He’s Commitment Phobic

Primavera, 24x24, oil on panel

Primavera, 24×24, oil on panel by Richard J Demato

He dug so perfectly well
and worked very hard,
but as soon as he came to the water of life,
he went from being so good
to being very bad.
He took to his heels as fast as he could,
and lost the nourishment that all
his work was supposed to bring.
Isn’t it unfortunate that a well-digger is dying of thirst
because of his fear of water?


Brief Analysis: When a man hops from woman to woman, he lives a very empty, unfulfilled life. “Digging through a well” is used as a metaphor for having sex in this short poem. It’d be silly, of course, or stupid, to think that is all a woman- a whole magnificent being- is good for. If you are lucky enough to get a woman who loves you and is willing to be and stay with you, it’d be unfortunate to not appreciate that, and recognize that with her by your side, there is nothing you can’t do.
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The Wounded Healer

Her words are deep, and perhaps, far too deep, because they do not come from her heart. She writes and speaks with passion only because her words come from the pitch of her stomach. As these words travel up her torso, they avoid her heart like a plague.

Yemoja.png

“Yemoja” [Artist Unknown]

Her heart is severely wounded, so she strives to protect her words from blood stains. She chooses not to release the words that live in her heart because they are filled with pain.

She is hurt
and she is weak
and she is dying slowly,
but it’s not for her listeners who need healing to see…

Push Through

This is the legend of Gbàdà,
the favourite of his former owner.

One day, his chains were removed,
and he was declared a free man.
In excitement, he began to dance,
on the broad road by the plantation,
all day, and all night,
and he hasn’t stopped since then.
He doesn’t know where home is;
he doesn’t know what home was.

He’s been released, but he’s not free yet;
he’ll be free when he stops dancing.
The blindfold’s off but he can’t see yet;
he’ll see when he stops laughing,
when he stops crying,
when he starts moving,
when he starts trying.

Maybe one day, he’ll get home,
if he doesn’t dance himself to death.
The name “Freeman” is as bad as “Ransome”;
he needs very thorough rebirth.

Her Sore-n

Theirs was like the relationship
between the sun and the roses.
The roses need the sun;
the sun doesn’t need the roses.
We all know the sun never really notices
the roses until they vigorously sway
their petals from side to side.

Rose thought she’d be a lot happier
if the Sun came down to live with her.
She shook and swung, flirted and sucked
[his light in as much as she could? Amen].
She’s severely burning,
but she’s glad she’s the hot guy’s main girl.
She’s now closer to being his wife;
death is her new, perfect life.

The Free Wear the Chains Now.

It’s one thing to be Black and proud.
It’s another, to be an African,
or with African roots, and proud.

How can it be, that children of the same parents don’t regard one another as siblings, as brothers and sisters?

11-Faces-3-African-Art-Oil-on-Canvas_Udubrae-Art-Galleries_AfriMod

“Faces”: Abstract African Art by Nigerian Artist, Ezekiel Udubrae.


Romanticized Queen Africa Has the Strength of a Thousand Men. She Has Large, Perky Breasts and Big, Round Buttocks:
Many of the Black people of America are so proud of their “Ancient-Egypt roots”. Their ancestors spoke Yoruba, and Igbo, and Twi, and Hausa, and Tiv, and Qanawuri, and Etuno, before heavy chains were tied around their hands and feet. The sad truth is these ancestors were not all titled king and queens, but Móremí’s sons and Idia’s daughters would prefer to claim that they were directly breastfed by Nefertiti.

An Egyptian lady told me she’s from the Middle East, not from Africa. You’d expect that if anyone was to be proud of Africa, it’d be her.

The Chained were set ‘free’ [whether or not they are truly free]. The Free wear the chains now.

You are the One

Her hair is laid,
her nails, made,
she wants to go out
to find love today.
She’s pacing, she’s running,
but she’s sitting in front of her mirror.
She’s going to look for ‘the one’,
anywhere and anyhow necessary,
but she won’t find him.

She has been running from herself;
she has been looking for herself.
She’s the one;
she’s the only one,
and the love she so desperately
seeks must come from her heart.
No man’s love will satisfy her for long;
it will only last for a while,
but she won’t admit that.

She wants someone else to breathe for her;
she doesn’t know how to breathe on her own.
She wants someone else to live with her;
she doesn’t know how to live on her own.
She is alive in appearance,
and that body could bring a
dead man back to life,
but she is dying.
Her heart is very weak,
and her soul has been crying.
If you don’t love yourself,
why would you expect someone else to?

