Imagine

Imagine there’s no heaven

It’s easy if you try

No hell below us

Above us only sky

Imagine all the people

Living for today…


Imagine there’s no countries

It isn’t hard to do

Nothing to kill or die for

And no religion too

Imagine all the people

Living life in peace…


You may say I’m a dreamer

But I’m not the only one

I hope someday you’ll join us

And the world will be as one


Imagine no possessions

I wonder if you can

No need for greed or hunger

A brotherhood of man

Imagine all the people

Sharing all the world…


You may say I’m a dreamer

But I’m not the only one

I hope someday you’ll join us

And the world will live as one.


John Lennon

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The Med

3,072 people have died since January 2015 according to one-europe.com
3,072 people have died since January 2015 according to one-europe.com

The woes and cries, last minute prayers

The mass of humanity perished

Hopes of a better life

All aboard ships and dingy boats

As it sails through hungry cold waters
Babies shiver on breasts

Mothers, with tears in their eyes

Silently wail

Sniffing as they know they may be

Coming to the end of their lives
Fathers and brothers

Struggle to retain their manhood

Against all odds

The dingy unsteady rocks

The Mediterranean thirsty eager for more bodies, eager for breakfast or is it dinner?

It was a fight to the finish

Supposedly because of their faith,

Men are thrown in

For added measure, they women and little ones jump in too

Mirgrants
Can we stop this waste of lives?

No one tries to save

Every one bruised and battered by the coldness and cruelty of life

The dingy falters

Europe is no heaven but to these ones

Europe: hope of migrants

Eritrea,Somalia, Nigeria, Gambia, Syria
And Libyan governments keep silent

They see but refuse to speak or act

On the blood that lies at their door steps

The savagery of the headlines ’30 times more than last year’ provokes not a word

Some Europeans are stirred

This has got to stop they scream

They are here because we invaded their lands
The Med does not care

The Med wants more

At the bottom of its waters

Trapped migrants in their sunken vessel

Lips never to be kissed

Breasts never to be sucked

Hands never again to clap

Kids who will never graduate

Men who will never ever be buried

Had they known?

The death of dreams

The death of lives

The death of deaths

The Med
Tundun Adeyemo(c) May 2015

Still I rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

My grandmother: Elizabeth Jennings

She kept an antique shop – or it kept her.
Among Apostle spoons and Bristol glass,
The faded silks, the heavy furniture,Elzabeth Jennings
She watched her own reflection in the brass
Salvers and silver bowls, as if to prove
Polish was all, there was no need of love.

And I remember how I once refused
To go out with her, since I was afraid.
It was perhaps a wish not to be used
Like antique objects. Though she never said
That she was hurt, I still could feel the guilt
Of that refusal, guessing how she felt.

Later, too frail to keep a shop, she put
All her best things in one narrow room.
The place smelt old, of things too long kept shut,
The smell of absences where shadows come
That can’t be polished. There was nothing then
To give her own reflection back again.

And when she died I felt no grief at all,
Only the guilt of what I once refused.
I walked into her room among the tall
Sideboards and cupboards – things she never used
But needed; and no finger marks were there,
Only the new dust falling through the air.

 

Ps: Elizabeth Jennings wrote this poem to describe possibly her guilt for refusing to go out with her grandmother. It describes a sense of loss which immediately resonated with me when I read it. I remembered my grandmother and the burden of guilt I carried for years after her death. This is described in the article: mama Oke-Aremo.

I just wanted to say

This is what you are waiting for

A public declaration that

I have moved on

You see life never stops

With or without you

My life carries on

I dont clutch on my phone

Anymore like I used to

I dont scroll down looking for emails

Any more

I dont look at every phone ring

Expecting you to call
love 2
I am over you now

 

I can even write a poem

Which you are waiting

Patiently to read.

I just wanted to say

You have got a kiss

On the shirt you are wearing

You may want to change that?

Or come back for

More….

 

Tundun Adeyemo(c) 2014