Poetry/Poems · Social critic · Social Issues

America, you are pathetic!

weapon, gun violence, mass shooting, America, Poetry

Please save your thoughts and prayers
for they no longer count

These empty thoughts and prayers
only exacerbates the mind

Please keep the gun barrels rolling
for they are worth more than children’s lives

Lives you proclaim to value in the womb
yet assaulted for the price of ridiculous guns


Can you hear the silent cries of little children
hidden in cupboards, under desks and mortified in fear

There’s so much blood flowing freely
leaving stains that no one can ever mop up

Yet you stand on your podiums
and proclaim non-existent freedom and rights

where are the rights of these young ones
who can never go home anymore?




Poetry/Poems · Social Issues · The Daily Post

Pots of Unrest…

insects, log, poetry, social critic, politics, immigration

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I am always puzzled
at how some folks
delight in stirring pots of unrest
in the lives of others,
yet, they want to go home
and expect to have peace in their lives. 

In my place, we say that
he who brings in an insect-infested log
has invited lizards for a feast.

The Western world
has benefitted immensely,
from destabilising and destroying Nations.
For Centuries they did and still do this,
but they complain about a handful of immigrants
fleeing the unrest caused by them.



Stream of Consciousness Saturday.

My thoughts of class, humans and photography…Streams of consciousness Saturday.

Once I saw today’s prompt, my thoughts automatically went to societal distinction usually drawn by the word ‘class,’ but I chose to do a reverse of thoughts.SoCS badge 2015

Talking about privilege is a topic that I’ve never been particularly fond of because, instead of building bridges, it actually plants more wedges of division in the hearts and minds of those who are at the other end of the spectrum of the division of classes, so, let’s leave it alone for today.

…But, I can’t resist the question on my mind which is to wonder why mankind chooses to create this artificial forms of segregation that in all societies, you find an existence of class division even if the lines are faintly drawn?

In some societies, the class distinction is so obvious and becomes entrenched as the tradition that it perpetuates itself as a caste system whereby progenies of a line that falls within this caste system are almost condemned to the bottom of the echelon to almost dehumanising levels.

It’s a situation that showcases ‘man’s inhumanity to fellow man,’ because it’s artificially and deliberately orchestrated to demean the worth of certain class of men while uplifting the worth of another class.

I’ll just leave that thought at that. If I continue on this tangent, I’ll probably end up writing an epistle on class distinctions as we speak.

On the other hand, it’s been on my mind to attend professional photography weekend classes, but everything in this city costs a handsome packet.

I’ve been doing a bit of DIY but I would really like to take it a step forward and develop my skill which I believe will be worth the while and pay itself over time. Still searching for an effective but cheap class, who knows, I might dig up something affordable.

The beautiful thing about taking pictures is that photography doesn’t discriminate against humans. It sees no class, race or creed. It simply captures what you show it, freezes it in time for decades to come.

Below is my first just published Poetry Book “Out of the silent breath” which is available on Amazon and Smashwords.

When you buy my book, you support me in an invaluable manner.

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She is amazing at describing love and life in her poems. She creates such beautiful images with her words. Truly, she is a talented writer and I’m so excited to have her poetry book and to continue reading through it.

Out of the silent breath

Creative Writing · Musings · Social critic

Unlikely thief…

cafe thief

It was still a slow day in “The Hive” as it is called. Customers strolled in; in ones and twos, some lingered and some did not. She walked in pushing a baby in a stroller. Her dressing was quite interesting. She wore a pair of bright yellow gold and brown studded boots, soft flannel blue loose pants, a brown woolly top coat which hung around her midriff and a belt in the same color as her boots around her waist. The rest of her white flabby tummy was exposed. Her hair was an interesting mix of brown and orange strands.

The square aquamarine glasses which were perched on her nose were all spangled up with sparkle dusts of different shades. Her ear-rings, shoulder drop length of twisted metals with little round festive looking balls at the ends, swung and tinkled as she walked by.

Her wrists were encircled in individual bands of various designs and multicolor, each side had at least five bands with a big pink cocktail ring on her middle finger. She was a burst of colorful sight for sore eyes. She was a stamp of eccentric individuality.

The baby looked very healthy and cherubic, her short sparse brown hair capping her round plump face and ruddy cheeks.

The little one was dressed up in a short baby top and pink sweater with her little rotund stomach sticking out. Her baby bottoms were adorned with a white and purple animal print diapers and her tiny feet had nothing on them. They simply kicked the air without restraints.

Baby was just gorgeous with her folds of plump pink flesh and her dribbling mouth which had a thumb stuck in it all the while.

Ms. Bright Colors (lets call her that), took a position in The Hive and surreptitiously did a quick scan of the occupants. There were two young black men- a dread-locked chap and a nondescript one; they both had big headphones over their heads and covering their ears, with faint vibrations of the music they listened to seeping through the muzzled earpiece; their heads were bent over their laptops. A middle aged white lady sat in the corner, she was working on her needlework craft of lovely handmade and embroidered cover cloth, and a young  Caucasian lady who seemed to be deeply engrossed in the book she was reading.

She gathered a couple of publications and flipped through them absentmindedly. She observed how intense the attention of the two black men and the young lady were. She observed that the handicraft lady went for bathroom call ever so often. She observed that nobody paid much mind to the scanty people seated in that corner, then she waited.

Now and again, her babbling baby fretted a little bit and she fed her from an uncapped bottle labeled cupcake. It cast the impression of a homely, caring mama, all at the same time.

Once again, the need for the lavatory arose and Mrs Handicraft shuffled off. As soon as she left, Ms. Bright Colors calmly gathered her things and efficiently swooped on the Mrs. Handicrafts bags and belongings; her precision like that of a hawk that was marking its prey. With her stolen booty nicely ensconced in the stroller beside the baby, she strolled out unnoticed, back into the San Antonio high street, into the crowd of hurrying shapes.

Mrs Handicraft came back to her seat and was aghast to find her belongings gone. She looked under the table, on the counter top by the corner and in every possible nook and cranny, her face taking different shades and splotches of pinkish red color as each second ticked past, her pursed lips muttering angry unintelligible swear words.

Raising a hew and cry, she roused the attention of other occupiers and the accusations started to fly. Her knobby fingers assuredly pointed at the two black men in accusation. The men got upset and a big row ensued. The officers were called, arrests were made, and they were shuffled off to the county jail, no questions asked. Their protests fell on deaf ears, their color was enough judgement.

Assumptions were made; a missing white woman’s bag and craft basket, two black men = two thieves. What would these men do with a craft basket? No one cared to ask. Maybe they stole it to sell her yarn and needles, and who knows, possibly for the credit card and change in her wallet?

The old lonely observer who saw it all through the designed vitrine of The Hive, tried to offer his espionage services to the officers, but no one was interested in the ramblings of a homeless, drunken black man, who seemed to be in dire need of a good bath.

Mumbling as he shuffled along, he was glad that he was not arrested along with the others.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha