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The four Poems are used to relate the human existence to a temple (it is sometimes a solid structure and other times a fleeting spirit).
Christopher Columba
Five sticks of cigarettes waits on me
Their weights too heavy to push off
So:
I burn them instead,
Speaking smoke to a fire-
A fire burning up a temple,
A Temple of imperfect organs,
Containing hopes of dreams,
now dead.
Stretching my nerves end-to-end
From here to galactical streets,
I
Navigate
Globular clusters of the remnants of something once human
Emerging on the other side of the cosmos,
And discover: self.
Now,
I
in blissful knowledge,
name myself:
Some fucking Christopher Columba
(Because I am black).
Different Kind Of Tears
You
think
temples
do not
cry?
because:
you are looking for the wrong tears,
(they do not fall but rise)
you conclude that temples are immortal
(cracks become beautifications)
when you see them torn down and rebuilt
(some things cannot be mended)
you think temples do not cry.
(…).
Doing Godful Things
In worship:
I bow to myself
A temple consecrated to self
And I bring sacrifices of pain,
Bitter pills,
Fruits,
Vegetables,
And good food.
In the breaking of dawn
I cleanse these holy grounds
And root out blemishes.
In the hovering moon
I expunge white children
With my fists.
When you are god
And your body is a church,
Do you wait for worshippers
Clothed in lies
Deluded by what they think you can offer
To give you gratification?
Or do you bow to yourself
And give offerings:
Burnt ones with (s)weed smells,
Services that takes you to the edge,
And words of encouragement?
Christopher Columba (Again)
Because,
People have painted stories on my chest
With sharp brush strokes of the tongue
And created depressing artworks
On the canvass of my soul,
I
Come again,
Christopher Columba reborn
(‘Cos I am still black),
And excavate beneath piles of sadness
histories such as these:
A new temple
Created by a foreign woman
Cared for and loved;
A growing temple
With multitudes of worshippers
And a chest full of dreams,
Until I am standing on the bank again
Empty handed
because withdrawal is not allowed;
some say the ATMs of memories do not pay
during days of adulthood
and that innocence once lost is lost.
So, I float about,
A temple of hurt.
Author’s Bio: Obinna Jones is Nigerian, sadly adult and a graduate of Physics. He writes, reads and stalks Facebook celebrities. Obinna has a dream of winning a Nobel prize in Physics or literature or both and was shortlisted for Writivism 2018. His works of fiction is on elsieisy’s blog, Ngiga Review, Kalahari Review and sidomexentertainment’s blog.
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