I hide my tears

Behind your veil,

Between the crevice 

Of a fragile wall of love

Where I fight my way

To be your crown…


I hide my tears

For surreal…

For frost, for freedom to

Draw your art nigher

And fill the crispy crevice

With me alone…


I hide my tears

Till those moments

Remembered by me,

Where tales become tides

By expressing me with ‘felt’

Before I left you to choice.


Though, those tears might not

Flow to make you think

Of how I’ve lived in your shoe,

You know you are mine,

Why must I feel your foot

Before I kiss your loin?

O’ Jewel!


Natur’s Pictur N’quill​


CHINUA ACHEBE by Ikpe Comfort


That day, as I sat outside,
The hawk dropped me a message.

In my grief,

I opened the brief.

He wrote: “Hope things have stopped falling apart?”

I stared and returned a stern gaze at the hawk.

For he was no more;

But I had received a message from him,

He had asked question I knew no answer for.

To look at the hawk was impossible,

For it was no more.

I had received a message from him.


© Ikpe Comfort


TELL ÀSHÀKÉ by Joel Oluwatosin 


If you ever cross her pathway, 

If you ever get a whiff of her fragrance,

If you recognize

The sound of her footsteps from a distance

And the melody of her sonorous chant;

Àkàrà rèé, Èko rèé…


The step daughter of a famous adroit

bean cake merchant..

Tell Àshàké…

That her voice was the fork

That tuned my ear,

That the sand is delighted

To be the canvas of her elegant steps,

That the moon would be unwise not to stare at her.

Tell Àshàké…

She should be careful when visiting streams,

Oya, Yemoja, Òsun and others of their ilk

are envious,

Not all goddesses are pleased with her beauty.

Tell Àshàké…

That an iota of her smile

Is all the day needs to be brightened,

No wonder Gbádégeshin could not let go of her

And saw to it to the end.

Please tell Àshàké…

I never meant to leave her in the cold,

I sure made a perfect plan to elope,

I never wanted her to retreat

Back to Ìyá Alákàrà; the lousy scold.

Narrate to Àshàké…

That I was never a coward,

Even after those blows from the Prince’s sword

Her call I never Ignored,

Even now, as I lay

In my very own pool of blood

And my ancestors beckon

Tell her

She was the one Àkànní loved till the end came.

Joel Oluwatosin



My Son,

There is no journey without freedom

You may fly without a wing

You may walk when wings are there

You may cry with songs that sing

You may smile whilst you are in tears…

You may live in living of lone…

You may live to be free from home

You may decide on the rising sun

You may tell tales beneath the moon’ song

You may let go of your love ones…

Is freedom free my son?

Can you feel my tears? –

My tears that is not shed for you

But for the life I fail to live with you

When you are free from herds of here and there…


My son,

Life owes no one pain or gain

We, all owe life our pain, our gain

We make fate, before fate is too late…

Make fate my Son, before fate is too late

Make fate, when fate is your faith!

The more you live your life

The more your life writes you her poems

The more your life writes you 

The more your life is right 

About her poetry book that portrays you…

You make her to make right

In your present plight, as you live…

Living is a poem my Son,

We are all poets of our life…

Think, deep, to reap your reap.

To be continue…

c. Natur’s Pictur N’quill


My Son,

Life is a prosaic poem

Decoded by spoken words

Living is a poem

Understood by a tip of sand…

Hmmmm. ..My son,

If my life will be a poem,

Write me poetry

To be read in each poem

Of the multitudes…

Then –

Will I live on what I left undone

For death will surely knock my head

I will knock your certain head

We will all knock death’s head

At the centre of timeless banter!


Except you are of something

Nothing will ever heal you

You may sway athwart by time –

Spend on searching for living

Or will all pros on prosaic poems


Nothing will ever heal you my son

You may be an excerpt of praises

Or the creator of creatures

By one in a million phrases…

Except you excel out of your weakness!


Though you walk on the rage of ocean

Or be the tides of religion

Nothing will ever heal you my son,

Though you puke what was…

Except you except something for all thing!


Nothing, I say these words!

Nothing, my beloved son of my quill

Nothing, see agama nodding his crested head…

Except you are of change you want to see

On this mold… O’ my son!…

(To be continue…)

c. Natur’s Pictur N’quill.


You were once a seed

Planted by Someone I didn’t know—

Someone; my Good God—

Your father; Our creator; Your knowing,

You will become a tree

Harvested by people you won’t know –

People in the wisdom of my Good God

That will keep growing…

Till you become an empire

Of your desire Sire.

Keep breathing Agedemapetii! –

The pot that cooks but remains uncooked! 

Natur’s Pictur N’quill​