The Masked Poet
Page 2
these then teach the teeming youths
who also instruct the next generation
the pattern and trend of sustained greed.
'This is where it ends. Thanks a million.' She rounded up.
'Oooohhh.............wow....w....w....... Rosy, Roses, Rosy......' The crowd responded.
It was Cynthia's turn for her presentation. She also offered a brief explanation as she mounted the podium:
'My sonnet is Petrarchan and is titled: 'MUSIC DEMISED.'
With the oldies she was rested
yes I witnessed her burial
and even attended her memorial
which at seasons will be repeated.
But that she will be resurrected?
As in times like the initial?
Are dreams so superficial
probably never to be birthed.
Music died!
Good music kicked the bucket
when soulful lyrics was tried
and killed by the hip-hop racket
so sensual and vying eyed,
they placed music in an evil casket!
A round of applause and wild cheers followed her exit as has become the habit of the audience.
Meanwhile, the contest moved to the next stage - the category for romance. The Masked Poet was invited to the podium. He introduced the title of his romantic poem to be: 'THE ROMEO AND JULIET WAY.......'
I love Romeo, l love Juliet
I love Romeo and Juliet
I love the story of their love
I love the way they loved
but most of all,
I love how they fell for each other.
Romeo sighted her, Juliet noticed him
love drew Romeo and Juliet
he toasted her, she obliged him
he was blunt, she never denied
and just like that,
a love affair budded and blossomed.
Romeo stuck to it, Juliet in for it
intent were Romeo and Juliet
he articulated it, she expressed it
he gesticulated it, she acted it
and all cosmos knew
it was love for life, death for love.
I love me, l love whoever
I love me and my lover
if the story of our love
if the manner we love
could go just like
Romeo and Juliet fell for each other.
I see her, she notices me
we have a common interest
I toast her, she obliges me
I open up, she's not afraid
and for simplicity,
we plunge into real time loving.
But poignantly, l hate a hard time!
so unlike Romeo and Juliet's
I, toasting a thousand times
she, playing hard to get
for all l care,
winning love shouldn't be herculean.
I love Romeo, l love Juliet
easy falling, strong loving
I hate hard time pretenders.
Hard falling, yet many failed
and no rule ev' said,
pains proceeds a sincere loving!
'The poems ends here. Thank you.'
Loud cheers and applause followed his exit from the stage, including repeated chants of 'the Masked Poet.'
The compere next called on Rosemary Bola for her rendition. She introduced her poem, entitling it: 'MY RAINBOW.'
My rainbow is red
red, the colour of love
love, the feeling l have
for my sweet, sweet lover.
My rainbow is blue
blue, the colour of divinity
divinity, the invisible hand
guiding us into forever.
My rainbow is green
green, the colour of life
life, now a sweet adventure
because I fell for you.
My rainbow is yellow
yellow, the colour that acts
acts, of real practical loving
a flowing stream from you.
My rainbow is orange
orange, the colour of persistence
persistence, despite my failings
inseparable from your loving.
My rainbow is violet
violet, the colour of spirituality
spirituality, the love motive
spicing your love infallible.
My rainbow is indigo
indigo, a colour so mysterious
mysterious, the word l need
to describe a very rare lover.
'That's it. Thank you all.' She announced with a smile as she left the stage.
'Rosy
Roses
Rosy
Roses'
The crowd chanted as they expressed in their own little way, that she enthralled them with her romantic poem. She must be such an observant and appreciating lover, the audience, that is some of them, thought aloud, for her to have written such a poem for her lover, that is if she has one as she may have written it to no one in particular save for the competition. But assuming such a lover exists, then he must be such an awesome lover to have evoked such an emotionally crafted reciprocal poem.
Cynthia was up next. She titled her poem: 'LOVE WINS....'
If you love me
and I love you too,
we bask in the consequent euphoria
it is rather, a triumph for 'another'
not you, or my humble self;
love wins!
Love is the winner!
Cos 'she's' been embraced!
If I make a toast
and you turn me down,
I become forlorn from disappointment,
yet is 'one' so happy for it
not me or my broken heart;
love wins!
Love is the winner!
