Wednesday, 24 January 2018

Help or Remain Captain?

Vikings and the captain being borne ashore by the big fish,
Norsemen arriving from raid

Sailors of seas, they are Danes that hugs seas as pretty-dames
With faith in ship, “Big-fish” that crushes to powder kames
They are talons like flames driving hordes to for guts ail
Users of axes that cause wails, suckers of mead and ale
Swivers of maids with name, raiders of lands others wish
With dawn still green and dim, entering from raid men rot
In lust for share of plunder, plunder many as stars
That gilded Abraham’s sky, men first need heave heft big-fish
But hands for task were shy, pants grew into deep breaths
Sweat waltzed with sweats, their toil was a strive with wind
Hands are needed captain works with lips
In shadow of growls vocals are faint as
Sleep on thorny bed
Captain grabs rod in wet, rod nips the flesh
Salt in tears, sweat sip into mouths
Danes beg mercy of whips
God made Norsemen, captain’s whip made slaves
Minutes grew into hours, hours before dusk now faint
Sun slowly sunk at the west strength slowly turned sour
Lust for plunder still roar, captain’s voice turns hoar
His hands from whipping worn
Amid soggy soil so dour Vikings are lour as men in deserts
Hope slowly away pours
They say “darkest is night if afore dawn, hours are mite”
Lo horse rider draws nigh with bells ringing in joy
Singing “Glory! Glory! Hail! Hail! ‘Of men Light’”
All knees lick earth, a rite for The Captain of captains
Captain of captain’s voice pierces “What’s thy plight?”
His voice like the roar of a king among his wights
The vinegar is given him, his face returns a smile
“Why not add might?” king asks “Am Captain” says captain
“Why not lend a ‘widows mite’?” Captain of captain asked
Ere he joins heavers as captain falls in awe of sight
Captain’s mind lost all her right
Work with the most royal dight, tired men find light
At regal fight Big-fish is willing
Then ‘King of captains’ yells
“Help or remain captain which does well?”
“Ah! Pride makes ‘reason’ a blind man” cries captain
As to moor his feet dash light

(c) Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey.
First published by Nthanda Review.
Picture courtesy

Thursday, 18 January 2018

Fruits of First became Last

Fruits of First became Last

The odd one who prefers to listen to a leprous man than to the president.
Odd one
His face was smile-rent, men make tears off dent
He turns tears to gold amid his form, shakily old
And feet blest with leprosy, snow-white and bent
He is the least of citizens if there such a thing be
Election comes, candidates yen win, loathe loss
Seeing via his wilted orb, the bent-feet did toss
“Beholding win and loss is how men grow up”
His syllables winged unwelcome as the grave
After day campaigning, wearily men hug pillow
While in sleep men rot, Oke sat by the bent-feet
Like a wind in midst of a wind bent-feet spoke
Words flow like seas of rapture, only Oke sips
Amidst winds lodging on amidst the treetops
Chasers chased hoping El-dorado was in sight
Amid election chase men tread men, life-force
Deserts souls of the thumped, fittest win fight
First-citizen victor lends his few hale men gold
Aye those souls who wrestled shield by shield
With him with one plea (to fetch him victory)
Few rainy days pass, rust gnaws gold in mass
Shades roam land, from lack men fall as ants
Soon the hale and hearty are told “take heart”
They cry to first-citizen, ‘mine is bare’ he says
Time gave doses of justice to even the giants
But truly showers or dew cannot rust an idea
Though man with bent feet in time turns ash
His words slumber not, they vibrate terribly
Aye! Thunder and lightning of words raved
In Oke’s mind pictures from past did shake
As Oke tasked his odd mind to unearth cure
Lyrics spoke on from bent feet’s silent ash
Lines turn stanzas, stanzas grew into essays
Till his words become full blown goldmines
For with his counsel Oke grew a fecund trade
Vast gain hailed Oke’s trade for ‘twas learnt
By only him and he did face no competition
O! But success is the girl most ached by lads
Now the fruit of tail is ached by men of that
Land tottering on in unsure democratic steps
Aye, the “Fruits of first citizen became last”

(c) Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey.
Picture courtesy
First published by Nthanda Review.

