ARTISTIC TRIBE

The Paradox We Dare Not Name Peace, oh peace! The golden promise of a world at rest, The anthem of kings, the lullaby of the oppressed. They carve your name in treaties, chant you in songs, Yet summon armies to keep you strong. A throne built on stillness, a kingdom of bounds— Peace, the prettiest lie ever made. And time, ah, time! The grand architect of dreams and decay, Sculptor of empires, thief of youth. They worship your ticking hands, Mark their lives by your breath, Yet curse you when you refuse to wait. A master none can serve, a servant none can tame— Time, the cruelest joke in history’s name. But tell me, If peace must be kept by the sword, is it peace at all? If time exists only to slip away, did it ever belong to us? They call them gifts, they call them fate, Yet neither bends to the hands that pray. Peace is the quiet before the next war, Time is the distance between regrets. And we? We are the fools that chase them both. Peace is a state of mind, hums like a l...

The Weight of Illusions They spoke of freedom, a song sung through iron bars, a gospel etched in chained tongues. But what is freedom when the sky itself is walled by the limits of sight? What is choice when the road is paved by hands unseen, guiding feet not their own? They spoke of impossibility, a phantom draped in certainty, a god crafted from trembling hands that never dared to reach beyond the veil. Yet the sun has never sought permission to rise, nor the tide to return to shore. Who was I to kneel before doubt, to name the cage my home? Once, I knelt before syllogisms carved in stone, before the echoes of failed equations, before the voice that said, not you, not yet. A year stretched into a lifetime, logic failed me before I could fail it. And yet, I stand. Graduated. Moved. Breathed past the fear that tried to etch my fate in dust. Now I see impossibility is an orphan of the mind, a specter fed by those who fear the light. Freedom, its sibling, is a trick of the ey...

Ode to Oreoluwa Oreoluwa, a name like dawn’s first light, A soul that burns with wisdom bright. In ink and thought, your voice resounds, A seeker where the truth is found. A mind that questions, deep and vast, Through pages turned, through shadows cast. A warrior’s heart, yet gentle too, A thinker bold with dreams so true. You stand where crossroads twist and bend, A guide, a friend, a voice to lend. For justice calls, and you respond, With words like fire, fierce and strong. In faith, you rise—a beacon tall, With hands that build, that heed the call. A poet’s heart, a leader’s grace, A soul unbowed by time or place. So here’s to you, on this grand day, A force, a light, in your own way. For words are power, fierce and free, And in them, Ore, you will always be. Happy World Poetry Day!

Only Those Who Dare to Shoot Can Miss Only those who dare to shoot can miss, Yet every loss shapes what exists. The fire of youth, so bold, so bright, Yet wisdom dawns in softer light. I saw the gavel in my hand, A voice for justice, tall I’d stand. But roads diverged, the tides would shift, Dreams once firm began to drift. What if I’d listened, paused to learn, Let patience guide at every turn? Would fate have steered a steadier course, Or is this path its own great force? Yet dreams don’t die, they bend, they breathe, They wait in silence, sewn beneath. The law still whispers, calls my name, Not lost, but waiting in the flame. So now I step with purpose clear, No wasted shot, no aim unclear. For only those who dare to try, Can rise, can soar, can touch the sky.

The Potter’s Hands Clay in palm, I shaped my fate, Molded firm, yet cracks remained. Elders spoke in dusk’s embrace, "Change the press, let strength be gained." Paths I walked, etched deep in dust, Led to walls that would not yield. Yet rivers carve the stubborn rock, Not by force, but time revealed. In market squares, the traders know— Not all coins can buy the trade. Some must barter wit for wealth, And shift the stance from which they wade. The drummer’s hands must shift the beat, When feet grow weary of the tune. A rigid branch will snap in storms, Yet palms will bend and rise in bloom. O seeker bold, the tale is clear— The bow unbent will never send, But he who learns the art anew, Shall guide his arrow to its end.

