By Emmanuel Uzomah
I have craved for roses all through my life
But when I beheld an inflorescene of red roses,
Nestling in a lush green plant
I snatched a branch with relish
Instantly, my fingers became red as a rose
And in my bewilderment,
I discovered that roses have thorns
But I have dreaded thorns all through my life
But when I examined the thorns,
The ones that pricked my hands,
And made me bleed
I was filled with dismay
But in my dismay,
I observed closely
The beautifully made and artistically crafted
Roses, dressed in red
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Instantly, I forgot my pains
And began to dilate upon the object of my desire
As I wondered!
So roses have thorns
I was baffled
As I reflected further in my mind,
And thorns as well, have roses
Could this be the magic of our existence
A world filled with beauty
In the midst of adversity
And I prayed: Dear Lord! Help me to manage
Roses with their thorns
And tolerate thorns with their roses
VIOLENCE
What is it that monstrously revives the Mongrel in me?
And stifles my sheep’s instinct that should
Have been vast as the sea?
What is it that makes me a tiger
And kills all the natural attributes of a klipspringer?
Why do I prawl, bark and hack, even in my lack?
Wheedling, floundering in a land
Full of castles of sand
Raised by differing warlords with some hidden intent,
Darkly expressed in innuendos
Why does the Godly virtue of turning the other cheek
Make me sick?
Even when it could make peace reign
In a land that is awash with induced acid rain
Why do we have everywhere, men with the feet of clay
Trampling on the souls of men
Instead of peacemakers with a Godly heart to pray?
So that peace may abound
In the land, where the nation’s rudder is
Aground, in a world at war with itself.
And man himself, the harbinger and midwife
Of all seething strife
In all his struggle and toil
A mere monument of simmering turmoil,
Inflamed by sticky hands in the quest for filthy lucre.