Saturday, 13 January 2018

Life is Energy


Spiritual energy field and the mind which functions in it.
Spiritual energy.

When the question of what life really means is placed on the table, the answers to it are both numerous and diverse yet a great wonder that meets the examiner instantly is that though the answers are numerous and diverse, majority of these answers are correct as well. Hence the meaning of life is the unique question whose answer is far from unique.
Well for me, being a physicist with a near infinite love for creative writing, I consider life as many things and one of those things I consider life as is that life is energy. Life is basically a field where a seeming endless conversation of energy takes place.
Chemical energy in food becomes mechanical energy which men employ in doing various tasks like speech and all that.
Every trade that exists under the sun bears a unique name different from any other but personally I think all trade is basically buying or selling energy. The grocery store owner is basically selling chemical energy, the boxers trade mechanical energy, thermal energy and the likes. The electrical engineer having purchased chemical energy from the grocery store converts it to mechanical energy which in due time is converted to electrical energy. The weapon maker today often converts nuclear energy to heat energy in proportions that exterminate life. Life is basically a  field where energy is traded daily. Both matter and non matter partake in this cosmic trade,  galactic bodies are not exempted.
Being in many ways a writer, I have long wondered what form of energy is traded by a writer, a public speaker and the likes. A writer could write a book about cooking or making a car, these are written energy which when acted out become full blown energy conversations. A preacher or public speaker does same, and when their advice is acted out, physical energy is often the result.
But what about a writer of fictional stories, a writer of inspirational poetry, what form of energy do they trade? These professions trade inspirations to the mind, inspirations that do not necessarily involve physical energy. If life is a field where energy is traded, then I say writers of inspirational poetry trade either mental energy or spiritual energy. Because their traded energy often cannot be touched but only felt by the sixth sense.
Poetry in its glory days thrived on the potency spiritual energy can own when it grows in a mind that believes in it. The prophetic parts of spiritual books like the Christian Bible were written using poetic languages, just to prove my point.

Picture courtesy
Written by Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey. His Christian non fiction book titled Faith-Life is currently available at Amazon Books.

Thursday, 11 January 2018



River fated to flow till sun falls from the sky and dries it up.
River waiting the sun to fall from the sky.

Do winy-rivers of water ever have a destination
Is it its fate to glide, waft and never halt to rave
To descend jagged rocks, picking shingles along
To waltz amid sinewy wings of tides and waves
To be beaten atop the shore by finger of nature
Till the sun falls from the sky and dries it up
Somehow I think the rivers and men are alike
Fruits-of-Eve waltz on betwixt cares and aches
Descending jagged paths, ferrying gores along
Till death falls from the sky and dries them up
So in this unceasing trip I toed on waiting death
For centuries thought by men as the destination
But then at last I chanced-on that the rivers have
A destination other than sun falling from the sky
When I chanced-on she plucked from my rib cage
They say wedlock is having a companion to fly
With us as we toe waiting death to fall from sky
But nay, the river’s destination is also the ocean
Like she is also my destination, not a companion
My path is gone, my destination is your visage

(c)  Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey.
Picture courtesy
First published by Nthanda Review.

Tuesday, 9 January 2018

Passion Versus Talent


When passion and talent become parallel lines.
When passion and talent are lovers destined to never meet.

