Temple of Words

Tell of a time when  Beards told tales When tortoise and squirrels  Were buddies of old age Speak of a time, with handwaves –goodbyes  When woods and fire came  Together to form great light It was wow! Those times when the soil  Beneath our black buttocks Caressed our bases It was great!  Those times flying nurses  Transfused our blood Into their bellies But we cared not –we moved not For the tales that fell –like stars from high sky From wrinkled lips Chained our minds But those times have summersaulted Three times like a man blessed with magun That time once lived in the future When stories were yet untold Then present followed suit And the past being swallowed  By a once future like a mirage Became a present like a warrior Born into the kakanfo line Then with the fleet of deadness  Those times travelled through They lie now in our memories  Like a dead man leaves his image  In those he leaves behind.

If you really are successful, you need no trumpet to blow. Success has its own instrument it plays. That's why the empty drum makes the loudest noise, because it's the music of the fallen ones. Mide Benedict 

Those who are prone to fishing out people's faults, may tend to be the most faulty Mide Benedict

The grace of God is what gives us victory over our sinful nature. We are no longer under the bondage 'of don't' but under the authority of the holy spirit. The flesh is no longer a problem, but remaining in Christ is the lasting solution. Mide Benedict 

The height of a cocoanut does not tell how bountifully it will produce. it only tells how hard or easy it is to get fruits down from it. it's not how far you have gone but how well you have done. Mide Benedict

                                          The key to living a good life is dying a good death. a good death is letting our sinful nature perish and a good life is being born to a new life in Christ. Mide benedict.

ⓒof the owner I picked my clock And me it picked As I watched it move Ticking it tucked Tucking it talked Little by little  Amazed I was At the way they mealed , Taking over the Passover feast Seconds gave the meal to Minutes  And Minutes to Hours And claps fell from my amazing eyes I tried to call these angels back for echo But saw time laughing at me ‘Such a fool, watching how we killed the Egyptians  Not knowing he is the Passover meal Now, offering us a knife to strike again Fool! Fool! Wasteful fool!' They danced  I stared  They ticked And tucked And talked again. 'Fool! Fool! Wasteful fool!'

ⓒof the owner I wrote on the wind the birds frowned, I wrote on sand the grasses screeched I wrote on fire the smoke screamed, I wrote on the sea, fishes cried; Everything in nature and what tiled its way, On the spur of the moment pushed me away. “What if nature’s protection dies And all its syrupiness wipes, What in life do you think would trend this cave, Without solid tongues delivering a shave?” The tongue is the sharpest blade That could make a mountain fade It is sharper than the thirsty sword of napoleon; And can shape-shift into all like a chameleon It can repair a torn world And could destroy a great lord. Such misery is what it bears; Such history is what it shares. Whether you boast of property Or you roast in great poverty. Either in cars you drive Or stay put in a hive Whether you die and are buried beneath six feet, Or your soul in rest cannot be given such seat. Is it to dress in purple robes Which make your fame shake the globes

His chest pounded very hard. He could feel it as it vibrated from his chest to other parts of his body. It was as if he was listening to the sound of a well sun-heated talking drum, sounding some kilometres away from where he was standing outside his room, yet was as if it were near him, as close as his ear drums.  He was in a blue boxer pant. An image like the head of a woman with dreadlocks, and if viewed in another way, was like a lion’s head was sewn to the band of the boxer pant. On top of this image, which apparently is the logo, a little line was drawn from one end to another and on it was written, Vaserce, revealing the dexterity and duplicative prowess of those making the Aba-made versions of the world-class fashion designer, Versace. On his legs were a pair of yellow bathroom slippers. He had no real shirt on, definitely not while he was on a boxer pant, but rather, he wore a white singlet –covered with so much sweat that it had become slightly translucent, rendering his

I know those faces Though they were faceless faces But I've seen what they look like when they lived Each day without a face. I know those pockets They were so full that they dropped to the ground But none ever touched the ground For they were empty pockets I know that heart It showed love once upon one time Everyone knew it It loved and loved Till it never loved I know that river It was great So large Busting its borders Fishes were in it Though those fishes never had gills Because they adapted to a waterless river. I know a tongue so many Similar to mine, It talked in a million ways But it never talked For no ear heard a single thing he said. 