Cos 'she's' been expressed!
If we get married
and then we divorce,
oh! The emotional drain we battle
but 'someone's' exultant from it
not us or our ended marriage;
love wins!
Love is the winner!
Cos 'she's' been attempted!
If I give my all
without a reciprocation,
oh! The angst of an unloved lover,
still a 'soul' revels rejoicingly
not me or my grieving heart;
love wins!
Love is the winner!
Cos 'she's' truly practicalized!
If I search for love
and no one obliges,
I get frustrated from all my efforts,
yet is a 'person' thrilled by it;
love wins!
Love is the winner!
Cos 'she's' been believed!
'Thank you; that's all.' She made her way down afterwards as the excited audience chanted:
'Cynthy
Scentful
Cynthy
Scentful'
From the early stages of the competition, most of the audience had unofficially adjudged the Masked Poet stood out and would most probably win the contest. But into the grand finale proper, they were made to marvel at the poems Rosemary and Cynthia were rendering. From those poems, they concluded both ladies were giving the Masked Poet a good run for his money.
Now, it was 'freestyle' category; the final category. As usual, the Masked Poet climbed the stage to the podium:
'My freestyle poem is entitled: 'THE GREATEST FRAUD AGAINST MEN...'
What is the greatest fraud against men?
Could it be joblessness?
Is it family pressures?
loss of self esteem?
Is it inferiority complex?
Or something benignly sinister?
I know the greatest fraud against men:
it is not joblessness
neither family pressures
not a lack of self esteem
nor inferiority complex;
&n
bsp; it is none other than women!
Whoever crafted this fraud
I don't really know
if it ever was nature,
I don't really know
if ever it is mankind,
I don't really know
but what I really know
is the fact women are:
the greatest fraud against men.
Society keeps crying:
'the man is head of the family;'
the head of the woman....
But twice I've met men
who promised help and gifts
only for the very next day
oooh! He reneged! Why?
His wife, from womenfolk said:
'fulfill, and the peace deserts!'
renege, and the peace stays!'
For the peace, he reneged
man, the family's head?
Wake up! Clueless society!
to the fact women are:
the greatest fraud against men!
There is never a way
goats and yams coexist
the yams are mercilessly eaten!
The goats are the menfolk
the yams, the womenfolk
when there is an 'eating,'
the goats are chastised
so society institutionalized;
'the goat did it! He enjoyed it!'
and the yams? No, no, no
'they didn't do it! Or enjoyed it!'
'the goat verily ate the yam!'
'the yams have no sex urge'
'they are weak and innocent!'
But on eerie numerous instances
the yam purposely journeyed
emitting strong irresistible aroma
gate crashing into a 'holy' goat
who eventually ate her up
yet afterwards, the yam cries
'he did it! He did it!
and everyone believes her.
Wipe your eyes, spellbound men!
the fact remains women are:
the greatest fraud against men!
Men are sexually depraved
they're the rapists, the abusers
without a hold on their libido!
So, they've been highly egotized
but, just asking anywhere
how long do the men last?
In bed, l mean during sex?
Ever heard of orgasm?
Well, even womenfolk agree
orgasm usually never ends
until the woman says it ends
thus, l arrived at the conclusion:
men have the urge,
women, the pleasure
yet, women make it look:
men have all - the urge and pleasure!
Open your eyes! You ignorant men!
It's irrefutable women are:
the greatest fraud against men!
Fraudsters everywhere in the West!
These fraudsters are womenfolk
interestingly, married womenfolk!
We have the beauty, they say
we have the allure, they say
we also have our wombs!
Surely, the men will come for us
actually, we don't like men
or that thing called marriage
marriage, which curtails freedom
I want to be free!
but I also want money
plenty of his money.
I don't even like children
except they're my gateway
to more of his money.
So I will marry him, then
I will divorce him, then
all his money, his property
would be yours faithfully
then I can live my life
without a man's troubles.
Man makes all the money
woman gladly spends it
I mean, exhaust all of it!
Stop dozing, you enchanted men!
Know it now women are:
the greatest fraud against men! ever!
'I think l should stop here. Thanks.'