Life is such a place that is filled with the awkward things like people created with one leg desiring to be sprinters yet nature does not permit their course.
Personally I love music, I have loved to be a singer lifelong and at a short flash of time I tried my hands on it. When the craze to finally make my passionate affair with music turn reality touched my soul, at a time while my book titled Faith-Life was still an unfinished manuscript, I began writing songs and recording them, trying to get best yield from the limited recording instruments within my reach. Even the host of Hell who are accustomed to a chorus of endless, tuneless wailing could tell that my voice was terrible I guess.
Still ushered by my passion, I joined the Church Choir at an unusually late age. I was new in that particular congregation and thus when I joined the choir, they assumed I was a professional. I managed to dazzle the choir leaders during my first rehearsal with the Choir and since they thought I was a professional, they hastily gave me a part to solo at the next Church program. The next day, our last rehearsal before my presentation I was called to present my solo and surely I failed woefully, all night I missed the key. Nevertheless the Choir will not take my solo role from me lest they break my confidence.
On the day fated for the Church program, I sang to one of the largest crowd I have ever stood before till date. Somehow it went well but that was the limelight of my singing career; because down the line it was obvious the passion was not my talent.
My singing kept bringing yawns to my friends but my writings made some jaws drop once in a while. It was daily becoming obvious that singing was not made for me.
Not all passions in our hearts are designed to be pursued. Some passions are even designed to keep us humble, aye there are countless mystical reasons why a legless man bearing a passion to be a sprinter might just be a good thing. Nevertheless some passions if pursued brings the worse. Believe it or not majority of men out there are driven by passions, some passionate about crime and such.  Such passions are wrong and taken mostly from the poisoned ether we currently inhabit.
Aside singing, I have like many out there had other passions fail to be reality, some of which are not caused by a lack of talent but by a lack of chance or opportunity. Passion without talent cannot take you far yet talent without opportunity is a wingless bird. I am often called a good footballer, football aka soccer has been a  sport I have loved lifelong but life has never given me a chance to go for a trial or to pursue this lifelong dream.

Picture courtesy
Written by Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey.



Faith-Life by Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey.
Faith-Life by Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey.
The Christian book titled Faith-Life is currently available at Amazon Books.
Faith-Life is basically a record of inspirations received by one Christian mind over a course of seven years.
Get a copy of this inspiring piece of spiritual literature via the links below:

For paperback version click here.
For Kindle version click here.

Friday, 5 January 2018

Christmas Behind Bars


Christmas behind bars is a poem about a girl whose moment of rage turns into a long term regret.
Christmas behind bars.

While windstorms and willows wailed outside the
Windows, in the frosty night, no matter how fair
Christmas neon lights on walls behind bars flare
Her smiley-frown still favored silver moonlight
That graced the cold harmattan black outdoors
For such was the wonder she grew up to love
Amid those red-soils and evergreen rainforests
Where she sat beside her mother’s warm breast
Amid leaves-clap for the splendor of a frosty night
On garden seeming like earth kept heaven captive
But nay, ‘twas a cracked dream now; for her
Prison yet bid with her and her mother was late
For when madness in wine glasses took her captive
And her mother’s tongue abhorred her actions
As her tongue sweated it out with her mothers
She was burnt by breaths of her mother’s tongue
And in retaliation she gave her mother to a grave
Aye the halcyon-days were now heaps and graves
Thanks to mass graves of good advice buried
And shrouded by her careless foolhardy heart

(c) Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey
Picture courtesy
First published by

Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey is a physicist with a near infinite love for creative writing. His poems have appeared at Nthanda and The Squawk Back.

Tuesday, 2 January 2018

Finer Forms

Layers of Inspirations

Older layers are smaller than newer layers
Older layers are smaller than newer layers 

