For ages
my weary eyes have watched Sages mount stages
lit up dull faces
freed others from mind cages
and touched lives in different places
with lines from their pondering pages;
But who'll teach me poetry?
Their powerful punchy puns are so full of actions
Giving me an unequal and attracting reaction unlike Newton's laws,
it gives new things to ponder upon till I begin to wonder
Who'll will teach me this poetry.
How they do it I do not know
They'll tell you how trees waved and danced at a passing wind
Which made the cloud sad and heavy
That it began to weep upon a broken land.
In utmost perplexity, my ability to replay how they play with words
Is a reality of complexity in simplicity.
"A good bard is one who hates to love what is bad".
How well they take pleasure in the pain of a person
Who has no one to teach him poetry.
Day after day, I hear of mystical mysteries
Of how their pens bled to the death of a man who bled to death
In the hands of death who came to earth in form of another man.
They fought back, spilling the blood of their pens for spilled blood.
It was war for war as they punctured silence with the nib.
They say poetry is life
A part of nature, a path to happiness.
That's why their rhymes flow like the Rivers
Soar high like the eagle and roar like the Lion.
They'll spice up words with aroma ascending like sweet smelling savor
That's why I can't wait
for who'll teach me poetry.
They say it's art
An act of painting pictures with words
Which soothens the heart like an alluring Collogue with delightful impact;
But it'll be an act of injustice
If there's no one to teach me this poetry.
© Jerome Okeme
