Life in Pieces 2

PLEASE DRAW MY ARMS

There is a little girl that was

A pretty little girl

All that she did was pretty

The little girl she was

The little girl did love to draw

Seated on her pretty table, she drew

One day, she drew a pretty picture

The drawing was of me

The drawing made a pretty picture

The prettiest picture that could be!

Eyes that shone, skin that glowed

The picture looked so real

The little girl, she gave me life

Her pretty wand a pencil

With her magic I could jump,

Skipping through the fields, I made a pretty sight

One day while I skipped, I tripped and then I fell

I tried to get up I tried but failed

I called to my maker “Pretty girl where are you?”

The pretty girl was gone

It was while I struggled, I realised I had no arms

I was of paper not meant to last

I searched for the pretty girl

I willed her to come. I

My voice made a pretty sound, a pretty useless sound

The weather turned, the clouds swelled, soon the rain began

Heavy splashes charged at me

Each droplet tearing my world apart

Once more, I tried calling. My voice, now a whisper

Pretty girl, little girl, pretty little girl

Please hear my voice and come to me for alone I cannot stand

In your haste to create a masterpiece, you forgot to draw my arms

                                                                                                                        - July 2003

THESE ARE THE DAYS

These are the days of the prophets

Our counted days on earth

From every corner hear their call

Come and buy my wares

Wealth, redemption or deliverance sold to the high roller!

 Still, these are the days of our prophets

After burning the enemies and their generations unborn

We fail to ease the hurts of the homeless waif

On the streets, children hawk themselves

Sidewalks a fort for ‘used’ women

Yet, these are the days of the prophets

From January to December, we watch and we wait

Humbly we pray eagerly we hope

Salvation lies ahead, forgiveness from the divine

Last night my brother was shot to death

His crime? He dared to stand still

Yes! These are the days of the prophets

A many churches and prayer houses we build

As many slums, batchers, and alleys we fail to destroy

In the morning, we are promised a better tomorrow

In the evening, we sleep with one eye open

Of course, these are the days of the prophets

- March 2009

Culled from Sketches Energy (Unpublished)

A collection of Poems by

Oseyi Okoh