With a crow
Birth lights the candle of life.
So we watch in awe as
Dawn pulls out the sun
From the belly of the East
Igniting a day.
For we have learnt, through gloomy nights palleted
With pain– that the sun is life, gentle at birth
Glowing in her beauty, but we bear in mind that this beauty is not eternal.
For when noon cracks its shell, and the sun contorts into a grimace
Housing a frown that scorns the earth till it toasts-
A nation of clamouring lips will mutter at an hour as such
“Oh! This tender yolk has morphed into a fireball
Look! Noon is a hostile fiend, a killer of joy”
But just as evening saunters near, the sun grows pale
Losing its strength to the days greying scales.
So we watch in awe as
Dusk pulls down the sun
Drowning it into the belly of the west
Conjuring a night.
And with a hush
Death puts out the candle of life.
My pen bleeds out poems of consolation for broken hearts
yet my own heart carries lots of wounds; wounds too deep for salves
I searched my soul for words candied enough to con God into forgiving my sins. But the prophet says:
God is omnipotent, he sees all, and he can’t be fiddled by the sweet-false tongue of man.
And I took a kettle of water, carried my heart heavy as a corpse willing to accept repentance.
So, while I ritualed my way through an ablution believing my sins were washed away I washed my
Face- hands- legs- then I said my prayers, face turned away, my back to the kiblah.
A hand touched my shoulder, surely it was mother’s
Where is your Qibla? She questioned, but I was speechless. To which god are you praying? She asked again
But I remained mute. Where is your Qibla? She scolded, drawing the attention of Father.
Only then had I looked into her eyes and said: My Qibla is in my thoughts. And my Kaaba is my heart.
Blasphemy! Father shouted eyes, the flames of hell
And watched as mother almost forgot the sound of her voice.
Do You carry God in your heart? Father asked with a nudge of sarcasm
Young man, the spirit of God only dwells in a holy place.
I stared at my Father who thinks being a father is impregnating a fertile womb
And Mother who believes mothering = birthing and squeezing milk
From deflated breasts into whooshing mouths of crying babies.
I took a deep breath but couldn’t put out the fiery thoughts that burnt like:
If only they can come into my world where my pains are far more responsible,
Where uncertainty falls like snowflakes where every word is a calligraphy of sorrow.
A world of suffocated tales in which metaphors are hanged to death!
To them, I voiced out: My Qibla is in my thoughts.
And my Kaaba is my heart. But what I meant to say was: I pray not to God but to
My broken heart to heal of its wounds and ease my soul.
Daniel Aôndona (The new born poet) was born in the year 2005, he hails from Konshisha Local government area of Benue state and writes from Abuja, Nigeria. Daniel is an aspiring poet, a short story writer, and a book reviewer. He is a member of the Hilltop creative arts foundation, a founding member of Keeptheinkflowing and a mentor at the league of new born poets.
Daniel Aôndona can be reached via: Facebook- Daniel Aôndona / Instagram- daniel_aondona/ Email- firstname.lastname@example.org