Poems by Nket Godwin

A Picture Of Home

A portrait of home portrays the trait of this pen,

For only pensive pen can paint our pain.

Void voices can’t voice cacophony,

Trembling like rumbling rain in the head.

My home is a nice area that rear deer,

Instead of fowl, in its poultry - Deer that loom farmers’ eyes at home,

Despoil plants, and plant pain in their pants.

My home is where youths rest on the chest of beasts,

It’s where youths sing songs with converse solo:

The young shall die, the old shall live on.

My home is where youths sing their dirge while the old dig their graves.

My home is a drum that hums only gloom and doom;

But the drum only sound because we are blind in the mind.

Homes are good womb to born, not burn, our being.

It’s a nice area to rear hope on this swinging rope called life.


Man’s Wise Doom 

Man’s wisdom is like a woman’s facial expression,
Flowing like kerosene and water with her inside;
It often plays sleight, and slay layers of lashes on man’s lid.
Such wisdom, in man’s haste not to waste his waist, has become wise doom,
As he come put her (computes it) into modern ontology (technology).

Yesterday, he toiled the soil till his hands soiled the soil: “nature is foil”,
He whispered. Today, he made many machines that make life meek.
He made car, his killer, thinking life will never be rife;
He made guns that grow war on the peace-farm of his mind;
Made electric, that says, “let’s trick his life, not his eyes”…

Man thinks he has marvelled nature, but he mimed his mind,
For all the wits that hit his head only gloat his wise doom, not wisdom.

When BOYS became godS 

I crossed through the valley of doubt, I FARED no EVIL because my journey started with a FREE mind. ”I shall create my own cloud with a few puffs!”, This thought FLOODED my mind, Carrying my wobble legs with it’s TIDE. My DATE with the weed seller was TODAY, For all the WICKED stuff, I paid in KIND.
I buried her(weed) in a White rizzla, burned her corpse. As her body engulfs in a red circle of flame, I sipped from her WISDOM, cough out Solitude and regain FOOLISHNESS. I watched my body grow numb, my eyes turned red. In my SCHOOL of thought I was a SCIENCE STUDENT.
Well, the story of weed is a WANTING (addiction) story where those WANTED (scared) by their problems runs to the UNWANTED (weed) to avoid been HAUNTED (depressed).

Once Upon A Patient 


Our essence is to pet patients with patience;
So I assemble all the time in the world rummaging his bowel,
Seeking where death plant its pipe to drain his life.
But my stethoscope cannot state his scope – it’s an old man now!
So I drop you his sloping hope to slope down your anxious gowns:
“Share the grains of groundnut and the loaf of bread in my stead…”

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