AK KONCEPTS

  2020 Ain't no crystal stair It entails thorns and splinters  Which exhibits the anger  That dwells in a man Submerged in a sea of insecurities Strangled by shrewd little minds Stabbed while on furlough  A withered flower fading away It's denizens were left to float In the pool of their own tears Like a gravestone without  An epitaph As we step into a new year We pray songs of victory blare Like sounds of chains dropping  Off a slave ZeeAslam

 Oga Panel Beater Twale baba o, oga panel beater I be hear say ur hand de transport pipu go hospita Even as e be say engineering na ur discipline U get one kain talent for face-disfiguring Oga panel I be even hear say u be painta Say with blood,u fit paint woman face wella Say like soaked garri U fit increase fat for person bodi <script async src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-9394274132319072" crossorigin="anonymous"></script> <ins class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-format="fluid" data-ad-layout-key="-ew-1c-3l-g+lo" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9394274132319072" data-ad-slot="1731218212"></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); </script> Oga Panel I be hear say u de box pass Bash Ali Martial art and every fighting skills na all u sabi Say where u de dem no

 A torrential rain outside upscale east side bar keeping us inside where umbrellas in our drinks mock us afraid to get wet. Facile nothings said rejuvenated movie cliches till we’re drunk enough  to transpose what we hate with each new kiss. Tactical cuts both sides self inflict I just ask that she leave no marks. As we leave the bar  in a blur we find her house. “We’re alone one with the universe “ she sighs. We’re too drunk for anything to work it doesn’t. So we smoke cigarettes filterless and dry as our few jokes. While outside the rain lies as always it’s cures all thirst. Rp Verlaine lives and writes in New York City.  He has an MFA in creative writing from City College.  He taught in New York Public schools for many years.  Retired from teaching, he continues to write and do photography in New York. He had a volume of poetry- Damaged by Dames & Drinking published in 2017 and another – Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers in 2018. A set of three e books began with the pu

 I saw a rat scuttle under a paving stone In front of 7-11. He was slithy and grey. The squirrel lives in the open, airborne A trapeze artist skittering on a telephone wire Into dark leaves. The rat lives underground amid Filth and muck, feces and waterworks. He is A creature of the demon-world. We hate him for that For living in the lower circles. I see Roadkill, soi kill, sun-whitened, flattened husks of frogs And rats like shadow forms of the atomized in Hiroshima.  <script async src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-9394274132319072" crossorigin="anonymous"></script> <ins class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-format="fluid" data-ad-layout-key="-ew-1c-3l-g+lo" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9394274132319072" data-ad-slot="1731218212"></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).pus

  (For Late Joseph Yohanna) The heart of a broken boy  Is now woefully sagging again And Mama’s old rue breasts  Thirst sour melancholy again. Our hearts are heavy; tough luck,  Distress are now wholeheartedly laughing  At us, for a gloomy morning breeze  Has dawn its dawning on us again. I sat legs crossed with folded hands On Mama’s old raffia mat beside mama Sucked in distress, grieving, weeping,  Staring at the fine, lovely picture of the fresh pumpkin. I sat there with my left skinny hand  Waging my bony jaw, tears dropping, Mourning the lost of the fresh pumpkin  In our sag broken homestead. Perhaps, I should mourn no more For the fresh uprooted pumpkin  Is up there joyfully dining with the peace  Of heaven while we mourn down here. Daniel Singfuri Yohanna is a young prolific writer residing in Ahoada East, Rivers State, Nigeria. He is currently serving there as a Corp Member. His works have appeared in numerous magazines, and he is the author  of "Heaven's Gate And Othe

  My face is always deadpan You cannot know the half of what I go through The emotions ravaging my heart The thoughts fighting in my head Fighting for expression Longing for release My face must be deadpan I cannot express the hurt inside I’ll be labelled weak ,you see I am a full blooded African woman I cannot, must not be anything but strong I’ll be cautioned ‘ To control myself!’ I must keep up with this dead pan mask For your good and mine I observe all societal niceties I smile when appropriate And frown when needed I cannot allow people to hear The very loud noises in my head I must be deadpan I must be strong The pressure threatening to submerge me Must be submerged by me No one must see it No one must know it It appears my life is great It appears I have it all But,I know I’m loosing my marbles I am going crazy But I must keep pretending I must keep being dead pan Solape Adetutu Adeyemi is a creative writer, blogger(  lifewithtutu.blogspot.com ) and poet. She has published arti

  The child toddles off alone  down the cobbled twilight lane  while his sister starts to moan  at the blackening window pane. Mother’d said, “You must stay here while I find bread and wood.” The children shivered there in fear until he got too hungry to be good. Mike L. Nichols is a graduate of Idaho State University and a recipient of the Ford Swetnam Poetry Prize. He lives and writes in Eastern Idaho. Look for his poetry in Rogue Agent, Tattoo Highway, Ink&Nebula, Plainsongs Magazine, and elsewhere. Find more at deadgirldancing.net