I run my hands through flowers . softly
they feel like lover’s hair . softly .      the way
leaves drink up sunlight . slowly .      the way
flowers spit out beauty . bravely .
like a fruit falling . splitting .
seeds pouring into the soil .  the way
we chew forests with our minds
like the sun taking the weight of the rain
off petals , I want to write away this weight
on my chest . spread it wide on a  field
pick up its flowers .  vomit through a pen,
bury in a paper .
call it art , call it poetry .

Today I picked a diary  but negotiating honesty
with this body is a failed art . this mind
is not mine anymore ,             it [ groans ] .
my soul latches on to my body
like a parasite . takes and breaks .
Still         bloom is a journey       and
I am [ taking a ] break [ ing ] now .

Some days I  want to recoil
back into myself;  learn once again
the art of walking down a street with time
 paused . watching life / from the
windows of my body / stretching a hand
to a swayed audience laughing at nothing
in particular . I want to tell them a story
of flowers , of  knives that gather [ of lovers ]
in my head / show the philosophy of sharing /
how the winds hold words and we breathe in
/ each other / every time we speak . how
holding back words is tying the nose
of a toddler . how we are all story tellers
seeking empty pages from bodies filled with ink;
how we pour out to filled spaces
and forget our own emptiness / or how we become water /
take the shape of our containers ,
till there’s nothing left but the cage and its lovers


Poetry of a Troubled Soul

Chaos strums me, like a guitar,
making melodies of my sadness.
The storm has a way of dipping its
hands in my chest
clawing out words, like diamonds,
scratching out my courage leaving behind
only a drop of water 

Perhaps:
  Sadness is art’s recipe
  the melancholy has a way of pulling
  strings the body never knew it had
  till the only hunger the body knows
the only passion that drives its cravings
is that of a mad soul
of a darkness that births itself
in the hollows of the teeth until
we wear a smile everyday contaminated
with life.   

Music, like fire, melts me
Into little drops of molten melody
Do not pick me up on sunny days
on days when my lungs burn
And spit like a toddler
brushing his teeth. walk me into
Light with an empty stomach
With a clean shaven head and a white garment
Say to joy ” here he is,
teach him
put a morsel of peace in my mouth,
let me chew with my head
cushioned, watching life drip
like blood from a wound
never to return
but live nevertheless
. to let it all out of my hands
and sleep regardless


My Dream of a Better World

Sometimes I dream of a world
Where breathing turns men to babies .
 where air seems ;
 a little like water ,
 a little like life [ like living ] .
Where we once again touch
Without languages .
When our smiles can speak a thousand
And a sigh, ten thousand more

Where desires learn to rest
And our minds find room for peace-
-without closed eyes . where we take sips of nature
and sway , swirl / like a lost feather/ in music ,
in words that flow through veins .
in voices that break through not just silence
but darkness.

Fill me with ink and I will write
Give me the sounds and I will sing
Till my tongue becomes a filthy rag
Till my hands lose blood
Give me poetry and my heart
will find rest . Give me pages
and the world will be full.