Author Archives: Uyi

I write

When do the birds do come

When do the birds do come
For every time I whisper
They sing
All thanking the skies for the berries
Praying after the rain had gone
They drain away yesterday water
To the caterpillar, it flows down
To the green leaves, it performs a stagnant tradition
Dancing, enticing the dew of the morning

When do the birds do come
For the time I see the sun
The heat rises from my left side
Blowing wind to me
The crisp warmth of light
Letting the plays from the talking drum ring
Flowing with fresh soup
Hot to mouth, afresh for breath

When do the birds do come
For the evening, frogs croak
Happy for the residing sun
The returning snake shakes lips
Praying for the fruits of tomorrow
Words from the creaking flies
Biting the ears for a chance to listen
Humming for the light remaining

When do the birds do come
Maybe until the coming of sun
Silently accepting the visit of night
A night blissful with dark

Ridiculous

It really is the perfect thing. But your mind fights it relentlessly, it struggles to come with terms of what you have seen before. Our minds have been bathed with movies, ideals, fairy tales, preconceived hatred. So how can you accept what your soul longs for? when you have never listened to it. There is no picture of your soul anywhere in the world, even on those colossal billboards you pass by. A fact is a fact. It is there so people, normal people like me can dissect and try to make a meaning of it. But a soul is not a fact. I can’t say it’s something more, because I’ll only be contradicting myself (Maybe I already did). You can’t dissect or explain a soul. It’s abysmal in dark terms, and blissful in heavenly description. The concept of soul mates has been hacked and slacked into a meaningless sense of lust. How can our five senses be associated with soul when souls are neither smell nor sex? Beautiful, if you ask me. I mean the idea of having a soul locked into specific functions, when all our floating entity wants to do is move and flow with life.

Intermission; this rice will not consume itself, neither will this cherry Gatorade

Letting your writing ‘flow’

helpful read

LionAroundWriting's avatarLionAroundWriting

optimal flow

Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (1995)

No doubt you’ve heard the expression ‘in the flow of things’ the idea of being in the zone, a place where nothing can interrupt your thinking. It all comes so naturally, so easily, as if by instinct.

But what is flow? Is it definable? According to Mihalyi Csikszentmihalyi (try remembering that for an exam), flow is being in a place mentally where little else has meaning, as if able to block out external stimuli, to focus on one thing totally. Crucially, flow is intrinsically motivated and often has no tangible reward other than the performance of the activity itself. It is self-fulfilling, but that is not to say that if rewards become part of this process you will suddenly cease to enjoy the activity. There are those who disagree:

“No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.” Samuel Johnson

Examples of people who…

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Night of Fire

Finite bond
Born blues
Foul night
Bond blues
Surfacing at the break of interlude

Tough to break
The cloth of love
Never ending the tale of heart break

Foul night
Bond blues

Thrift searching
Hands holding
Nakedness uncovered
Asking “do you see my beauty”

Beauty I saw
Staring at her
She, flowing with sweet sweet
Jazz

Foul night
Born blue

There are momen…

There are moments I want to write, to share, but there are those special ones so hot and intense; moments I just want kept locked away in my heart forever.
Greedy I know, but it’s a matta only meant for face to face

let the love die

Our distance closed

The aisle burning

The chapters folding

.

Building up to a crescendo of emptiness

Structures forming, residing sunshine

.

Filming moments of yesterday

A scene played too soon

A method of acting, they call it

.

Can we go back?

To when it felt right

When all we did was dance

Pouring laughter, lashing anger

Raw and free

Lucky ludo

.

Though we had shelter

The hunger we had

Was lost in the showers of monsoon

.

Heat to skin, lips to cheek

Breast to chest, hands to bare ass

.

The clear signs became dust

An end to us

Hearty emoticons to us

.

Right here in the dark

Mingling legs, scratching toes

Hoping the love never died in the theatre of dreams

.

So I guess it’s just another

Unresolved face to face

So fade babe,

Fade

Let the love die

A September in Saturn

Bold fire, burning temptations

Brown bush, growing seeds

Smell of wash away

The taste for silk skin

A girl of night dreams

 

Something we have

Brings to life

Balance or solace, maybe

 

Something in you

Makes me want

To engrave a kiss

On your shoulders, or thighs

In difference

 

Strong connections, wetted lips

Reddened for interference

Coherent with the bliss we make

 

Yes,

The bliss we make

Makes us indifferent

Our stake in time

Our fate in show

Our names in September

The Crying Guitar

Tears from a string

Another morning preaching the word ‘disaster’

Fragments of recurring wrongs

Southern dilemma

Hands held high

Buckets filled to the brim

Colors mismatched with red and gun powder

Feet of soldiers, prints of herdsmen

The fuss going all night

Bringing the finale to the break of dawn

Last time I write these words, I pray

 

fly away coated angel

What are bridges?

but roads

Down to the woods

The world becomes a cabin

Boxed in from world hunger

There, the soul never felt so empty

All along, the world’s light was never bright

Dim

Neither redeeming

Only a facade of mischief

So run rabbit, run

Back to the woods

Yea of layered coating

The lion prowls hoping to sink teeth

Golden Blood

A magnificent looking red gazelle met a black bad wolf

“I want to be your friend,” says the red gazelle.

The black bad wolf grins and replies, “cometh winter I shall lick your bones cold dry.”

Instincts betrays no one
Shadows of the accuser