Stagnant June

These days I resemble
The vault of the sun
Obscured, in silver skies

Mirroring, the death of its arc
In the same faint shades of red
That spill into black

I lunge for the heavens
Again and again
All to burn off the veil
Of stagnating sorrow

Forevermore,
Seeking,
A breach,
In all the worry

Love Letter from Harlem

Floating, on a gradual wind
Is the sweet-relief of words
Repaid in full

A parcel
Offering, peace of mind
Having braved the great plains
For the salted breeze of the west

The rise of her vital signs
Will move me to scrawl
Into rivers of sweat

Drawing me close
To being wholly engulfed
By her tearful embrace

Time Won’t Budge

Won’t time
Simply drain away
Giving up new ground
To the hush-filled hours I adore?

I’d prosper,
Gratefully
Like a youth on the eve
Of purity lost

Won’t time simply budge
From atop the heave
Of this dying form?

So that I might be flooded
With certainty at last

Demolished by Beauty

How can I compose
While consumed in awe
By the lofty tales of a bard?

How can I sing
With tearful eyes,
When I’ve been razed to dust
By a whirlwind of truth?

“Perfection,”
Rips through my mind
And I must indulge
Getting good and lost
In the curves
Of her heavenly songs

Take the Back Alleys

It’s a straight shot
Through a den
Of unchecked illness and squalor

The embrace of clutter
Is a putrid vise for the soul
As you dance, with each maddening voice
That foams at the shudder
Of your wealthy frame

Show nothing
But a hardened scowl
Or cash all of your chips
Into the seething gutters

It’s just a straight shot
Through a hopeless rift in our world
Full of vagrants and villains
To the agony, of quiet suspicion

Ode to the Talking Drum – Author Olawale Famodun

Creative Talents Unleashed

south-africa-1091396_1920 Photo Credit: Pixabay.com

Ode to the Talking Drum

Fair instrument of melody,

I salute the mind you possess,

keeping dance in your custody,

and your own notions you express

separately, among peers in Ayangalu’s hands.

Mighty are the rhythms you’ve got,

conveyed beyond a thousand mile;

you are cousin to the parrot,

and much more for your brilliant style:

revealed in what your cord and your string can do.

Herald angel of Music’s Muse,

also mouthpiece for all events;

few are the genres you can’t use,

since you’ve mimed Rock Music’s comments:

now I know why all cultures and music are one.

The one drum that can stand alone,

two drumheads that have never failed,

squeezed in my arms changes your tone,

awesome message relayed when played:

while each part tapped produces a different sound.

Interlocking rhythms revealed

through fingers, palms, or curved drum stick;

the cause to rejoice isn’t…

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The Roving Dusts of Bondage

Somewhere
There’s a well spouting fortunes
For a worn mass of tragedies,
Struggling home

Single-file into peace at last
Till their chains can endure no more
And burst, into pyres of rust

These parched eyes
Would not seek for long
If only my pride
Would slip away, from the reins
At last