A Tiger & A Dear

A tiger and a dear,

slogging out: heaven and hell,

which was real & where. They won’t

let; eyes were red, voices taut.

 

Show the way to heaven, one yelled.

I will; I will, when time’s ripe.

A dark man barged in with a dagger

and a gun, eyes redder than theirs.

 

The room dropped dead as night,

a bell about to toll. Both fled,

one made for the door; the other,

for a window yawning into the dark.

 

Down a dark lonely path, they met,

both panting, eyes bulging.

Are we safe, I saw a crouching tiger?

I saw a dear, lurking at a corner.

 

 

© 2017 Celestine Ikwuamaesi 

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By savingwordtracts

The Spirit Of The Sun

 

 

The bee knows where to find pollens;

the spider, how to span a chasm—

      driven, in the blood.

The stream follows the slope,

the way to the sea

      in rustling meander,

gathering moss, throwing gloss.

 

The sun, none can block

      his way, or slow his course

  till decked with a garland

      of golden rose.

             

It’s in the blood,

    in a genetic transmutation

       wrought by the ageless hand

that sculptured

    floating moon and winking eyes.

    

The sun cuts a highway in a jungle,

    drills light in pitch darkness;

       he sucks honey from rock,

draws the ire of fleas in the lea.

 

Cry against the scotching heat,

    but embrace his warmth less

       winter whines when summer

flees for lack of spring.

 

 

 

© 2017 Celestine Ikwuamaesi 

By savingwordtracts