Four Poems by Gordon Scapens

 

LADY OF THE NIGHT

 

 

Even the moon

has moods

and readily reveals them

to those who seek

the right companion.

 

Just look tonight.

She’s applied make-up

in her haste to greet us

 

and blotted out

part of her face.

 

That won’t stop

the plying

of her trade.

 

A true lady

of the night,

she solicits regularly

if not exclusively.

Many men have admired her,

few have really known.

 

Those who have

will never be

the same again.

They leave something

of themselves behind. 

 

 

 

 

JOYRIDE

 

 

The blind geometry

of an escaped balloon

above the weight

of the city burden,

is motion recognized

in a complicit breeze.

 

The balloon is saying

all it wants to say,

is asking no questions

of an impartial sky.

 

Spectators are envious

of colourful emancipation

locked in single-mindedness.

 

It has no regrets,

puts a stamp of meaning

on translating freedom,

follows the rules of the highway

on which it travels.

 

I read its announcement.

This is a floating poem

hoping to convey hope

to a world that’s lost it. 

 

 

 

 

                                                JIGSAW

 

 

Each day is a jigsaw piece

towards the full picture.

Some days he’s hollowed

into merely an ornament,

brittle with his condition,

and there are no more words

for finding some comfort.

The pieces fit in.

 

Other days are parachutes

floating from despair and hovering

where he can see further

than himself as mere passenger

in the life allotted to him

and he will ignore the clocks

that are counting away

such precious time.

The pieces fit in.

 

He accepts the future

is now an empty promise

as he collects pieces in turn.

 

Sometime soon,

after a time of regrets,

the final piece

will collect its due.

 

 

 

 

EXISTENCE

 

 

It’s not the chessboard

of imaginary boundaries

looking for a question

that it can answer.

 

Not handicapped wanderings

on misplaced horizons

to escape impotency

that’s made-to-measure.

 

Not the stolen speech

that doubles as a map

indicating the way in circles

that’s not recognized.

 

Not even the cult

of self-adoration

as a book of survival

read on a daily basis.

 

It’s the small deaths

collected every day

to pay for a journey

of unknown length,

 

of changeable quality

that pretends too hard

that it can be a promise

and then fails.

Gordon Scapens - Widely published in various countries over many years in numerous magazines, journals, anthologies, newspapers and competitions, most recently first prize in the Brian Nisbet poetry award. His latest book is ‘History Doesn’t Die’ 

Five Poems by Sabe Ngu

 

A DAY AT A HOTEL

In my fine tuxedo, standing

On a queue in the reception unit

Of Hotel White Castle

To get homemade tobacco

A lady in a nice outfit -

Lilac coloured ladies dress -

Tapped me by the shoulder

From right behind

"Do you have a pen?

I heard we are to bring along one

Blue, pointed mouth

Fully filled and writing"

She said some words more

But I figured without interest

She was too talkative

And nodded against her

She handed me a dunce cap

I took it right from her

And gave her right back

For she was so deserving

VI/XX

when i heard you call my

name, i left myself in the room

and paced down the street

to where you were standing

like a pillar to a tower

i met you leaning on the wall;

the wall of uncertainty, cold

with a look in your face

that reminded me of a tender -

caring soul, emptied by flood

from the rain of fake smiles

then, i stood by you, with

my coat, covering you from

the deadly cold that was

engrossing your consciousness

and beating your heart so hard

and when you pushed me

(all of a sudden) into

the cold, i left like a spying rodent

and found myself covered

under the blanket of the scent

of my rose garden - so tender

i don't lose, even when the sun

and the moon shine against my crown

the stars do shine equally on my crown

and in the darkest night, i do see my way

to the throne of the scent of my roses

FEATHERED SOULS

Souls feathered by fathers

With arms in their arms

Can fare and fare as fast

And far as their wings

Can find the paths of winds

For sure, wings unclipped

Can either touch the sky

Or stay at the level of a heap

To get soaked in rain

IV/XX

The sky is blending

sky blue and tinted

blue, into dark blue

The world is gazing

speechlessly amazed

Birds are on tree twigs

ready to explore, the

the wild empty sky

stretching before them

but their wings, are

clipped to their selves

by forces behind smiles

and frowns on each face

less they know, why

they are still singing

woodpeckers are now

on their feet, drilling holes

on the trees. owls are

humming like toads

covered in clay pots

all, to find their way

into the empty sky, to

see where they fate, lie

I AM NOT WELL

It is not in my blood:

praises and appalletions

I don't know how to adore

Someone, with much affection

If I tell you; "I love you"

Then that is it!

Don't take me for a fool

If I don't mash you up with words

I don't even trust myself!

If I say good morning

Look at the sun in the sky

Before you respond

It may be a breezy evening

Or just a cool afternoon

I am not well

My head is drained of sense

As the color of my teeth is brown

And of my eyes is red.

What else?

I am not well

So keep your peace!

Akaayar Aondongu Andrew is a poet of African origin. He studied English at Benue State University, Makurdi. Between 2021 and 2024, he was known by his pen name, Sabe Ngu. As a result, his poems published by Spillwords Press, Authentic Poets And Authors Magazine, WilliWash, Poemify Publishers, Arkore Arts and other notable magazines and anthologies are by the name Sabe Ngu.