FRAGMENTS OF INNOCENCE
You sat on that chair,
With eyes full of innocence,
Longing for a hand to hold,
With arms stretched,
Waving at shadows of a father.
A pose only readable within
Those who went through the same
Unfamiliar road to their becoming.
I wonder what life has given you—
A load so heavy that it drenches
Your tender heart.
Even when you let out
Those sweet smiles on your face,
They speak thousands
Of unspoken words that seek love
In a creation you never decried of coming.
Here, life hands you over
To brokenness and totems,
To toss and live with each day,
Longing and wishing to fix
A family's broken portrait:
A boy, a man, and a child surviving,
Home that calls your name
In a broken map, and says that you are a man.
PEEP IN A SHARD HOME
Today, I took a stroll in their gardens—
With a lens of knowledge,
With one who, in the time past, was one
With home, and its broken apartment,
Where nothing else is holding home,
But I, Mine, Me, and yours alone.
These words that leave homes,
In shards without knowing—
How every experience of these are shaped.
Here, I am taking a glimpse of, and glance
At their broken hearts saying:
What is home?
And what is a family who takes only—
But I, Mine, Me, and yours alone,
To hold every child here in bondage,
Saying that they are victims of parenting,
Separating kids from home and family—
Still, calling themselves parents in all.
DISCOMFORTING HOME
Now, I know that this life I am living is not mine. The man of language said that it is a cliché – but I know, the message that I wanted him to know about me has been delivered. In any use of language he wanted me to do this, today, I failed him. I said: that I am living, but this life is not my own. I desire outside home frequent than home; how is this life my own and I run outside more than I run inside, and the comfort of outside is not satisfying even the shadows it offers me; alas! Am I now lost in the midst of the world? How else should I live to gather my life again? The last time I saw the light, the heavens blinked and everything became dark again where once God said: let there be light, but here we kiss goodnight to our dreams of home, of its discomfort, and the comforts of the outside home.
3.50AM, 04/10/2024
Dear Son,
I will not lose you.
Some nights,
seeing you in my dreams are like;
holding a knife, cutting off
the better part of my life.
Where I don’t wish
the coming of another morning—
because in one night,
I lost and found you,
I found and lost you
in an innumerable buildings.
Your smile, your fears,
your agony and tender body—
maltreatment by your mother
at the mention of my name.
It cuts and kills me,
nights and days,
day and night alike.
LETTERS TO A CHILD
My daughter is 3-years-old, and I’m still
not sure if I’m a good father
- Rudy Francisco
for: Chisimdiri, my Muse.
Dear Child,
I am writing to you
in the clasp of waters.
Listen to the voice
of atonements—
If it be 25,
born on the 27th,
or the 10th or 22nd,
heed the account.
Ask for the mouth
that beautifies your earthly form,
as casks of joy,
and as a gift from my ancestors.
There's Amina, Abasiama—
so there's Zaynaab,
and I will speak of Damilola,
perhaps Roseline and Sarah.
Seek them and learn letters.
To be loved means to love letters.
Here, I hang my garb—
waiting to curl my longings
in your wits.
UNNAMED
This petal fell
As the flowers grew
In a troubled earth.
Though we wanted flowers,
Two were already planted:
One in love, and the other
In what took the semblance of chaos.
Where prayers are offered now and then,
For safe earthly arrivals.
But the rain never falls
On the petals nor the flowers.
Yet even the unnamed would know,
That nature’s ways are different.
Bio:
John Chinaka Onyeche is a Nigerian writer of colour (BIPOC) and historian from Etche in Rivers State. A graduate of history and diplomatic studies. He serves as a poetry curator with Port Harcourt Literary Review. He is dedicated to ensuring that the full scope of history is accurately represented poetically. His writing can be found in various journals, including; Charles University, Prague, Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival, Akpata Review, Rigorous, Ebedi Review, Overtly Lit, Middlebury Institute of International Studies, McNeese University, Pier Review University of Brighton, Tilted House Journal, Akewi Magazine, and Brittle Paper. Best of Net, 2022, Pushcart, 2023.
Connect with him on Twitter @Apostlejohnchin or https://linker.ee/RememberAjc
