November´25: Featured Poets

Saleema A Zamsarf

The Wait

In silence, I wait for a sign, a slow, tortuous crawl where time loses its design. The clock ticks on, yet the hands stand still, as if the universe itself holds its breath, unwilling to fulfill my longing for a glimpse of what's to come, a respite from this endless hum of waiting.

In this liminal space, I hang between hope and despair a fragile balance, where uncertainty's weight threatens to snuff the flame that flickers within me, a faint resilience in the dark. Yet, I'm drawn to the comfort of surrender, to the ease of letting go and embracing the fall. For in stillness, I find strange solace, a quiet release from the burden of expectation.

Then, like a whisper carried by wind, a soft certainty begins to seep within. My eyes, once closed to truth, now see the fruits of labor slowly ripening on the tree. I realize the wait was not in vain, but a necessary hush before the dawn of gain.

Now I stand at the threshold, steady and deep, ready to claim what patience taught me to keep. For I've learned the wait is no idle test, but a crucible shaping the spirit's best, a quiet refining, a sacred growth, to emerge more whole, more steadfast, and more both.

Instagram @ Saleema A Zamsarf

Gani Umar Ahmad Rufa’i

The Blood Smith

To some, it is just a house of sand and cement, But I call it home, where my soul pays rent, Where my umbilical cord first found its length, Where cries turned into songs, and silence into strength.

Not the zinc roof or the creaking wooden gate, But Mama's voice at dawn, waking every fate. Not the jollof that jumps in the earthly pot, But the laughter that rose where the fire stayed hot.

Not the generator groaning in midnight's gloom, But tales by lantern light, glowing up the room. Not Daddy's koboko or thunderous tone, But the wisdom he carved into our marrow and bone.

Not the quarrels that flared like dry ewedu leaves, But the hush of peace stitched on Sunday eves. Not the wild chase through broken compound halls, But cashews and mangoes, crickets, grass cutters, and all.

Not the rivalry for faded clothes or worn out shoes, But how we cradled each other's pain, win or lose. It is in Mama's wrapper, tied with ageless grace, That smelled of woodsmoke and God's own embrace.

It is in the slap that straightened, the herbs that healed, The hands that prayed when no wound was sealed. Family, not just blood, but sweat and breath, Woven in strong love, even in death.

A compound of chaos, yet calm at its core, Where love wore slippers, and knocked at each door. So call it what you will, house, hut, or dome, To me, it is roots. It is soul. It is home.

Instagram Handle: gani615_

 

Esther Chukwudi

The Independent Individual

They're a true inspiration! They stand on their own two feet, balancing responsibilities with confidence. They manage their time wisely, making room for priorities amidst their busy schedule.

Their days are filled with purpose, and at night, they reflect on their accomplishments. They're a pillar of strength, but they also know their own limits. Others may expect perfection, but they're not afraid to be themselves.

They face challenges head-on, refusing to let obstacles hold them back. With determination in their heart, they push forward, even when the road ahead seems uncertain.

In their quiet moments, they find solace in learning and growth. It's their sanctuary, their space to recharge. When they rest, they're at peace, their mind clear and focused.

Instagram Handle: x_estacee

 

Japhet Terngu Nyior

A LETTER TO MY YOUNGER SELF

Dear younger me, with insatiable curiosity and a huge appetite for unusual creativity. All sheets were marked with my imprints: drawings, paintings, or my fingerprints.

I bragged, "One day, I will be an artist," but maybe I chose to be an idealist.. My hands could no longer offer on the sheets and I began to feel accelerated heartbeats.

Your dreams are still valid, dear younger me. Where there's a Will, the universe will agree. So don't stop making your imprints, they'll one day turn into your footprints.

Draw and paint with hands still shivering-your brave creations won't be quaking. No one will brainstorm on your process, they'll only applaud when you make progress.

© De Poetic Doctor

IG Handle: depoeticdoctor

 

Marybeth Godwin

HALF WAY THROUGH THE DESERT

Half way through the desert 1 journey with bare feet coated with sand The scorching sun penetrated its rays into the soil And I feel its heat deeply in my feet

The wind blew and sand danced in the air And the wind wrestled with my face scarf But I was the third party and stopped the war And my scarf was reclaimed as I held it tightly

A journey uncertain is like no journey Every path seems like a difficult route No one should embark on a strenuous journey That is without a specific purpose

The sun was too harsh and unkind And the dry land soon made me thirst I thought about returning from hence I car But I'm already halfway into the deser

I can't see the rest of the distance from where I stood

But I know I have already embarked on the journey

I must reach my uncertain journey A journey already begun, must be finished

© MARYBETH GODWIN

IG Handle: marybeth.godwin.7

 

Esther Ajuma Okafor

No Poverty

They said poverty is normal, just part of life, but how can hunger be normal to a five-year-old's cry? And the boy of seven who digs through bins for food, Munching spoilt bread like hope's long gone.

Poverty is a life-threatening sentence, A vampire that sucks and leaves you dry. It's the demon they told us never to greet, Ask Baba earning #10k, guarding men with wealth.

But what if we become the poverty slayer? "No poverty" won't happen if we keep normalizing lack. Let's conquer it with education, skills, and grit. Let's unmake the making of poverty.

IG Handle: esthers_pen_