It was the same night
you walked out into a
car that drove you
I called you Laraba.
you took the sun off from your
and dropped it in the middle of
for once you were kind.
kindness was the oil of your soul.
I loved you
the way flowers love morning light.
the way children love the moon
in the darkness of grasses.
It was a simple
fellowship of mind and blood and
hair bending in the wind.
who holds the hands of time
when pain is inflicting the air with
so my glass is almost empty of
and I sit here and watch you go in
and I think to myself, that my
house is sunless and my hairs
have lost their rumble.
A Motherless Race
every body is running.
the clock says we should run.
time is tired of its circular madness.
i have drawn the last air tonight in
and it hurts to see children running
to the sea.
their hearts burning with topaz fever.
bulging eyes with no sight.
it hurts to call out to the sea and not
to break through a violent ripple and
find that all your breath would one
day go out to the sea.
the way waves go and leave the sea
sober and still.
it is deadly to hold on to things and
people in the
broken fragment of your only light.
the clock says run.
and i remember the strength of my
the children of my youth roam all
around gasping for wind in their
but the wind has no mouth to say,
“I am gone.”
it only speaks in its swerve
the clock says run.
but my mother is not here.
how do I run a motherless race?
she hates poetry.
she said poetry stole her boy at a
this thing is a green leaf swallowing
more feet are approaching the sea.
their footprints in sand remind me
of the direction mother turned
when I started running.
Before Tammy Came into the Picture
you do not understand.
the places that bring blood to
the people that boil our blood.
we held hands in a circle and cried
in times like this, songs ought to
own human bodies.
they ought to own hairs and feel
songs ought to be identified and
touched the way
they drift our moods in
every human owns a dog in their
mine has been tamed by a love song.
again our hearts wear a regalia of
you do not understand pain in the
body of ice cubes, in a
scar when new friends placate you
with hugs and bedtime perfumes.
perfumes remind me of Tammy.
she burned my hair in a flame of love.
my small diary is the grave in which
I have buried the times we
this is not about loss or
you do not understand the power
whatever holds light vomits it into
a human body.
because bodies are reservoirs of
all the wastes of fire.
fire tells the story of tongues afraid
of tasting even moisture.
you do not understand what a
bubble feels in
meanwhile I was talking about songs
and hair suffering in the wind and
without an iota of love
before Tammy came into the picture.
About the Author:
Goodnews Mememugh Karibo studies Mechanical Engineering in Rivers State University, Nigeria. His poems, over time, have been published in online magazines and elsewhere. He writes from Port Harcourt.