What’s bride without veil, king without crown, eyes without sight

What’s morning without bright, love without sacrifice, tomorrow without hope

What’s beauty without acceptance, joy without an uprising, volcano without lava

What’s laughter without sound, play without colour, sky without blue

What’s me without you?



Somedays you find yourself in

Habits you thought you’ve outgrown


Life is not a staircase

It’s a circle

It all goes and comes and goes

Keep in mind who you are

Keep in mind it won’t last forever

You will survive

A story will be told

Failure is a testament to your humanity

Failure is not a dirty word

Failure does not exist


You Need People

You might not be 

a strong believer in people, for good reason

But don’t be so feebleminded to think

You have no need for friends in every season

One or two, three or twenty

Number is of little relevance, perhaps age of more importance,

Or not. Point is

You need people to remind you that you are alive 

And that there is meaning in that word because

In all the choices that are and will be made in their limited existence

You are one that they make daily

Some days with more intensity and devotion than others, point is,

You are chosen—


And people need you too,

To do the same for them.

Maybe, just maybe this is how we stay alive

In the less bodily sense of the word.

Why Am I Here?

To be. To love. To create. To live.

To fall and rise and

Raise others in my rising and more,

In my falling

To look. To see. To breathe. To work.

To be immersed in the beauty of life, and let

The tears and laugh lines of living kiss my naked cheeks.

To shine. To reflect. To sing. To dance.

To be reminded constantly of something bigger than the consequential irregularities of being

A city of blood and flesh and bone

And in that remembrance find

Strength, find hope, find enough love birthing boldness

To wake another morning and the next after that.

Poem: The Big G

God; lord of Heaven’s armies

God; ruler of stars and all things that move; all of life itself

God; unequaled in grandour, unmatched in splendor 

Wakes the sun to its rising and clocks

The moon to appear, spreads the sky over us 

Like a mother covers and holds her own in the cold, because, God; 

Mother of all; big and small

From the vastness of mountaintop views to the mandible

Of an ant; He cares for all

Who is like our God?

Rich in mercy, steadfast in love

Established  in faithfulness, abundant  in grace. God; 

dressed in skin tattered by the names of His beloved

God; impossible to describe, impossible to fully imagine 

Yet God, this magnificent, exorbitant capital G God, 

Loves me with an everlasting  love

That runs after me, overtakes me, overshadows me

Till I am face to face with the bare glory and power and might

Of Him who has chosen me, and called me into Himself

How could I resist? 

How could you resist?

Poems 25/28


Beauty is not a physical thing

It is not a body thing

It is very much like love;

Something (or someone) you cannot touch but

You cannot live without

Beauty is me, that I can be

That I was,

That I am,

That I will be

Beauty is not sexy;

There’s no sex involved, including gender

There is no “y” either in the way that words

With “y” are a subset of something else

Beauty is not a subset

Beauty is Set, with a capital “s”;

A being who can stand on its own two feet

Carry its own shoulders

Sweat in the heat of living

Die daily from being alive

Beauty is not bought,

Beauty is not earned,

It, quite simply, is, and sometimes

It pays you a visit

Like a fond friend, one you wish you could marry

Just so they’ll never leave you

But you know you don’t deserve them

You know you couldn’t bear that kind of weight

That kind of weight of glory

Because beauty

Is me, and beauty is you

When we lose sight of ourselves altogether

To see beyond our own fray skin

You Are My Flagellation

By Dami Ajayi (from Daybreak & Other Poems)

Love poems are like Cocaine,

Heroine, Met, LSD, Marijuana for

Those in touch with their feelings…

The fingers of the heart try to grasp things

Like beauty, curves, blue eyes. Affection is no foreign

Exchange. No, it is the legal tender of living.

This is why love songs sell and crooners

Make a career singing the same songs till their voices break.

Songs are the raw material of text messages, ladies.

They are crude oil of those fancy voice notes.

In the world according to affection, we are all plagiarists.

Hell, art is incestuous; love is incestuous,

Or what did Freud say? In some quarters

They say, “Forget Freud, he was a novelist”

But isn’t life a novel, a television series,

And endless love song? And in films don’t people

Fuck and fall in love?

Yes, they do. And they also watch the sunset.

Growing old with their bent spouse’s hand

In theirs. That is the life. Life is the American

Film to which we all aspire.

Forgive me; this was supposed to be a love

Poem. And I wanted to call it something cryptic,

Something profound, something exotic like

You are my flagellation.

You know that is borrowed too.

Stolen, actually from, was it Odia Ofeimun?

But baby, you are my flagellation.

I have started the poem baby, you are

My flagellation. You are the imagination that

Proselytizes me to a dummy. You are the

Aggregation of all the virtues I can’t afford

On eBay. You are my screen saver.

My one and only.

My madam at the top.

My cocoyam.

You put a smile on my face even when I sleep,

You are the imagination that proselytizes me to a

Dummy. You are my flagellation.

I have started the poem baby, it is you and I

Holding hands, strolling into the sunset.