Okada, the rag tag throng in the south
Of motorbike transportation business
Achaba, the northern name for the trade
Rides on rough and stormy city roads
Trap for broken bones and scarred skin
The morgue is where some make their beds
Carnage on our roads is no longer news
Check the obituary information columns
You will see what I really mean to say
So the government decided on a law
To help the learned and uninformed
An attempt to check casualty figures
Come year two thousand and nine
Motorcyclists are ordered wear helmets
With all commuters of devil own horses
Hear the big outcry, superstition is born
Shared helmets make people disappear
Collusion, it seems, to resist the diktat
Other raison d'être, presumptuously put
On high cost of procuring this safety gear
While some do the right thing straight away
Others resort to wear plates and pots of clay
But the funniest of them all you will agree
Are those wearing pumpkins on their heads
Comments
you posted this twice
better unpublish one of them
Thank you
I have unpublished one. I do understand how it happen, I guess, I must have clicked the save button twice.
mate, this is not a poem
it's a public service announcement.
I know you have great talent as a poet
but sometimes what you want to say
gets in the way
of your poetry.
the last line is funny.
Things getting in the way of my poetry.
Your comment on this piece has given me an insight in practical terms to what constitute poetry. It became clear that this piece addresses 'what I think' and not 'what I feel'. I remain loyal and faithful to your guidance direction. Thank you and best wishes.
tr
mmm, feeling isn't everything.
It's the factor I thought was missing in "CHERISHED BAOBAB TREE" to make it complete, but at the same time it was beautifully written poetry.
This one, in my opinion, needs more "prosodic values". Poetic techniques like meter, assonance, consonance and forms of imagery.
It is not completely lacking in those values by any means, there are some really good lines like-
Okada, the rag tag throng in the south
Rides on rough and stormy city roads
Trap for broken bones and scarred skin
The morgue is where some make their beds
With all commuters of devil own horses [devil's]
Hear the big outcry, superstition is born
Shared helmets make people disappear
Collusion, it seems, to resist the diktat
and more. The second stanza and other parts read like a public announcement or essay.
I verr much admire your abilities as a poet, and your determination to develop your craft in the face of difficulties. This one just needs a little work.