Seized tears

These blizzards wreak the songs of togetherness
through the night all sounds are unheard
but the songs of the razing fire thatch I felt
the noise of the striking axes passing through deathless
spirits, bumping flies that missed their path
I can hear the songs of agony,
render by their sleeping spirit
beclouding the lids of my eyes, my hands
shivers as a stroke of canvass spited on my heart,
an unbearable cloud passing its enchanting chasm
so much pain, seized tears paints the picture of my frame.
(c) 2020 Martin Ijir

The mad man

The mad man
Long before now, long before time was infused inside my soul. Before I was sent to the earth. Near the stream containing many shrubs I walk on, elegantly without fear, shame, and harm. I have seat my self in those sullen water, i guessed nine months or thereafter. I was threaded with the placenta of birth and death. Betrothed to life scorching sun, smiles of bitter rain and lustrous muses of scavenging for the nuts to nourished my body, unite my spirit and guides the soul to manage his genderless attributes back to where time wasn’t created. I have walked a million time to the stream, casting my net daily, catching nothing. Even the little tadpoles which a child catch without suffering I alone couldn’t lay my net on. I have lost none inched of a hope because I targeted the daily calmness of the stream. If i could not get hold of the beings on water at least I can pluck the flowers near the stream on terrestrial abode. I walk to the flower, with songs of conquest. She smiles as nature, baring the regalia of wild purple, waving her nectar in silent wickedness. The wilderness that separates the flower from the stream encamp countless bees that sleeps and enjoy their sun, conversing with the gloom of their wings as they chat. I fluttered myself into this trap. I was stung by the bees. I became a madman. Having no fishes, no shell, no pebbles, no gold, no flower. I am having nothing and carrying nothing inside my haversack bag, as I am going to be infused back into the cubits were time end as a soul.
(c) Martin Ijir 2020

Soul and the body

The soul doesn’t rest the body does
like the wrens the soul sings
music to the creator
Why then say rest in peace to a soul
when the journey became unstressful.

In joy does the freedom of the soul
occurs from the stained soil of the skin
the soul recall its body memories
using the experience to form new notes on lyre
may my body rest to free my soul from this hell
(c) Martin Ijir 2019

February 16: No to Violence

A group of men holding palm fronds
shouting next level as loose dogs
they form an enclave in the centre
five men holding palm fronds, chanting
old rhetoric as people gathered.

A group of men holding torn umbrellas
shouting let’s make Nigeria working again
in their torn heart they seek to change
the old scapegoating technique, their
leaders chants a new song of restructuring.

These group of men followers
thuds the streets with guns
knives, broken bottles
club’s or brass knuckles
ready to create chaos.

The rich and powerful are ready
to ride out of the storm
as the light of the sky beam
millions of goes dismay
and peasants leisure turns to dust of disarray.

Our dwindling unity is at the brink of collapse
those who benefit from violence becomes
happy to trade their resources:
millions of white collar workers
had nowhere to go.

The rich began to laugh
and wouldn’t offer a help
families would be torn apart
and hunger will strike many
and death will plead to ease their suffering.

Inflation and unemployment will become
a constant threat, foreigners will tap our
resources in the name of humanitarian aid
blood would flow if February 16 results to violence
i shall hide in my cubicle with my son

The time I share here would be lost to grief
I would freely go underground as a rat
when my beloved country turns into a fascist state
and my eyes will be betrayed by tears
as feeling of bitterness live inside me.

I shall hate democracy
for it has failed me
and the quiet street will be armed
by angry men, killing will be an orderly song
because greed, and power intoxicates…
(c) Martin Ijir 2019