March

March in my papermache
Strewn it till it stinks
I have lost sense of style since Sinatara
I have unlatched my belts of love since Abacha
Smash the moulded heated head
Tests are over-Inspection over.
Test results look likes insults
So want to insult, sorry has no salt



March
Make your point
In my pointed pointillism
Ask the film for a doctored documentary
I am a mad man
Seen it all-Fucking all
Like fucking Jesus on the fucking walk
On the storm.
Fuck it!

I have found the lady

to share my hands with
to make sonnets, songs, stories
and children
to breath out our love with childbirth
a child with my eyes, her nose and heartbeats.

I HAVE FOUND A LADY
To charge me
And caress my often roughened hair
To pray
As my fears sometimes go over board

I have found the lady
Be my pair
In this world called Vanity Fair
To teach me how to truly love,
Love without loathing.

I am but a lover’s disciple
Waiting to close distances
To walk on turbulent seas
Waiting
To hold you in my arms.

I need a lady

to share my dreams, my fears with
to lie and love with
from now and forthwith
to share my wit.

to free me from
the fetters of pain
to twine us with
ropes of longing

A lasting sigh of honey



In need of no jar shape
capable of cancer
with her quick temper

In her stead a queenly stature
of corresponding heartbeats
Rhyme, Rhythm, Synchronicity
of temperate mood




My hands on rapturous warm bodice

A queen of succulent kiss
of sunlight smile (even in brazen weather)
of precious eyes and belly button.

Deranged

Deranged

I am not a writer
all that is written being before written
or else-written off.
For copyrights are due to careful copying
not coping

The flow is getting
Dry
like rivers hit by peeled sun from
the covers

I am in a pub
all that matters with the pub-"leasher"
where beer is beared
and broke is bloke.
Hey Jonny, hows work today?
Work has worked itself out.



pockets dug
regal pretense
cowed in the pockets
thin as cow drivers.

to quit is to quilt
spirals of unwanted pattern

to accept is to axe intercept
splashing of raging blood showers.

Johnny, you can do it, can't you
I can't
this is not a CANteen
ask Obama, what he found out.

Who I am doesn't matter no more
that is a gimmick of a whore
you know the law is an ass?
even after all the hassles.



I am not a writer
nor a poet
all that, comes from a liar
I cannot compare myself to Twain
as all I want to say has been beaten
by acid rain.



Femi Morgan 6/10/2010

You are the sunlight
so bright as friendship,
you are the smile of graceful lines,
you are a friend I just met,
you are a story writer that the world awaits.

I like you, this lady from fruitful Benue
where I hear that they treat their men well. I hear they are full at their stomachs.
you are from the languishing hill of greenery,
of grand sounds and dance,
of black and white Zebra pride.
...

Where their wives are beautiful and busty,

all things that grow grow in its own bounds

Benue
mother of flowing rivers
father of finely carved shores
gift to mother earth
first of its kind.

Benue of irresistible kisses
Irresistible
of gladdened warmth
from the embrace of kind people
Benue of boats
gliding in and gliding out
like man and woman in the covers
you are from the languishing hill of greenery
of grand sounds and dance
of black and white Zebra pride

YOU SEE, ALL MY FOREFATHERS!

I have forgotten the tales
The songs and the proverbs
And I am left with the seeming inspired adverts.
I am or I was told,
The reincarnate of the palm wine tapper
All I have tapped is the little oil money in different taps
No more trees for tributes
Only rich enough for none but myself.

I am the swimmer at the dancing braids of the lake
The favoured tadpole of the gods,
I guess I was told,
Alas, the waters have gone green with envy for land
The purity of sounds has left for the bubbles of fangs
Nothing can swim, not even me
Except nylon, plastic and industrial spills.

I am the broken hearted teacher who says textbook fantasies
Galvanising theories at the detriment of truth-bitter as it is.
My forefathers were warriors
Dying in drowning truth bottles
Migrating at the disgust of in-betweens
But at this behest of incest
We gather like insects to watch our denigration
To what we call “better generation”.

We have lost our will to fight
So we must lose our will to laugh.
We have left the saving grace of a nation to politicians
We have cried to God but have forgotten who we are and used to be
We have died the real death
And what we are now, LIVING SHADOWS.

We are now foregrounded paintings of market activity
We are now huge clowns at stage to other nations
We are now Soap Operas that takes the review of all and Oprah
We are now newspaper columns without conscience
We are now a people without with leap and without patience
We are now, a land, not bare but with weeds-the land itself moaning at the many boils on its skin.

Let us rise and clear the land
Cultivate the soil
Resurrect the buried values
Prune out the struggling weed
Send emissaries to the fishes with a sign of a white flag
Make sacrifices at crossroads
Plant new trees to wade off the strong winds from our backyards
Let us never forget who we are.

I am no son of a slave
Though slavishly trained
I need no bully as brother
I need no sully as sister
I need no Guerrilla as Government
I need no ruthless rut as redeemer
I need no menace as messiah
I need no sets of Pillagers as sets of Political Party
I need no faulty voter’s vortex
With nature, with sounds and with men
You all can see, all my forefathers lived in free and fair contest.
10/07/2010

So far...The Book Reviews are coming

The oxymoronic title of the pint-sized collection of poems largely ignites the socio-political satire intended by the promising poet. Armed with a simple language couched in metaphorical expressions. The poet ensures his themes run deeper into the bellies of 'the guilty' and 'the murderers of sleep'.
The Sun

Morgan uses his lines to abhor injustice, poverty,lawlessness and ignorance. His poems evoked emotions, sympathy and regret . It is a voice from the clandestine world calling mortals to stand up and face their future, and that no excuses sufficed to remain in deplorable conditions.
The Nation

The book expresses Oluwafemi's candid view of the ( Nigerian) society in which he lives.
Tell Magazine

Via satiric pieces, the author questions the lack of progress caused by recalcitrance etched in the hearts of those at the helm of affairs. And if you don't agree with his angst rhymes and endless fatalism, you will be subdued by the veracity akin to them.
ThisDay
Politically blunt and an outpouring of a fearless pen handled by a filled skull; the book provides a graphic perspective on variegated happenstances shaping the metaphoric thinking of the motley occupant of the Nigerian landscape. It is more than just a collection of poems.
Ayodele Obajeun
Scribbler and maker of travelogues

This collection is a brewery of the pains of the societal squalor . The music
of silence is betrayed by the dialectics of drummings, using laughter and dance to liven the rhythm of mass resistance...the poet has made a clear stand.
Kunle Ajayi
Author, I Will Write a Poem

The title, Silent Drummings may be taken to mean the quiet or gentle pangs of the oppressed, the disposed, the poor and the suffering masses of the Nigerian/African society. The work is set in a post-colonial era, exposing the horrors of tyranny...

Shvoong.com