Pretty Petty’s Poem of the Week
Welcome to Pretty Petty Poetry Weekly. Every week, a different poet will write a poem. Enjoy.
This is by our new member, Glory. I don't understand this poem that much. He says that it’s a bit of Africa. So, enjoy.
My Father's House
My father never lived in his own house,
As they were words from his old mouth,
My father's fragile body was his house's house,
The legacies that time and corruption cannot bow,
Day and night my old man chewed,
On the very words that he cannot speak,
At dusk he sits in solitude by the tree,
To converse with spirits I cannot see.
I liked to hear him talk at night,
Under the influence of a day old palm wine,
For he'd speak on and on till late,
Thinking by the power of the wine
that I'm his mate.
The words of my father,
The house in which he sheltered,
It has no windows or carved doors.
It was made to leave and never return.
Like the spilt milk,
Like the split wind,
And the spat spit.
I have never seen my father's house,
I have only seen it's treacherous paths.
Glory Adeniran
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