Uchechukwu Onyedikam

HIGHER-SELF

Thrown underfoot... pressure of
footfall from heavy steel boots
my heart laps on the edge
of kindliness

Sitting there absorbing different
scene from precious moments
lost in the latter time I fell off
of the reason to remain in
this shipwreck

My higher self has risen, broken free
from mortal consciousness of pity
and ego, of arrogance and lustful pride
of spite and hate, of jealousy and envy
of give and take, of here and there

The sleeves of the universe
unfolded clarity this morning that I now
recognize in the shadows — nurturing
in my soul the cherry that bloomed in
the dark: oh, behold the spirited soul!

could you body it? 

GIVE THYSELF GRACE

Midnight hallowing from the pages 
of my poems like a cat meowing for
cuddling from the arms of its Lover

I don't let my eyes fall asleep for the
time to stay up awake and witness
the birthing of a brand new Order

That day is now — for I believe and
hear the howl of the wind tender her
soft whisper to my ears, of windy tales

blowing my mind with surprises of the
moment as envisioned in my heart
in my mind, and soul — I pay attention

unrelentingly I pay heed not to the 
unheard-of but to the negligence of
my destroyed identity haunting each
footprint I demonstrate my words upon

I am not that tall black, silver fox man in
those jeans, polo t-shirt, drenched in
Versace Eros at the other table for two
waiting upon the arrival of his date

I am not what you perceived. Nor the 
abstract imaginings you've painted 
on this empty canvas...

I am simply a holy-preying fugitive
on the run with a stolen identity —
running away from the captors 
hiding behind another man's
dogma

torching my way unto his form
of eternity with his 
myth

give thyself grace
oh thou bunch of
derelict bag of
honour

OLD WITCH


Undoubtedly I saw it, the moon fell 
into her eyes sinking all its wholeness 
gently into herself, there she lay still
in the hands of the night saying her prayers —
making fair supplication unto the black owl
hanging on the edge of her cold window —
moonlit fairytale of the old witch

Under the dozing head of intoxication 
I tried describing her with words formed
in my head but each breath fails me
for mortality has long left her,
leaving her with celestial
covering, of which I 
assumed I would
comprehend the
colours of her 
adornment

But she's far beyond eyes, nose, lips, hips
plus all other features which of course
a stare at her face may have you frozen —
and breaks you, and set you up
in a crossword puzzle

The night is quiet so I am…
our moon is crescent and so
she's curved, and I sitting on the tip of
her flame burning with desire 
for her to wipe my anxiety 
with the hem of her garment

Flights, Issue Eight, March 2023