PsalmsInk

Of an occurrence that occurred in our obscure For our sake, his-tory burdens shelves, in library, Walking letters, tracing back the faded dawns For a tale that called us tears, fetched us smile. June 12: your memories still ring bell. Of a peaceful election that tore us into pieces And a justice that couldn't justify an injustice, Till we changed a prisoner in our own palace Observing the scent of freedom, from a distance. June 12: your memories still ring bell. Of a truth that was cloaked with a foggy linen Causing explorers a circumnavigation of a circle, Hustle, struggle, grumble, stumble, double trouble And fare of pain, to the rooms below their foots. June 12: your memories still ring bell. Of an annulment, a pregnancy of self declaration Declaration that gave birth to mass destruction Destruction, that nurtured our tears into a river A river that flushed us, to the joy of democracy. Your spirit is still alive, with us, since 1993, June 12: y...

Staring the sky above my head Pouring out the wishes in my mind, Bring me back, the old good moments Again, I'll like to revisit my movements. Days we misspelt standard living, for “sandalili" As we jingle over an unstable branch, like a motor, Waving eagles to paint white, our brown nails And in our bare mouth, the London bridge never cease in falling down. When I remember the old good memories, Water run down, from my eyes. Memories spent under some twinkle, twinkle, little stars With our grandmother, that likes to wear skirt, Telling us the full life story of Solomon Grandy And tale of the Old Roger, who died and gone to his grave. At dawn, we see mom with bread and butter basket Then, we roll, roll, roll our boat, to check who's in the garden, Where we meet Cinderella, dressed in yellow And together, we wave aeroplane, ódà bò, to help us greet ìyá eléko. When I remember some old good times, Water run down, from my eyes. Times we gathered und...

Done gone, are the tranquil days of no war When peace rest on each surface of the wall, Before our bricks turned a low-rated border That welcome forces and make minds bother. Èrò ojà olówó, Kí l'eti s'ojà yí sí? Strayed are those serene scenes of no siren When lights lighten all lives like lively hygiene, Before blue turns violent, red cease to be rose And at sound of “wao" --our adrenaline arose. Èrò ojà olówó, Kí l'eti s'ojà yí sí? Sour are our sweeter-than-saccharine stories When cheeks smile, reminiscing its memories, Before our at-hand living stops being blissful And our tomorrow slowly becomes remorseful. Èrò ojà olówó, Kí l'eti s'ojà yí sí? That our children may not, lost in this maze Let's make peace with the entire human race, For, our fright is never to end with this day We only fear our train stop before the sun ray. #PsalmsInk © Samuel O. Ogunyinka, (Psalmist).

I'm this man, next to that crime connoisseur I've been a cheat, I've been a lie, call me names, For, my thief operates phases, via a face, for all Nail me to my cross, I'm set to take my blames. Again, my love, Let me bring from mile, your smile. If it's worth sinned, it's worth punished, really But remember, heavens dance over a sole rebirth, Here is my hands, sustain it, lest it get weary That later, I might use to cuddle you, like a belt. Again, my love, Draw me close, you have my oath. Long ago, I claimed strong, now sit I helplessly Come, my requested rib, come fill me in an hurry, All that my heart sings, is your name -honestly Come back, or is it too late now to say “sorry"? Again, my love, Let me blunt your tears I brought. My heart beats like am on a track of a rear race Perhaps, by night, to an unmapped place it'll fly, Lest my exit shall shun some suns and their rays Let not those tarrying trees out wave you “bye...

We hear it, the sound of your dissonance beats At the shrine, where your body and soul meets, You claim to have a breach to sole soul's sorrow Yet, your abode is doubting of seeing tomorrow, This shame, to my entire hereabouts herbalist; When the country ache render their herbal least. We can see those buildings, bigger than Mecca's But, aside piled bricks, where are your medals? You claim to be an influence and agent of peace Yet, your country has never for once be at ease, This shame, to my Muslim sisters and brothers; Whose prayers can't spring and break borders. We knew it, you increase by each tick(s) of time And to many souls, just an alarm is your chime, You claim abundance is at the tip of your finger Yet, your Jerusalem slowly dies of merry hunger, This shame, to my breathing brethren in Christ; That kneels can't go low for the country to rise. This shame; To my people that can't shine their lights To my fellow religious souls that ...

I'm like an unsafe boy of no tranquil haven Reaping his breath from the ghetto heaven, With me, no feet stand as a shielding hark Even my shadow waves “bye", when it's dark. Daily as I peep the sky, in search for a better day All I see is the shunning sun and it's ruining ray, Still, some says; “in lot of lost, lies a lot of life", Perhaps, they've never known what it takes, for boys like me to survive. In dawn of today, I once hoped to be redesigned Yet, when I woke, tribulation, is the only word that got me defined, Times talk truly, but my success story, they can't mention And when my mind is although choked, it has never skipped this question; When will I spell  g r e a t n e s s? #PsalmsInk #StraightFromTheMind © Samuel O. Ogunyinka, (Psalmist) '18.

That our children may not think of us rootless We shall say now, Before this cold breeze freeze our ink And the dumb death seize our mouth, Before we won't be able to eat again or breath again, We shall tell now; How we killed our father. Our identity, the feeling agent Intact; neither faded by sun contact, Constant; nor changed by the dark of night But if today, yesterday's black turns devil on whites' screens, Or paints villain in their novels; It's at the emergence of grudge, That our low lullaby becomes an insult. If we were ever handicapped, not culturally And our tradition could not be frightened by any custom, Not on any challenging or norm less road Charged was our respecting speedometer, But if at dawn a cock crows tomorrow And a naive native son deny father a humble prostrate, Knot the blames on the neck of last stroke. On that shameful market,  by the street Before our pride was being priced for naked, And my sister's navel da...