From door to door it moves,
Over the hills through the undergrowth,
Into the farms by the stream,
Overlooking fields with feeding lambs.
Brimming to the lid with peace,
Always tidy yet never swept,
Very narrow yet so long,
Endless but never tiring.
Even under a weeping sky,
Village footpath is best to ply,
For no dungeons of portholes exists,
Or devilish little ponds to soil your feet.
©uchenna
I will pick a pen to write a poem every night,
But just like any night my brain will close very tight,
Half way through the first stanza of a war poem,
All I can I can think of becomes cupid totem.
Even as I managed to get through the first stanza,
I feel like orderings a pizza,
Who will tell me what rhymes with stock,
No doubt about it that I’m stuck.
I can't believe it but I am in stanza three,
I think I will have a cup of tea,
For only a few can write such a line,
In such a short space of time.
I think I will lay my head in the pillow sleeping,
Haven spent the whole night writing,
At least I did not subject my pen to painful biting,
If this rubbish makes sense to you then happy reading.
None of the contents of this blog is to be used without permission. email uched.lovebird@gmail.com
When I was a little boy,
Still playing in the sand with toy,
I saw life as seriously unfair,
But I still wonder if it's fair.
I often asked why I'm dark hue,
Or why humans aren't created blue,
Why I sweat to climb a tree,
While birds simply fly free.
And I asked why the cripples are there,
Despite all the distress they bear,
Why the blind only have his teeth,
To tell if his food is stone or meat.
Everyday I'll stand to watch the cars,
As their tires whistles on the tars,
And I wondered who can afford those things,
As most can hardly afford milk tins.
No part of this blog should be used without proper permissions and credits from Uchenna. Email uched.lovebird@gmail.com