 

Love and Pride

She always went back to plead
every time they fought,
whether or not she was in the wrong,
because she had swallowed her pride
alongside his semen a while before;
her self-esteem was wounded,
at the very core.

He didn’t want to be with her;
but he didn’t want to lose her.
Thoughts of her filled him with pleasure
when she was far away,
and with disgust each time
she came back to stay.
There’s only so much one’s pride can take;
my people often say “one day na one day”.

If Love and Pride could have sex,
she [Love] would always like to stay on top.
Pride would obviously be
more sexually active;
Love won’t be in control for long.

They fought again;
they were both in the wrong.
He waited for her return,
but she’s wasn’t going back anymore.
She had coughed out her senses;
she had rescued her drowning pride.
Now he huffs and puffs because
he wants his stray bitch back,
but “again” is a gain,
and this time, as always, it’d be whose again?

 

Image result for the devil card                                                                        Image result for the eight of cups card

Discharged and Unrequited

You let me listen to your heartbeat,
but I didn’t hear my name.
You don’t like to listen to mine
because you know it’s not the same.
I have fallen for you,
but how can you rescue me

if you keep pretending I’m not here?
I daydream about us two, 
but how can these things come
to pass if you don’t draw me near?

Why do you call me ” my dear”?
Why do you even dare?
You make me believe our destination is near,
on this smooth path that leads nowhere.
Why do you look into my eyes?
And ask for more of my rice?
Why do you bend the knee if you
have no desire to make me your queen?

Why do you make me come
if you don’t want me to stay?
Why did you build me this home
in order to send me away?
My nipples get hard when I think of you;
you should have left me dead
if I’m not the one you want to wed.
I don’t know what to do;
how do I just let you go
if “us” grew long ago?

Why do you make me come
if you don’t want me to stay?
Why did you build me this home
in order to send me away?
I daydreamed a lot about us two;
you should have left me dead
if I’m not the one you want to wed.
I don’t know what to do;
how do I just let you go
if “us” grew long ago?

The Hands, the Vase and the Flower

If you ever think you were wrong,
you’re right.
If you ever think you did bad,
you’re doing good.
When you broke the flower vase,
you had to take care of your cuts,
but you have quickly forgotten
that my home was shattered too.

A dead flower needed her vase.
A dead flower would begin to decay soon.
A red flower died because of you.
A red flower died because she loved you.

 


You let someone hold you, and because of their carelessness, or because they’re just tired of how heavy you can be sometimes, or for “no” reason, they drop you. Your heart’s broken. Your vase is destroyed, shattered into many pieces that you can’t possibly put back together on your own.
They say “oh! I was cut! She’s in the wrong and I’m innocent.”
Well, what about the poor flower? What about this poor flower? You got cut. Yes. You got cut but I died. Sorry to you but adieu to me. I don’t bleed, I’m a flower, but I can get very badly hurt too.
Also, I’ve not been resting in perfect peace; I’ve not even been resting in one piece.

Rain

Nobody noticed, when the oceans fed
water to the thirsty clouds.
We only know that when they were satisfied,
they gave water back to the oceans,
to our thirsty crops and soil,
to our bowls and buckets,
and to our playful children,
before our very eyes.

Our air was cleaner,
our love-making was sweeter,
and our sleep was deeper,
because the sky was given water.


 

A lot of people have pulled strings to take enslaved Nigerians and other Africans [it breaks my heart; it’s 2017 and this is still happening] in Libya back home. Not all of them have publicized the things they’ve done and the amounts they’ve given. Thank you very much. You’re beautiful people with good hearts. You’re Oceans.

I tried to write something about looking for greener grass in other regions/countries [like people have done for centuries irrespective of their race- your ancestors, my ancestors] and finding rusted chains instead, but I couldn’t. I slept off 5 minutes after because my heart was heavy.

I hope they’ll make good use of their freedom now that they have it [the ones that are free now, at least], get the psychological and financial help they need to bring their dreams/goals back to life, and rain for us. Most of them are in their youth, they are educated, and they have bright ideas; they’re all valuable human resources. The governments have a lot to do to ensure that they gain or regain their stability. If they take them home and withdraw without providing adequate assistance, there’ll be problems. [Some of them were infected with HIV.]