History teaches us a lesson about finer forms replacing previous forms. From Stone-age to Bronze-Age,  we see repitatively a newer, finer form replacing an older form and the newer, finer form itself getting replaced by another newer form.
Once wars were decided by bows and arrows, spears and swords, but the invention of guns became the marvel of the age. Today, an army dependent on bows and arrows will lose the battle whether they have numerical advantage in terms of soldiers or not. Today there are aircrafts, drones, nuclear weapons, biological weapons, such that the army trusting bows and arrows is labeled an army of fools. Whereas yore,  bows and arrows were the best tools of the most elite of armies. 
Once there was the invention of television and while many would have thought that the television was the ultimate, the computer arrived to dwarf the glory of televisions. Today we have the Computer Age,  we have robots and many like me already imagine: "what could be finer?". But if history is anything to go by, then I am expecting a finer form,  a future where my children will tell me that 'I never lived life or had fun' because what they have is far better than what this glorious Computer-Age of contemporary times has offered me.
Speaking of finer forms is not restricted to history but religions and faith speak of finer forms that exist unexplored by the natural man save when he dies. A Christian calls it heaven, a Buddhist calls it Nirvana, many other religions give it different names and describe it and the path to it differently.
Like history speaks of chains of replacement of one form by another, so I imagine there are finer forms in the realm of inspiration and I place the realm of sight as the least of these realms. The realm of sight is the oldest realm the natural man knows till he is reawakened like Buddha would say. Poetry reaches it's peak when the old forms of sight are replaced with the higher forms in layers of inspirations. The poet thus becomes basically not the source of his poems but just like a wire,  he transfers the currents of inspirations he tapped from layers of inspiration to the reader.

(c)  Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey.
Picture courtesy

Sunday, 31 December 2017

Unreturned Affections

Unreturned Affections

Are you mankind, usher Satan, am I Christ
Unreturned affections

Her presence quenches my thirst
Yet her response makes my heart colorless
Her farewell smile makes my soul tasteless
Are you water?
My morns are laden with beak tunes
And coldness of dewdrops
But once her pretty wings bring her
Tunes become wails, cold dew turns hot
Are you the gate of hell?
When I have gold I am embraced by her
But once my gold coins are gone
I sink into woeful parts of her embrace
Are you quicksand?
Amid glow of her brightness
You are my midnight
I make off from you
You yet cleave -to my feet
Are you my shadow?
Each time I look at the
Brightness of her beauty
My sight turns fuzzy
My eyelashes turn wet
Are you the sun?
In her I see El-dorado’s bliss
El-dorado my fires reach for
Flames calling her name
Yet she stays not touched
Yet holding my very core
Are you a radiation?
Each time she kisses his lips
You draw water from my eyelids
Worse she kisses him all time
My teardrops drown ships of my joy
Are you a sea of fiends?
Sunrays crucify me as I chase gold
My silver and gold gives her smiles
Yet her smiles give another face joy
Am I Christ? Is he Satan? Are you mankind?

First published at, written by Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey. Picture courtesy

Thursday, 28 December 2017

Passion versus Market


When the pages you write are the portraits of your heart.
When the pages you write are the portraits of your heart.
When a new author/poet arrives scene of the book market, they arrive like a pin lost in a vast forest. There is the temptation to quit and there is also the temptation to alter personal codes in a process of adapting to get in tune with the book market. The later is the heart of this post.
The late country musician Don Williams during one of his songwriting spells was faced with the question of changing the true love of his heart in order to catch up with the trending country songs of those times. The singers and producers in those times rejected Don's penned songs on the grounds of them being not in line with the trending songs of those days. But Don,  resilient, he refused to alter the style he loved so dearly, he would not write to please the producers but he will always write from passion. Seeing the rejections he faced,  he opted to record the songs by himself and down that road, Don Williams became one of the greatest country singers of his generation.
Don's story can be applied to every other art, including writing. This post encourages every author whose passion is not favoured by the current trends to stay faithful to his passion.
Have you heard of trail blazers, men who set the pace rather than just follow. Every passion is a unique thing,  with a potential to be the next trend. Instead of following another man's passion because the book market suggest so,  why not let your own passion live?
Today poetry is not the popular literature in the market but then poetry can reach it's glory again, it begins with poets not jumping ship because the ship is currently holey. We must be resilient like the great Don Williams. We must allow our pages be the portrait of our hearts. Rather than jump ship we must fight it out, we must seal the holes and together make poetry our true passion great again.

Written by Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey. His poems have appeared at Nthanda and The Squawk Back.