The Embrace

He held her close to his chest and stroked her hair gently, running his hands down the length of her braids and back, in slow regular rhythm. He heard her sigh contentedly as she burrowed further into him. It was the picture of intimacy.

He closed his eyes against the sting of tears. A wave of sadness washed over him, starting from deep within him and threatening to drown him.

He wanted to love the woman in his arms but he found himself longing to hold another this way. No matter how intimate the gesture was, it was the picture of the other woman that filled his mind’s eye.

He was sad, because he missed her, his one and only heart throb. Ever since the first time he held her in his arms, he had known he wanted only her. It was sad, he didn’t end up with her.

He was sad because he was not being fair to the woman purring softly in his arms as he stroked her gently. His strokes communicated affection but his heart was far away. He felt horrible, she deserved better. She was a good woman and deserved a man who would give her his all.

It was too late now. The reflection of light from the gold band on the fourth finger of his left hand told him so. His forever was with her, and forever had never looked so bleak.

He sighed.

The woman looked up at him, her honey colored eyes bore into his. Her oval face radiated innocence and pure adoration and his heart shattered into a million pieces. She was beautiful, with soft features and a well sculpted body.

The heart was a world of mystery, he mused. He couldn’t understand why he couldn’t love her. The matters of the heart cannot be judged by reason. The heart wants what it wants. Love is a hot pot of mess.

He realized that she was gazing at him still and he smiled at her, more like a grimace, or was it a wince. Anything is possible, his heart felt like it was being lanced by a sharp knife and his face may have betrayed his calm exterior and show of affection. She looked at him for the longest of time and smiled back. Her eyes lit up and her skin glowed. Then she placed her head on his chest again.

Love really does suck.

 

Love?

Love is painful to hold on to,

When love is out of your reach;

 

Love leaves a void, when your heart

Is filled with love, with no means to express it;

 

Love is bittersweet,

When love is given but not received in return;

 

Love is the hardest thing,

When with ease, one falls in love;

 

Love burns hot and leaves you cold,

When your love is unrequited;

 

Love lost is always found in the wisp of a memory,

Where all unborn feelings of love are shored;

 

Love proclaimed is bliss,

Only if the love is felt by the other;

 

Love hurts, a lot;

Yet, love is the most pleasurable feeling.

****

Thanks to Amity for the challenge.

 

Cracked

A cracked calabash is not fit to hold water

It is a wrong choice of ware to take to the river

Fill it with sand

Pour water and

Plant your seed;

Watch the blossom

As life grows

Into a splash of colors;

A cracked calabash is unfit to hold water

It can cradle life in its broken form.

 

The Blackened Pot

The blackened pot sits atop the flame

The yellow flame, unrefined and defiling

Defiling the silver coating, hiding the luster

The luster, the very essence of the pot’s beauty

Beauty now tainted, a surface that once shimmered

Shimmered with radiance, is now coated with soot

Soot, from too little oxygen to burn completely,

Completely, the wood glows blue- pure, preferred

Preferred, it burns the hottest.

The blackened pot sits atop the flame,

The yellow flame, despised and condemned

Condemned, nothing good expected from it

From it, we look only for ugliness and dirt

Dirt, because nothing that ugly can be useful

Useful it is- because from the blackened pot

Comes forth the white pap.

 

Author’s Note: Do you feel worthless? Useless? Weighed down by your past? There is still a lot of good inside of you. There is hope! Look inside of you and bring forth that treasure hidden inside!

 

Touch

Feather light strokes, tingling the hair

Raising them on end

Sending pleasurable sensations downward

On an errand of promise of more;

Surer strokes, teasing

Brimming with barely restrained passion

Stoking fire beneath feverish skin

Shivers rippling in waves;

Subtle, gentle squeezes,

Communicating desire,

Increasing need

An ache deep within;

Friction creating electricity

Combustion that is soul deep;

Anticipation seeking release

Longing for your touch.

 

 

The Drunk

Loving you is hard,

It is all shades of bad,

It makes me sad

Because you have been had

By another,

But I saw you first,

And went on to smother

You with affection;

I strove to quench your thirst

And stoke the fire of passion

From the embers of the longing

Lodged deep beneath your chest.

You were mine,

Sweet- a freshly tapped palm wine;

I drank of you,

I never could get enough;

For you, I became a drunkard,

Intoxicated and no longer in control;

You filled me,

And left a deep hunger;

You became my prize,

I was willing to pay any price

To have you closer,

To be on the inside;

To know you, like I do myself.