By MIDE BENEDICT Rusted roof sheets could be seen all over the place. Anyone entering the village for the first time, would at first glance notice this emblem.  If a new iron sheet, grey and sparkling was spotted on the roof of any house, though nothing of such could be seen, that house would look like the old and odd one out amongst all the brown rusted roofed buildings; it would be seen as a bastard roof. Well, for Aiyekooto village, that was nothing surprising, as so many houses looked as if they were about to collapse, with their walls cracked from head to foundation, like terrible markings on an over-aged old man, yes, over-aged old men, because this same village was where one would find old men that were supposed to be residents of the soil, still going to farm and working greatly. Two men, one old and the other young, walked pass the frontage of Olola’s house. The younger man carried a big keg, which could be no other than a keg of undiluted palm-wine. Nothing more or l

Characteristics of the poem Sonnet The rhyme scheme: ABBA ABBA CD CD CD, making it a Petrarchan sonnet. A Petrarchan sonnet is a poem with fourteen lines. The first 8 lines, which is the octave is used to propose a problem while the remaining six lines, the sestet, are to tender solutions to the pre-problems. Metre : Iambic pentametre Tone: Anger Mood : Reflective  Period : Romantic poetry One Important thing to know before journeying into the analysis of the poem is the importance of Nature in romantic poetry. Mother Nature is the undeletable almighty character when dealing with romantic poetry. Nature is seen as a god, pure, distinct and a gateway to man’s damned mind. Romantic poets believe that man’s heart has been drawn too much to what has made them become what they now are and only the born-again man into the Nature family can be saved and it starts with the renewal of the mind. Here, nature in the only thing that makes sense. The language of roma

  If the tongue could stomach great emotions enough, then there would have been no need to write in books. If the mouth can hold unto words long enough without it dropping as if shrinks with time, then writing would have been a waste of time. If pictures and sculptures and painting could express thoughts enough, revealing the true state of the human mind, then writings would be something of no worth.  If dramatic actions and dialogue could birth itself on stage, then scripts are nothing but toilet sheets.  If writing is nothing but a thief of time, stealing our moments and energy and activities, then the Holy Spirit wouldn’t have inspired the writing of scriptures.  If music could reach unto the soul enough, then David as a case to answer, the psalms then would be full of lies. If home could home me well without any need to beacon to my pen, then God! The giver of all, the one that gives all things to man and knows what is best, why didn’t you change this and give me an

By Akinbode Toluleke If all dreams are realities and not mere fantansies, And each reality are accomplishment of this dreams Then the world would turn to chaos. If the sea besiege emotions, and this triggered by humanities disrespect to its compendium,  As oil spillage graced its offspring, for there shall be no trespasser save its embodiments, for a state of trepidation would have trephine mankind. If birds can tell the tale of two cities, for justice they cleave adjournment they behold, birds would commit felonious felony against state and humankind never be forgiven no more. If roads could elongate for elopement, bridges seek refuge under the seas, tunnels placate their tracks, over humanities degradation of movement, leading to a Dadaism of Avangardazation, then people would mentalise their insanity to sanity. If machines could talk; speak like the twitter, communicate like men, cry like women, scream like children.... Then the best of science would not be diverte

Peep into these final ground of man Mind with thoughts invigorates What do you behold, Desiccated Feats or bodies, you grasp Weeping Wealth or webbed wretchedness of men your wits perch on? Stare more into these six-feet-downs and gape What squashes your heart like ajanaku atenipa The youngness of the old or the littleness of the young Wasted dreams or nothing at all (though I doubt nothing you’ll find.) Here in this field of bones, I stand Nothing complete you will find Large as the overly spring Buried with their books placed above About great lives, and holy chattels Words Filled with jubilees of lies Lies and lies Of a starvingly robust land and lives Lies and lies Put on the scale of those micro deeds of them. Yes, there it is, that troubled land That greyed grave buried in the graveyard by governing graves Mouths mounting million movements and more, Still, serious nothing so great to show for standing on staled sticks of seasons Than rusted cleyed men