stimulated vibrations I-X

I

i

ilesanmi...

this life is a bullet of words
shot into the depths of craniums...

it is the wails on the lips of thousands
echoes...

i have been hit
and i bleed profusely...

ii

these tears are the wetness of my sore
and my sleeplessness is not of a lost love...

it is the nurse of my worded wound...
i see myriads of lines swirl in my bleeds

i recuperate...i relapse

tell me...
are these my dreams too?


II

i

ilesanmi...

yesterday...how i tried...
to hide from this force within, eating me
from this poetic burden and breeds for words...

but which mother neglects the weeps of her womb?

the wails of empty spaces
the cries of quills, tender...

held me bound!

ii

i wish i could tell the day i gulped this water
fashioned in the rituals of words...

a thirst for a thirst for my thirst
for in my drunkeness, i still thirst

tell me
what happens to a drunkard thirsty for words?


III

i
ilesanmi...

remember when you seek drunkeness at poetic shores
let angels fill your cup the bitter brews of humility
and beware of the sweet brews of pride of angelic demons...

for many men puke poetry pours with the stench of pride
and clothe in the mad yeast of their poetic puff puff

remember...poetry is humble and sane...

ii

remember...poetry is true...
let your poetry spill truth to truthful truth to lying lies...

when you grow wings of poesy
let your wings intertwine humble wings
for in the kindness of poets...you shall soar heights

and please tell me
when my poetry exudes not the prides of humility...

IV

i

ilesanmi...

vibrations ride the corridors of my veins
and have denied my pupils the meal of sleep...

a drunkard of words nurses a thirsty thirst
a constant thirst bound in the deep waters of words

look closely and read the dance of my quill
and score the music played by my flaming fingers.

ii

i write myself lines of lights
for brightness in my springs of darkness...

when dark days may want to roam my sanity
and make my nibs wander
in the ink of attractive ghouls in strange thoughts

hear this today and learn
a poet's time wheels have dark days and very many...

V

i

ilesanmi...

shall we stand a minute silence...
for the death of vowels and consonants of lines

the lines of poesy that bloomed under the moon
and withered at the brightness of dawn

shall we stand a minute silence...
may their muse return if possible.

ii

when lines shall bloom your stem of poesy
find the patience to engrave on pure leaves

for they are like roamings of grieved ghosts
panting for rest in nibs and paradise rooms on leaves...

they are like slimy dreams
and in neglect slither away and die too soon...

shall we stand a minute silence...for lost lines...

VI

i

ilesanmi...

i write from a depth of emptiness
the emptiness of life...

the emptiness i have found within the self of myself
the emptiness craves...calling for creation...

do you know?
poetry creates fine rhythms on void notes...

ii

when you gavel poetry on the slab of creation
let it be on the mines of empty notes
for in emptiness you shall find rhythms...

fine rhythms of light...luminous paths
in the corridors of darkness...

let not your rhythms lie on faltering scales...

VII
i

ilesanmi...

a poet is a metaphor of spontaneous feelings
heavily vast into the lightness of every thoughtful weave
the weaves in the wools of words...

a poet’s wealth is not in the treasury of mints
or the mass of accolades on the cliffs of fame...

it is in the currencies of deep thoughts...

ii

a poet is a baker of poetic powders
a bowl of arts that reunites fragments of poesy...

a kiln of fine rhetoric
a spice bag of figures of speech...

a model of forms and styles...

a platter fashioned in the finesse of thoughts
on which a sumptuous poetry is served!

VIII

i

ilesanmi...

shall i not tell you?
that my head pillows on bundle of quills
and i dream nights into the wilderness of words...

the dream of a poet is a wordy sickness
a persistent urge, a waxing furnace, a thirsty thirst

a poet is a pouch of words...

ii

when words steal you far into the woods of poetry
hunt deep and trap your nibs rich games
fat meats for now and decades to come...

refuse not the desire to get lost
and trouble not your mind for your find

words do find words
your poetry shall find you again...

IX

i

ilesanmi...

when poetry buds burning thoughts
on the plate of your heart
let your nibs find pure patience
and then a perfect peace...

a true bloom of poetry is plucked
in a perfect peace, patiently pure...

ii

let your flaming fingers scorch your thoughts steady
for if hasty...the words may burn to burnt...

tell me
who eats with relish a burnt poetry?

let your eyes assess the beauty of your thoughts
and if ugly...lay it at the altar of poetic priests...

for poetry must first carry the burden of beauty...

X

i

ilesanmi...

poetic strength lies not at the tip of a bottle
or in the rolls of shredded tobacco...

a poet’s might lies in his pouch of words
the heart is the pouch...

a pure poetry pours from the heart
an expression rolled in deep feelings...

ii

if your poetic pours must be pure
wean not your heart from meticulous breasts...

let your muse pour pure pours
not after the contentions for poetic crowns
or after the foolish forces of muses
a poetry forcefully brewed stinks...

poetry is a feeling not forced...