She definitely wasn't singing.

This was a cry at the break

of dawn, I couldn't

understand her words but the pain.


Perhaps, hope of surviving the day,

the sky is enough to occupy species 

but not ready to spice her lips.


Or the climate condition,

surviving the burning noon

or the cold that houses her haven.


She definitely wants a HOME

Maybe a listener or comforter,

and she did, as I watch her.


She was next to my room,

perching filtered tree on hope to survive.

Not all bird sings, some cries.



Title:- Cries of my neighbour

Adepoju Timileyin: Juste Ink 



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Nigh on Nine


I rote on tales from granny,

about the last penny

that got married to the soil,

She must be lost.


I learnt of mistakes from granny,

that it shines with the evening sun

it's neither hot but hurts n' hunt.

Oh pains of losing a day! 


I cleared anxiety n' shuffle my hopes.

I nailed my fear and caged my guilt,

And before the night came

I cleared the soil afraid of losing

my penny.


And so I dream

dreamt about my sleep.

And so I knew,

knows dreamland was an odyssey

to future n' Illusion pinned on mindset.


Adepoju Timileyin: Juste Ink.


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My Grandma Tales



My grandma had said,

"even burial grounds makes noise"

She said, her father, My granny

still shouts, whispers

n' hold whips on wheel of hope.


She also said, Màmá Sódìki, 

our next door neighbour, whose history says

she left to buy cloth for her children since birth, I don't know if to envy the twin, they'll have more to wear.


And Ìyá okẹ̀-odò who sit beneath 

the ólùmọ́ tree and feed ears with Àló,

I once overheard nightingale 

repeating her rhythm, 

who dare not envy such sonorous tune.


My grandma said,

they made burial ground their haven

and scare us away from their abode

to home beneath momma's wrapper.



Poem by:- Juste Ink 


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POET'RY



Where there is pain;

We proffer lines of comfort....

Where there is betrayal;

We sit them beneath stanzas of trust...

And where there is no one,

We are here, there, n' anywhere,

With themes of solitude enough 

to gulp sorrows


We have chose to bear

children of their pains,

We have chose to carry

drops of their misfortune

on lines (art) of poetry.


Poem by:- Adepoju Timileyin: Juste Ink