Insomnia The night is a stubborn thing, stretching itself thin between my ribs, a lingering hush where love once stayed, where echoes of October still press against my skin. I tell myself I have mastered solitude— that I can carve my heart into an empty room, furnish it with silence, and call it peace. But peace does not knock at my door; only the weight of faces I have met, only the ghosts of maybe, almost, and never. She is beautiful, and that is all. Another, I watch, tracing the spaces between her words, measuring the gaps where I might fit. Some live only in my head— soft, imagined warmth against my palms, laughter spilling into the hollow of my nights. And then there are the ones I pray about, names folded into my lips like quiet petitions, as if heaven might drop an answer between my dreams and dawn. Still, sleep does not come easy. Loneliness is a patient thing, tugging at my eyelids, reminding me— not yet, not yet.

The True Cost I stand with nothing but my pulse, my breath, A heart exposed, to give or face regret. You want the riches that adorn the day, But I ask, love, is this your only way? I could paint you skies of stars and sun, Build you mountains, roads for us to run. Lay before you the treasures the world would covet— But here's the truth you might not have expected: For all the gold, for all the wine, My love is no trinket, no simple sign. I’d offer it all, if you would claim, But you just gotta be worth it—to play the game. What is wealth when hearts are sold too cheap? When the promise of forever is shallow and weak. I’d give you a kingdom if you hold the key, But, love, you just gotta be worth it to stand with me. If you crave the world’s glimmering embrace, Know this: I will give, but at a steady pace. A thousand riches, and yet they fall— If you’re not the one who can bear it all. So tell me, love, what’s the cost to you? Will you rise, or fade from view? For what’s ...

Eclipsed Reverie Lo! The fairest thoughts dwell in the gloom, Where phantoms dance ‘neath silver moon. Aye, beauty lurks in murmurs deep, Where secrets waltz and wild hearts weep. Oh, dulce noche, art thou not grand? With ink-stained fingers, I take thy hand. Ven, mi musa, paint the night, With strokes of madness, dark yet bright. Perchance ‘tis folly to chase the storm, Yet in its chaos, art is born. A canvas torn, yet brushed anew, A sonnet scrawled in midnight’s hue. So let the sombras call my name, For genius walks where none dare claim. In darkest dreams, in light’s embrace, The fairest thoughts do find their place.

They Zig, You Zag When they meander in synchrony’s embrace, You traverse the labyrinth of boundless space. While their steps align in a scripted parade, You forge a path where shadows cascade. When they capitulate to comfort’s decree, You defy the tides, unshackled and free. Amidst the cacophony of acquiescent tone, You etch symphonies in the marrow of bone. Their trajectory, banal, a linear refrain, Yours, an odyssey through tempest and terrain. With mettle unmarred by the weight of scorn, You ascend where the audacious are born. When they extol the virtues of trodden ground, You uncover vistas where none have been found. And while their gaze remains fettered, confined, You wield the cosmos as the canvas of mind. So, let their zig mark the rhythm of the tame; Your zag ignites the pyre of your name. For where conformity seeks to reign supreme, You are the architect of an unbridled dream.

Empty Brilliance An opulent glow, yet hollow and frail, A gilded crown, but devoid of the trail. Lustrous mirage in the desert of mind, A beacon that leads yet fails to bind. The shroud of allure, delicate, worn, Conceals the void where essence is torn. Vibrance profound, yet utterly bare, A labyrinth's maze that leads to nowhere. Resplendent in form, but devoid of weight, The gloss of success—so exquisite, so late. It hums in the silence, soft and refined, But never resounds, never realigns. It dances like pearls in a lover’s soft hand, But fades with a touch, like castles of sand. Gilded with praise, adorned in the best, But fractured within, no substance to invest. A cadence that strikes but fails to resound, A myth in the making that never is found. The brilliance, they say, is born of the mind, Yet in absence of truth, what’s left behind?

The Play of Shadows and Time Shadows elongate and then recede, A silent waltz to light’s decreed. They prowl at dawn, in dusk dissolve, A paradox they can’t resolve. Like time, they jest, they feint, they flee, Ethereal threads of brevity. Forever mutable, never confined, Ephemeral whispers of time’s design.

My Silly Jokes and Her Anger My tongue, a foolish jester’s play, Flings jokes that wander, far astray. Each word a spark, a flame unplanned, Igniting tempests in her hand. Her brows a storm, her eyes a blaze, My laughter caught in fiery haze. The walls now echo her sharp retorts, While I retreat to safer ports. But oh, the charm of her furrowed brow, A masterpiece of anger now. Her fury dances, wild and free, A tempest born because of me. Yet when the storm begins to fade, Her laughter slips through cracks I’ve made. And in her smile, I find my way, To jest again another day.