Excited cheers emanated from the audience; just some of them, particularly the men. The women were piqued, they were indignant; they refused to applaud. Why should they when the Masked Poet has invariably slaughtered their reputation? They instead, looked forward to the next poet. Incidentally, the women were the next set of poets coming up; they should probably give the womenfolk some reason to cheer about.
But Rosemary, usually next after the Masked Poet, had other plans of hers. She was in no superiority vie of the sexes and was not going to please any member, especially women, of the audience to spite her chances of winning the contest she enrolled for. So, the women were probably disappointed when she informed her freestyle poem is titled: 'THE PRESIDENT IS TIME...'
In Africa, there is no time
only day, only night
only dark, only light
but if by a stroke of luck,
there ever is time,
then it is the president
yes, l brazenly declare:
the president is time
and time is the president!
The president is time
and he very much knows this
he can slumber in the day
and wake-keep at night
and no one dare question.
The cabinet meeting never holds
at 8am, or 10am, or at 12 or 1pm
but only when he shows up
he can even queerly decide
it holds at 4am or even 5am
even inconvenience will submit
cos the president is time itself
and time, is the president!
Time, l mean the president,
is allotted all subservients
whereas same egoist time
misleads by perfect example.
Schedule a function at anytime,
an absolute waste of endeavour
seated would be all else but
it only takes off, kick start,
whenever the president arrives
and he well could arrive at 6pm
the very closure of the function.
The country is at war!
Enemies suddenly invaded!
President, please make a decision
president? When? Where is he?
Dare you disturb his sleep
and you are soundly fired!
It's sleeping time, not otherwise
wake up time? Well, his prerogative
and afterwards, decision time.
Sadly, Mr. President could be late
time itself could be too late!
That the president is time,
never means he isn't prompt
he is, but only sometimes
at those special 'sometimes,'
he wakes on time
he prepares on time
he reports on time
he awaits on time
only to receive a foreigner
be it prime minister or envoy
who had set time for him!
They set time for time!
In Africa, there is no time
only day, only night
only dark, only light
but if by a stroke of luck
there ever is time,
then, it is the boss
then, it is the CEO
then, it is the don
then, it is the pastor
then, it is the mogul
then, it is the wealthy
men of timber and caliber
the high and the mighty
or even the chairman
be it a board chairman
local government chairman
or one at a wedding reception
just like one l know
who kept guests waiting
'I'm on my way'
'I'll soon arrive'
'I'll appear in minutes'
he protracted a suspense
when he arrived eventually,
/> according to his own timing
he met only but the couple;
all the guests had left!
In Africa, there is no time
or at least a 24hour timing
it is either over 24hours
or it is under 24hours
as is determined by 'power.'
It's rather about start and stop
about doing and not doing
about moods and egocentrism.
When 'power' starts, time starts
he says stop! time also stops
'I'm angry and not doing,'
then time stands still
for the master, for power, for influence
who are themselves time.
But someone please calculate;
what time Africa has lost!.....
'I bore you no more; this is where it ends, thanks for the time.'
Hearty cheers, rampant chants, and even a standing ovation as Rosy, l mean Roses, left the stage. Almost instantly, Cynthia took her turn. She titled her freestyle poem: 'THE GREAT SUPREMACISTS' PROPAGANDA.'
Most don't know this of them
they're held in high regard
even are, devoid of suspicions
but propagandists they are
and propagandists they will remain.
Scientists are these propagandists
the West, original propagandists
the UN, a very entrenched part
docile proponents are here categorized
while most others follow the bedlam.
World population is so high
it will soon spill over
it is rather unsustainable
earth won't contain anymore
they cry, assert, propagandize.
Give birth to only a child
in the extreme, two children:
you Africans, dullards, oblige
South Americans, illiterates, hear
you Asians, thoughtless, comply
you moslems, polygamous, imbibe
all religions, fanatics, consider
the educated, like minds, preach
the civilized, co-conspirators, enforce;
for humans threaten the planet
and food may go extinct
haunted by urban development.
We don't need more people!
trends the newest propaganda
when my cerebral hemisphere
thinks we need more of them!
But scientists peddle lies
that population depletes food