My reverence to Reverends who
Pontificate the liturgies
To cast away our manacles.
Those who relish the delightful seasons in gaols
To antecede our Nirvana.
Their placid claustrophobia
Has caused our trees
To dance to the swift drums of the wind.
Their hands were crowned
And pinioned nights and days with ‘cuffs
Leaving them with happy scars.
Today, we skim our pantheon prose and shrines
Gathering as prophets to pontificate our rituals to your majesties.
It was you who:
Caused birds to twiddle and twitter resonantly.
You have traded your breaths for freedom
So as to never die.
Today we write your praises again
In our pantheon novels till our inks run dry
Leaving a myriad of your praises still unsung.
But we shall fill our inks again and write
Your praises till we cannot write.
We shall twinkle our guitars to twitter
To sing your praise songs yet unsung when our inks were dried.
All hail to thee reverends!
Champions of our fiercest battle.
OH TO BE A PREACHER!
Oh to be a prophet I say!
When sight beholds the sight of
In his opulent world.
When eyes feast on the emissary of Christ
Mound of mortals about the halo hollow holy
A stampede waiting and wanting to feed their eyes on the halo.
Thousands are hungry for a gaze
All clad in calicoes,
Fawning meticulously at his swine mightiness.
Blindly bawling his pertinence.
Mounds traverse, fixing their gaze at the rostrum,
Adoring the glints of his enamel coat,
His shimmering wrist
Pinioned in gold
His gigantic pilgrimage crafts.
Eschewing his Turpitude,
They sounded his vicious sanctity
Oh! Woe to my wretched pen
Woe to me, a wretched word shepherd.
Oh to be a preacher I say!
Poems: © Abayomi Zeal Akinmade
Image: Jónatas Luzia via Flickr (cropped, blurred)