West African Writers Wheel

Though your beauty spring like roses, It will soon, like smoke do fade. When all your manners and luxurious poses, Are denied all attention paid. A woman is a burning candle, That gives its light and shed its strength; Just like a canoe without a paddle, She will wreck in waste with all her length. Give your heart, while its tender Before time abducts you without ransom. Quit your plots to be a pretender, For time is too old to be handsome. Oh! Hold your caution, for its poison To a man that fell indeed. Else your body sue you for treason When it burns for a major need. Baby, let my tongue pierce your soul, For I bleed to have your "yes". Give me your heart and all your whole, And I'll adore you through lasting years.

When you see my wife, Rebecca, Tell her I'm now a baker; So as to nourish my hungry kindred, With blue band buttered bromate free bread. For her memory left me an oven, Such that made her love well proven; And this memory is the maker Of this black bard, busy baker. My bread is my fine poetry, Garnished with beauty, like a pageantry. From it, you'll find ancient wisdom To furnish you with forever freedom. Take and eat this bread of life, For the baker has lost his wife, When his hands were rudely lazy And lacked a means to keep his lady. So, when you see my wife, my Rebecca, Tell her I'm now a busy baker. Tell her my bread is sugared and sweet, Before the sun bakes me on the street.

This is the way I want The way I'd like to die Hark,listen and pay attention If you must know Then I'm ready to tell Let me grow up and fulfil my dream Be a prudent child to my parent Caring,empathetic and placid A child to be proud of, Whom they've invested much on, And never regrets for seconds, Stay besides them till their last breath, Then I shall have no regret I'd like to die After witnessing all my grand heir, Son to fire the gun aftermath, Daughters to wails when I close my eyes, A good woman to stand after them, Then I shall lie happily. I'd like to die when I'm old, Subdue, tiresome and aged, While the weather is still fresh, The breeze still cool, And the soil,soft To ease the digging of my grave, Then,I shall lie in peace. beingapoet

This is the way I want The way I'd like to die Hark,listen and pay attention If you must know Then I'm ready to tell Let me grow up and fulfil my dream Be a prudent child to my parent Caring,empathetic and placid A child to be proud of, Whom they've invested much on, And never regrets for seconds, Stay besides them till their last breath, Then I shall have no regret I'd like to die After witnessing all my grand heir, Son to fire the gun aftermath, Daughters to wails when I close my eyes, A good woman to stand after them, Then I shall lie happily. I'd like to die when I'm old, Subdue, tiresome and aged, While the weather is still fresh, The breeze still cool, And the soil,soft To ease the digging of my grave, Then,I shall lie in peace.

I have had no home to stay, since I left and went astray. I'm now a roaming refugee, with plaintive palms of apology. she once sheltered me in her heart, when I homelessly roam like an hart. but my folly returned me to the street, to dance to brute's and blight's drum beat. I'm now a naked shadow, stalking the light of my love's window. she has shut her door at me, puffed with pride against my plea. I'm now a tattered carcass, wandering through a land without borders. groping through the growing darkness, steadily soaking my soul in emptiness. Accept an arrant apology, from a repented well-roamed refugee. for I've eaten hay under the sun, like the proverbial prodigal son. I shall happily lay on your floor, until you forgive my forbidden flaw. for I've stupidly defiled the throne which I sat when you made me your own.

Whenever I stumble on the word ‘death’, while reading from a book or having heard of it fr om a verbal statement, there is one thing that quickly consumes my heart for very few minutes, it is one tragic scene that unfolded years back in the stage of life. I could very much remember every bits of the story. I could remember I was eight years old then when the story was narrated to me, by one of my beloved primary school teachers. He narrated the story to me purposely to ward off the bout of sadness that enveloped my heart due to the recent demise of my father. This he did by exposing me to another disastrous event which certainly weighs more than the death of my father and which would put into my mind the fact that in every situation man needs to compare himself with other situations and give praise to God rather than accusing Him of whatever He does. The story was all about two-loving birds whose affection and love towards each other could not be explained but rather ima...

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