FIRE OF MOODS

In... In... In... In... Out! Nostrils are at war, With airs that lingers still, While dry throats harbours, The shadow of death. In... In... In... In... Out! A viral air, Spreading out like a peacock's tail, Forcing flocks into isolation, That birds may gasp for breathe. In... In... In... In... Out! Whirlwind storms the nostrils, And heart suffers shock, From the satisfaction of hungry lungs, That slowly dies of thirst. In... In... In... In... Out! How does the lungs give it's breath away And light up itself for a takeout? Ask Covid19... It has some explaining to do. But if you ask me, In... In... In... In... Out! Is definitely not how to breathe. #El_Magnifico™ (Published in "Raven Cage Poetry and Prose Ezine #47")

Fashion is a powerful charm, Plain for all to see, And when carried out wrongly, It has humanity swept out to sea. Bewildered by recent trends of apparels, My heart sinks at a single glance, Exposing the deepest raws for all to see, Another tune to the modern dance. A tune which brings more grief than joy, Consequently birthing immoral activities, Infesting the minds of our youths, As unethical chains holds them in captivity. The males with shorts sagged, Oh dear me, how do I qualify all this, The females with cleavage revealing tops, Fashion of nudity, How do they justify all this? Rising of love for skimpy dresses, Going extra miles as to lend, Undersized apparels and transparent ones, When will this frenzy of nudity end? Oh! Where are the days, When fashion was a thing of pride, But now preferentially brushed aside, As fashion and ignobility collides. The world is in a state of agony, As humanity gradually loses dignity, With lack of ethics calmles

...of nightingales and skylarks... ...of screams... I am a whistle, Borne aloft, A neighbor to the dews, Beautiful and soft. I am a melody, Flowing with the waves, Glowing like crystals, Chirping notes I'm not to save. Hush... Listen to the change of the tide, Emerging from beneath, The tragic melody of mourning, Drifting skyward; tune soft. A boy, Glowing amidst a dell of stars, Becomes a man, Nursing tears in deprivation. Betrayal... A stink unperceived, Crowned with disgust, On a throne of deceit, Beguiling screams, Cries, Shouts, Noises, After the model of pains. Of nights-in-gale and sky-lacks... We are a wailful choir, Singers of mournful music, Roaming in storms, Chirping ugly songs, Of screams, Flying without wings, To land without legs. We are fallen crests... We are strange screams. #El_Magnifico™

Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock! My bowels are running... I am like a passing cloud Amongst clouds, Eating myself up in little chunks of tiny droplets. A restless dungeon, Constantly banging of clanging chains. Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock! My bowels are running... I am a brother to the wind, Consumed by the fire of burning feets. The accursed breath, Racing fast towards a shallow grave. Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock! My bowels are running... I am a moving brink, Whose heart beats till it crushes time out. For I am the beginning and the end of time, The very breath that fuels its motion. Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock! My bowels are running... I am a sick hour, A dying minute, And a gasping second. Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock! I am a steady runner, Racing to my very grave. #El_Magnifico™

..."Aaaarrrrggghhhh!", Francis screamed as he felt a sharp pain from his ribs. He hurriedly pulled himself away. "How did I not see that coming?", he spoke to himself as he looked up to analyze Jagaban's fighting stance. Jagaban was making a swerving movement around the same axis with his two hands few inches away from his chest. A balled fist on his right hand and a half balled fist with two fingers dangling on his left hand. Francis remembered that move vividly. It was the only move he was meant to learn in other to attain Monkdom before he chose to quit. "The disappearing fist! Where did you learn that?", he asked. "Oh! Alhaji Ahmed never told you!", Jagaban said with a witty smile on his face. "I am his first student and his only true son. You made a very big mistake crashing my party son." "We'd see about that", Francis said as his eyes caught a glimpse of a 1:35 red light blinking from his wife&

In the light of myths and legends, Stories of some heroes of old, Who possessed powerful endowments, Or so we have been told. He who was said to spit fire, Was once a vulnerable man, He who was said to be immortal, Was also once human. Why isn't this transformation, Prolonged to our time? Or is our generation, But a foam on a wine? The existence of most, Sounds strange to tell, For if they were gods, How come they fell? What do they look like? Where do they come from? Questions go begging, For answers at every turn. I was told of a god, With a lion as pet, Human-lion friendship, I am yet to see since birth. Looking around me each day, I see no such powers, Portrayed by our past heroes, As told to us by our Fathers. Are gods really gods? Or our own creation, Out of fear or of poetry, Or even painted imagination. If you'd ask my opinion, I'd say they were audacious men, Whose deeds were exaggerated, And narrated with godly terms.

...and all hell was let loose. Francis didn't come alone. His time at the Mushin Monastery has earned him friends even though he was regarded as a failure for breaking his vow and leaving in search of love. He had put a call through to some of the Mushin Monks who remained his friend and they had emerged from the shadows. The place became a war zone as bullets and arrows were flying dangerously across the valley. Francis had no time for little battles as his mind was set on the price- saving his wife. He spotted Jagaban retreating into a building and he followed him. As he entered into the building he could see his already unconscious wife tied to an iron pole in the middle of the basement. As he looked closely, he was able to make out a red light beeping right at the middle of her breasts and realised there was a bomb on her. His countenance changed and his eyes began to burn with anger. "Here's your jewel... Safe and sound", Jagaban jeered softly. &qu