A Walk into the Shadows
She stirred the waters with her words,
She raised dust above her head with her utterances.
Her unbridled tongue became her stumbling block,
Channelling waves of turbulence in her direction.
A sage had warned her that familiarity could be a lethal weapon.
He cautioned her that not every familiar face is a well-known book,
And that some books have pages shrouded in mystery—
A truth she deemed unworthy of comprehension.
The night trailed her,
Darkness pervaded her room.
Each day felt like a walk through a shrivelled meadow,
Where the mirror reflected a different version of herself.
She drank from the cup of the disdained,
Sank into the mire of confusion and complexity.
She walked through a door into the shadows,
Lost in the oblivion of a maze hidden in the mist.
Aglow at Zion’s Gate
A gathering of stars,
The lights of the seekers shine bright.
They have wandered through withered meadows,
Encountering strange shadows.
They have passed through a door,
One revealed to them in the calm of night,
A door that appeared after midnight,
Illuminated by the gentle glow of moonlight,
Marking the beginning of a new day differently.
A sage had foretold this event,
Predicting a gathering of lights at Zion’s gate,
A moment to pause the hands of the strange,
A time for bloom and change.
As the moon returns to its chamber,
The radiance faded away,
Yet the seekers felt empowered for tomorrow.
Redemption whispered that there is still much to see,
Much to understand, and much to know.
About the Last Train
You close the door changing tides,
The streets empty into you,
Twilight harbingers tranquil,
Good night soon becomes the word,
From the lips of friends and foes.
You convey the departed,
To a place beyond the stars.
Flowers
Flowers for a new day,
Flowers for a fresh start,
I’m embracing a new beginning,
A way of winning.
Flowers of spring,
A blooming garden,
The joy of my mother’s heart,
She sings a new song.
Flowers for tomorrow,
Yesterday was a withered meadow,
Days and nights spent in shadows,
A departure from freshness and hue.
Flowers for my love,
Flowers for the woman who embraces an enigma,
We’ve climbed mountains and crossed valleys,
She often tells me we’ll navigate through the complexities and perplexities.
Flowers for my mother,
Flowers for my pride and guide,
She holds the lamp even when her hands are weary,
Unfazed by days that feel scary,
She speaks into the dawn and tells me to open its door,
Summoning the night watchers by singing the praises of the moon.
Flowers at the end of the walk,
Flowers at the bedside of departure,
Flowers for those who have fallen on the battlefield,
Flowers at the place where our loved ones sleep.
First published in Poetry Potion.
Alone
I sat still in the moment's silence,
Listening to the songs of the birds—
A melody of varied frequencies,
A harmony is born from nature's gifts.
I gazed at the radiant sky,
I watched the clouds,
Artwork of a perfect Craftsman.
They stretch, move, and disperse in space,
All in a time set and approved by their Creator.
I turned to look at a bird on a wire,
Unafraid of its rhythmic movement,
it preened its feathers.
It later took off,
basking in the warmth of the friendly sky.
I observed the trees,
Dancing to the orchestra of the wind.
Their exuberant foliage is a blessing of spring;
Their healthy boughs are a result of a generous intake.
I wondered how soon they would be gone—
Our dominance and insatiable craving for aesthetics have encroached on their survival.
I reflected on how my mother tended her garden.
I thought about how she made sure we had trees planted in our yard,
How she told us stories about the forest and its mysteries,
How her face glowed when her garden thrived and bloomed.
I pondered how I found myself walking her path.
Suddenly, I was jolted out of my reverie—
It was a call from my mother.
She talked about how her purple flowers had finally turned the corner.
I smiled at the excitement in her voice.
Her love for nature has allowed her to age gracefully;
I believe she has made the wisest choice.
Bedlam of the Chamber
The chaos in my heart,
The turbulence within my chamber,
A sea in tempestuous rage,
A sudden, rapid turning of the pages of a book,
An uproar gnawing at my mind—
Tranquil, I still seek to find.
I walk into the embrace of the day,
I walk into the loveliness of its morning light,
Desiring its warmth and beauty,
Hoping to look through its lens,
Longing to soar in the colours of its grace.
The chaos within me finds its way through,
The tumult escapes from its chamber,
I’m fighting to regain control.
The chaos in my heart is a recalcitrant child;
It refuses to be pacified.
It’s an age-old adventure,
An endless path filled with mysteries,
A wonderland of enigma.
Seeking the light hasn’t yet made a difference,
Searching the depths hasn’t quenched its flames;
It’s a monster glaring at my window.
I once told a sage that I feel like Paul in the Bible—
A thorn in his flesh,
Darkness in his soul,
An agent of Satan buffeting him.
He sought the Lord for deliverance,
But three times brought no difference—
Only a word of truth and consolation.
He said I didn’t understand what Paul meant,
But I believe I do;
Won’t the vessel know its contents?
Won’t the bearer recognize the weight of the load?
As much as I long for the strength of the Lord,
I desire the tranquillity of a river.
To Fly
To fly away to the celestial,
To spread my wings in the untroubled skies,
To find a home in a serene place,
Away from the turbulence gnawing at my mind.
To fly to a place where the night doesn't beckon,
To spread my wings in a realm bathed in light,
A place where I don’t wade through murky waters,
A place where I am embraced by the glory of each new day.
To fly to Eden,
A place where the incorruptible are like sprouting seeds.
A place where the fruits of the trees bestow youthfulness and vitality,
A place where the soft murmurs of the rivers unveil mysteries—
An Eden where darkness is kept at bay for the souls of its inhabitants.
To fly to a place where I can sit at the feet of the sages,
A place where I can drink from the rivers of wisdom,
A place where a hand is always there to hold and guide me.
Flying to a realm of perpetual peace and tranquillity is my earnest desire.
Ode to a New Day
You beckon to me, and I respond.
You open the door and take me by the hand.
You guide me as I see, learn, and sometimes comprehend.
You script and unfurl,
And I play my role, desiring to add my lines.
The elements, like soldiers, carry out their duties—
Unseen, but sometimes summoned by the sages.
This is a mystery from ages past;
Sometimes these soldiers are fiery and bold.
You lead me along a path that yesterday never saw and tomorrow longs to know.
I follow where the stream flows,
Keeping hope alive,
Holding the lamp through every struggle.
Though I may not understand all that I see,
I journey across the sea.
It is a privilege to be embraced by you,
And an honour to be held by you.
Though sometimes redemption feels like a tale,
And Zion seems like a lost city.
Thompson Emate spends his leisure time on creative writing, particularly poetry and prose. He has a deep love for nature and the arts. His work can be seen in Poetry Potion, Poetry Soup, Visual Verse, Written Tales magazine, Writers Space African magazine, Spillwords, Borderless Journal and elsewhere. He lives in Lagos, Nigeria.
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