Forbidden Desires Why is the best fruit always forbidden? The taste of love often feels hidden. We reach for what we should release, Holding on to fragments that shatter peace. Is it the thrill of what we can’t contain, The hope that love will bloom again? We crave the sweetness, ignore the sting, Returning to gardens of endless longing. And why does love-making mend, then blur, The truths we promised would endure? In moments of fire, the wounds recede, But clarity drowns in desire’s need. Is it love, or a fleeting reprieve, A fragile bridge we want to believe? The body consoles what the mind disputes, And clouds our vision with forbidden fruits.

Twilight in My Soul The sun sinks low, a heavy chest, Its glow dissolves, a flame at rest. The sky flushes like a secret dream, Yet quietness flows, a muted stream. Walls undone, ambitions raw, A heart like ruins no one saw. Desires stretch where shadows curl, Reaching for light in a dusky whirl. The breeze murmurs, a tender vow, "Will solace find you here and now?" Like the sun, I flare, then wane, Chasing warmth in a fleeting plane. But twilight holds a sacred thread, A golden whisper where fears have fled. For even in this tender ache, A rising dawn my soul will wake.

Chances, Time, and Getting It Done The sun never negotiates its rise, and the moon, though bruised by shadows, still shines. We, too, are celestial—fragile yet fierce, crafted for moments we fear to claim. Chances are not given; they are seized, fingers trembling, hearts pounding. They do not knock with velvet gloves, but with the force of a storm— daring you to open the door. Time, a silent spectator, does not barter seconds for hesitation. It demands action— a leap, a stumble, a crawl— whatever it takes to move forward. It scorns regret, its currency only spent in now. Getting it done is the anthem of the restless, the hymn of those who know that the world owes nothing to the dreamer who sleeps too long. It is the raw hymn of blistered hands, of aching backs, of minds that refuse to rest until the work is done. Let the skies judge your ambition, let the earth hold your sweat, but never let doubt anchor your feet. This life is a battlefield, and victory belongs to the rele...

The Empty Tomb A stone rolled back, the dawn breaks bright, The tomb stands empty, a wondrous sight. Linen folded, death dethroned, Victory claimed, the grave disowned. Three crosses linger on the hill, A story of love fulfilled by will. The darkest hour, the cruelest pain, Now eclipsed by life’s refrain. Oh, death, where is your sting today? The risen King has paved the way. Hope restored, hearts set free, Grace flows wide, eternally. The earth may quake, the sky may cry, But heaven rejoices, lifting high The name of One who conquered all— Redeemer, Savior, on Him we call. From an empty tomb to hearts reborn, In Him, the veil of sin is torn. Let nations sing, let voices soar, He lives! He reigns forevermore.

Après Minuit Beneath the moon’s soft, steady glow, We find a place where secrets flow. The world is still, but hearts ignite, A love concealed in the quiet night. The clock ticks on, the hours fade, As passion stirs in silence. No need for words, just fleeting touch, A stolen moment, sweet and much. After midnight, hearts are free, No rules to bind, no eyes to see. In this brief hour, we belong, Where love is pure, yet feels so wrong. The world outside, untouched by fear, We linger close, but none are near. In stolen glances, lips will meet, A love that blooms in hearts discreetly. No promises, no vows exchanged, Just moments fleeting, hearts unchained. After midnight, love is wild, Like an untamed, forbidden child. And when the hour fades to dawn, We parted as if it had not gone. Yet in our hearts, a fire remains, Till midnight calls us back again.

Heart of Point Nemo In the vastness of silence, where no echoes remain,   Lies my heart, distant, untouched by pain.   Like Point Nemo adrift in the endless sea,   Far from the shores where love longs to be. No harbor in sight, no tender embrace,   Just the cold, quiet depths, an empty space.   A place where affection is but a fleeting ghost,   In the heart of Point Nemo, love is lost. Waves of emotion may crash and recede,   But they find no anchor, no fertile seed.   In this ocean of solitude, I quietly roam,   A heart far from loving, forever alone. Distant and guarded, no compass to steer,   Through waters uncharted, free from fear.   Yet in the stillness, a truth becomes clear—   This heart of Point Nemo holds no one near. OLANREWAJU EBUNOLUWA JAMES