Hearts, like doors, will ope with ease
To very, very little keys,
And don’t forget that two of these
Are “I thank you” and “If you please.”
Come when you’re called,
Do what you’re bid,
Close the door after you,
Never be chid.
© Anonymous | Spilledwords | 2021
Good God! I’m like an undone homework
Submitted to a tutor by an anxious pupil
Who over the weekend had tried
Yet failed to make headway.
Teacher– would you spank me?
Mock, flatter, or encourage your pupil?
Solve me for me, oh Lord.
Or teach me how to do me better
That the pass mark I may not miss.
© Ndidi Ugo- Nkwoala | Spilledwoords.org | 2021
Is there anything sweeter than these hours of love,
when we’re together, and my heart races?
For what is better than embracing and fondling
when you visit me, and we surrender to delights?
If you reach to caress my thigh,
I will offer you my breast also —
it’s soft; it won’t jab you or thrust you away!
Will you leave me because you’re hungry?
Are you ruled by your belly?
Will you leave me because you need something to wear?
I have chests full of fine linen!
Will you leave me because you’re thirsty?
Here, suck my breasts! They’re full to overflowing, and all for you!
I glory in the hours of our embracings;
my joy is incalculable!
The thrill of your love spreads through my body
like honey in water,
like a drug mixed with spices,
like wine mingled with water.
Oh, that you would speed to see your sister
like a stallion in heat, like a bull to his heifer!
For the heavens have granted us love like flames igniting straw,
desire like the falcon’s free-falling frenzy!
Many thanks to Michael R. Burch for the job well done. You did a great job at translating and bringing such an ever green poem to the English audience. You can read more of Burch’s poems at http://www.thehypertexts.com
Handcuffs can’t their immoral pursuits deter
Like professional secretaries to first world executives
Whose short skirts, tight pants, juicy thighs conceive nothing but rape –
their stairway to climb the highest corporate rung
Some Stepmothers stop at nothing to gain financial freedom.
Portifa’s wife-like women –
My son befriend her with wariness to get his father’s attention,
Else, she cries rape and ropes you into turmoil.
She’s worse when sweetheart’s old, worn, and rich,
Her sacred treasury point she oils with gigolos,
Lavishing father’s wealth on these young sex managers-
Old sweetheart kept in the dark.
A handsome stepson’s still endangered;
Not spared from her amorous trysts report and be exiled;
Your home outstripped by her agents – children
she’s sired, cheering false friends.
If you’re their friend, gird your loins,
A third world war might be brewing,
just because of your snitching.
Stepmothers like the Bibles Hagar
Who resume duty as lowly servants –
Their madams begin to stink as soon –
as soon as their bellies shoot up.
Hagar – like stepmothers buy their wares in a red-cloth shrine,
Any food they serve is portent – a materialization of inventive genius.
Her’ s a science experiment – you the laboratory, your internal organs the specimen.
Have her rummage through her food mixture inside out before tasting,
if your life is worth the price of a pair of shoes.
The second best stepmothers are mature leeches.
Let a private eye film them if you care to win.
Then there’s the stepmother you bought
For DAD as a memorial gift –
If she devout, fear her most.
Her fangs are worse than cattle stampede.
The thing with wise stepmothers is
They marry you before they Wed father;
Then you can rest assured, War’s over.
© Ndidi Ugo-Nkwoala | Spilledwoords.org | 2021
Photo credit: “Lydia the Tattooed Lady” by Mark Fredrickson
This poem was written in a dingy room at a sober hour, reflecting on his mother and her tragic death. The author – without a doubt was the most influential character of the twentieth century; more prominent than Lenin, Stain, or Mao Tse Tung, his fearful legacy disrupted so many lives, stirred so much hatred. For a man with a heart of stone (as many ascribe him), he had a spot for his mother whom he revered – indeed, a mother’s love is weightier the fiercest hurricane. Think of it while we all wish our mothers the best!
I recall you told me
when we talked over the air,
you would come to see me like a VIP.
At Nekede, I’ve with fanfare
been planning what to show you:
an umbrella tree, a bloom here,
a crooked path there; yonder a grove
close to it a wellspring, on this side a slope
on that a stream glare.
Indeed, madam, I know nothing
so charming as this place
where nature spread so rich
a mantle under the eyes,
yet these splendors are mere shadows
without you to behold their beauty.
© Ugo Nkwoala | Spilledwoords.org | 2021