I danced away my first few hours
No heartache in this young renegade
Drunk in this new brigade
Spinning harder than the clap of the fireworks
Burning brighter than the shadow that lurks
No more heartache in these young renegades
If not the whole era at least tonight is ours
]ust the first four lonely hours
Dancing with strangers
Tochukwu Ezebube is a passionate poet and founder of Poem Collections. With a deep love for African verse and a commitment to sharing diverse poetic voices, Tochukwu curates a rich tapestry of poems that celebrate the beauty of words from Africa and around the world. Join him on this poetic journey at Poem Collections, where the magic of language unfolds.
In a little shanty town was a night like this girls were sitting down around the town like this some were young and some were brown I even found a miss who was black and brown and really did the twist watch her move her wrist and feel your belly twist feel the hunger thunder…
Hail thou, the world’s salvation, Hail Jesus kind and sweet, Before thy Rood in gratitude I bow and clasp thy feet. Before thy holy altar My soul bows down to thee, I know that thou art present now, Be merciful to me. Those feet, which cruel iron Has pierced full deep and sore; Lord,…
I remember Nauru Where the sun was shimmering on the waves Sparkling in my eyes and where the palm leaves swayed When the song of Nauru filled my ears I get homesick for my little island Nauru
Let us with a gladsome mind Praise the Lord, for He is kind: For His mercies shall endure, Ever faithful, ever sure. Let us blaze His Name abroad, For of gods He is the God: For His mercies shall endure, Ever faithful, ever sure. He with all-commanding might Filled the new-made world with light: For…
New Year’s greetings with a plum branch in hand the sky draws near such a bright sunrise New Year’s Day New Year’s Day has come — quiet streets The year begins on New Year’s day our life is Now the stars vanished and then — five-colored New Year’s mist
Gnawing the highway’ s edges, its black mouth Hums quietly: ‘Home, come home …’ Behind its viscous breath the very word ‘growth’ Grows fungi, rot; White mottling its root. More dreaded Than canebreak, quarry ,or sun – shocked gully – bed Its horrors held Hemingway’s hero rooted To sure, clear shallows. It begins nothing….
