By Echendu Chukwudi
A five letter word,
Made of consonants, and vowels,
Afar from the notion of ease,
Adjacent to the bus stop of peace,
Broods in the mind of the courageous,
From unsettled concerns,
They assembled weaponry,
The news is at 5,
Havoc has been tailored,
To suite the television size,
Protestants carrying sticks and stones,
Shrapnel, and Cocktails from Molotov,
One should take cover,
Chaos is the darkness to that light,
The ying to that yang,
A salt to every meal,
Brown sugar to bitter teas.
For Chaos is a ladder,
and tool used by elites,
If it goes on we would lose space,
Not enough space on the cemetery.
Shortbread and wisdom
Dancing to the rhythm of Gaelic Scots,
A pulsating rhythm with vibrant wings.
Flying into moments in Glasgow,
To skip sadness as I break shortbread.
Each disc is a testament of my hunger,
Steady in cadence like nature’s refrains.
My organs are drumming for more,
But I gulped the juice of contentment in Africa.
Sweet and soured from survival of empty pockets,
Deep like tunnels without a cast of light,
But even in such darkness I was steadfast,
As my feet shifted into the Scottish mainlands.