You left,

I lost you,

And I got lost;

I cannot be me without you, you see,

You make me complete, make me;

I should let go,

I know;

It’s hard, not impossible,

Only that

I don’t want to stop

Loving you.

 

 

Women!

I love women.

All ages, shapes and sizes.

For one, I think they are the most amazing of God’s creation. Erroneously branded as the ‘weaker’ sex, they carry so much power and strength within. Women actually drive the world’s affairs.

Men recognized her powers early and got scared. They manipulated and use under-handed means to subdue her and deprive her of her place. They caged her and prevented her from achieving her potential.

Real men however are not scared of the woman. They realize how much they need her and how much she has to offer in making the world a better place. Real men support the woman, and help her achieve her potential.

Real men encourage the woman, compliment and complement her. They never cease to tell her how special and priceless she is. They push her to achieve greatness and cheer her on when she gets weary. They are behind her when her step falters and never ridicule or bring her down, either by words or deeds.

Real men see her as equal and not inferior. She is so much more than an object for gratification of his libidinal or egotistic needs. A real man does not need to use a woman to define his manhood. The true test of masculinity is in the way a man treats a woman. See a woman that treats the woman right; that nurtures her, worships her, support her and helps her grow to be the best she can be? That right there is a real man, the real definition of manhood.

It is a great error to limit the roles of a woman. Whoever does that does himself great disservice. She is a catalyst, she increases the efficiency of whatever she is involved in. Make her feel loved and worthy and she will spend her last breath ensuring your happiness. She will stand by you and push you to greatness.

Sadly, the world is full of insecure men. Men who are afraid to disclose their wealth and true value to the woman; men who think women cannot understand certain issues and thus exclude them from certain aspects of their lives. Misguided men abound a plenty, who see women as inferior and fit only for the bed and kitchen. Pathetic men exists, who use the woman as a punching bag and an avenue to sate their basal desires.

Herein we see the strength of the woman. Despite all the injustices and years of subjugation, she still stands tall. She is battered but not broken; her spirit waxes stronger. Her voice is rising and she is starting to claim her place in the world. The world, and men cannot stop her; she cannot be stopped.

So today, and all other days, let us celebrate the woman. Let us cheer her on as she climbs the staircase on her way to the pedestal.

 

 

Twisted

She loves him,
He loves her;
Not her,
Her.
She doesn’t love him
Anymore;
Not her,
Her.
So, she is heart broken,
He is heart broken,
She is –
Well, she is
Mighty fine;
Not her,
Her.

Eulogy

He stands with his right leg on a low stool

His right hand raised to the sky

Where the axe- the symbol of his godhood

Conjures lightning from a cloudless sky;

His mouth breathe fire

Tempestuous is his rage

No one dares stand before his wrath;

His eyes are blood shot

Like orbs of fire set in their sockets

His face is set as a flint;

The singers stand at a distance and sing his praise

The drummer strikes the talking drum with dexterity;

“No one dares Oba Olukoso” the drum belts out

“No one except he who wants to eat the sand for dinner”;

The soprano breaks out in a eulogy:

“The great one that wrestled and conquered Oya-

The fairest damsel that clothes herself with the body of a water buffalo”

“The hardened heart that is only touched by the plea of his lover”;

He sways like one drunken with the new wine

He takes an unsteady step forwards and then staggers backward

He is drunk

On the praises;

He is Sango,

The god of thunder.

 

The Sanctuary

Where I go, you can’t come
It is a sacred ground
A hallowed chamber;
It is a place of memories,
A shrine dedicated to love;
There I sit, legs tucked underneath
Dressed in white, the garb of pure love
Palms pressed together,
Eyes closed
And await the visitation.
She comes to me dressed in purple,
Eyes aglow, shades of blue and brown,
She glides on air;
Her scent fills the temple,
Cinnamon and jasmine,
Fruity and sultry;
She touches me, strokes me
From the head down, stoking dying
Embers of lusts, fanning the flames of passion;
I watch her through tear filled eyes
As she sits astride and makes love to me;
I weep as she rides to ecstasy, her skin glowing;
She leaves and my heart breaks all over,
I empty my eyes of tears and
I’m left empty
Hollow;
I stand up and leave
I do not look back
I lock the doors and keep it in the purse close to my heart
Till the next time
When I return to worship
In the sanctuary
Of pain.