SCRIBE & INK

He parked his car and opted out, got to the store, he bought her a red night dress and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon red wine, some chocolate, an album each of Blues and Country music. He wondered why he couldn’t remember what she liked. But he convinced himself somehow that he had made a good choice.

... I turned my back on her exiting the scene, she had first grabbed at her chest, seeming to rip out her heart but grabbed her stomach rather, as if to bring a child out of it, like an evidence to refute my last words. She went down on the floor with a howling cry. I could care less if she wept... I banged the door so loud, the neighbours should have jumped out of bed… but they didn’t ... T hinking about it in this lonely park, I resented this night, “why did I have to come home tonight?” I said out loud.

Joshua meador rainy windy day Shivering branches scares fleeing birds Waving clothes seeks The cozy corner of a wardrobe Palm trees block against the wind The sky pulls a curtain of blackness Fleeing kids, jumping Josh jams James Litters of rubbish terrified by drops Groaning doors and clapping windows Closing doors closes stalls Noisy roofs and flowing streams Across the street we see a wetting floor Speaking sky yells out thunder Fright and comfort Cool and noise Just another wet day on a suppose Sunday Paul Aremooluwa Copyright Content       2016 Next Poem

It is the belief in God that prepares us for death...  We are not soil & blood, a mere composition of matter and particles, a mixture of chemicals and its reactions, a product of chance, an output of a meteor's destructive force on earth... We live each day as though living is a routine. Until someone dies around us, then it dawn on us that perhaps life is a gift. We are privileged to partake of  it, to live once and be human. Without any sermon preached we suddenly understand the simplicity of life. At the news of the death of someone dear to our hearts our lives are mirrored. Our toils are mocked, riches disgraced and our pomp are drowned by the wailing voice. You ask me, what is life? It is the gift from a benevolent  God. So I realized, then I thank him for the privilege of the gift, for the dead cannot praise him as I do today. Even now, Like Moses said, "So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom." Even the strongest criti

I strolled out of the room in anger wondering why we fell in love in the first place. Hell shouldn’t be as tough as my marriage was. I could hear her sobs filtering through the bang of the front door. She was hurting but my heart was burning, maybe twice as hell itself. She had nagged life out of me. She had complained away my innocence. She makes me feel so guilty of nothing precisely. I am a good man until am home; she tries to paint me into a monster, the worst kind. Perhaps I made a wrong choice marrying her. I deserve to be happy, not having to put up with her complaints and obsession of attention. Oh gosh! She upsets my stomach. I plunged the key into the car, drove for a mile and half or so or more, I really didn’t care. I am far away from her, that’s all that mattered. I stopped the car and strolled into a deserted park, a gentle breeze bidding me welcome, it embraced my chest and sought to douse the fire burning within it. I looked the moon in its face, like a fluore

Heaven reaches out Knocking roofs & Tar Heaven seeking us Crying out heavy drops Scattered hands drumming loud Every house, every Lot Bells of drumming tears A hundred miles within reach Heavens bid a cold return It reaches to mend the torn Separation cast men gone Heaven longs to seek the lost Elderly, woman, man flee its call It seeks to wash the blood, hatred Street down its core The sweat, cleansing all our sores It brings relief, wind and wet Travelled distance heart resolved With simple message kids  rejoice Drilling life, pounding crust We hear the sail flowing round We know His love we'd seen the cross Caged denial we refuse its thrust Heaven spits the body clean The heart, mind within a sheath The voice we hear, listen you hear Hard knocks knocking roofs out loud Return you vile and gone afar I bid a welcome return Heaven knocking hands reaching Drizzling tears seeking us Greed gripped goons within its s

 It is when a man understands submission that the little moments of quietness, the uneasy moments of saying, “I am sorry” and the walking away from a nagging wife saves his marriage. “Do not try to dictate to me! You are always trying to teach me what to do” the 73 year old man barked at his wife, before me and few others. The woman went quiet all through that night. As that scene played over and again in my heart I observe that we cannot attain to a place in marriage where submission fades. In marriages where submission is shown the front door, the bags of one of the couple would soon follow. Where submission is denied access to thrive, the man tends towards autocracy and the woman becomes manipulative and rebellious. Heated arguments, battery, excessive anger, unforgiveness and ultimately divorce; implies both partners are not submitting to one another. I am not blind to certain people and cultures that have great exaggeration and misconception of submission and its applicati

In times like these, I am tempted towards despair. How quickly my youth has gone! Or I can be tempted towards envy of those whose youth and vitality are in their prime. Their exuberance runs circles around my increasingly feeble efforts. I lost my glasses and my keys all in one afternoon. Having stacked back to back appointments, I suppose it was bound to happen. Racing around as I was that day increased the likelihood of error. Other than my keys, I had left everything else in my car—including, I thought—my glasses. After a three hour search of the areas most likely to have my keys, I returned to my car and couldn’t find my glasses either. Desperate calls to the places I had been yielded no results. My glasses and my keys were lost. The older I get, the more these episodes of forgetfulness seem to increase. Many of my friends who are ever-so-slightly older than me tell me this is the way it is and that I’d better get used to it (or figure out a way to padlock my keys and glasse