Horsemen

Synopsis

“Horsemen” is a heroic poem that explores the dealings between men and their relationship with the community of spirits, according to Christian traditions. “Horsemen” explains how love conquers even the hardest foes; be it the love of one lover for another or the love a pious soul has for God.

Horsemen is a story of lovers who part depressingly only to reunite and find their love threatened by the world's elites. Would love win amid odds firmly stacked against it? You should find out in this epic ride which sweeps through the porn industry, the United States Air Force Academy, the Nobel Prize awards night in Oslo, Norway and Ubinu, Nigeria.

CANTO I

Atop this olden dust horsemen ride,
Under the sunshine, beneath raindrops,
Underneath the snowflakes, below hail,
Their breaths abide warm, their lungs exhale,
Loving and abhorring their hearts bring-
As life, the-endless-fowl beat wings on,
Hours of darkness drop on the aged dust
Like twigs befallen by raven’s wing-
Many raven skies quit like water
Evaporates, men act epic songs
Yet love though soft, ‘tis a vast matter-
Be it love that goes down from the-blue
And feeds dampness to seedlings in leas;
Be it love that nailed the-Christ to tree;
Or love borne from saintly chests like pants
Heading towards the crown of Heaven;
Or lusty love that flows like river
With only twain shores, hearts of lovers;
Be it the love apt to burn if bits
Of a mother’s soul is in her arms
Slurping her nipple’s milk into the
Tender embrace of a toothless mouth-
In this ever playing grand earth ride,
Sons-of-Eve are dim casts taking sides
In a grand conflict that was ere them
And that will outlive their eyelid-blinks
Taken under, moon, sun and star-winks-
Eyelids like gates bolt but reopen,
In swift rates that horsemen do not note
Till death’s spirit holds the eyelid taut,
Clasping that gate so it opens not
To daylights of new rising summers-
Then mortals taste immortality
At spheres of an infinite-future,
With fallen-angels or with Heaven-

Amid suns and moons gone and anon
That fleet endlessly as evermore
Whilst fruits-of-Eve, horsemen keep ride on
Ere wilting away like verdant shrubs,
Came twenty-ninth December of year
Two thousand and thirteen, a Sunday
When breathing-dusts go find brawnier bone
From the Lamb-Slain vast Eastertides gone-
Magnolia clouds extolled the sky that morn,
Sky was dressed by a dimly warm sun-
With legs on red-soils and lime-ranches
That deck parts of Ubinu terrain,
Legs swinging like monkeys on a branch,
Feet of Iruo, son-of-Ovie toed-

Feet of the son-of-Ovie beseeched
Like an asthmatic gasps for lungful,
Like a deer covets to behold the
Echo of its face atop water,
So he craved a place to reap leaven
From Timeless Cathedras of Heaven-

Iruo’s steps were green to the red-soils;
He sought not to cheat the narrow-path,
So in strange soils he sought holy oil-
Hunt for greener meadowlands to graze
Chased him from Isoko to red-soils-
Many prayer-lairs did not posit
On his nature his craved dew of ease-
He hankered for a lair that will cease
A broiling of steam within his chest,
A lair to set drops and wet his heart;
For so aforesaid gray-Ovie’s words
When his virgin-seed, his mine of gold
Was to veer his way off his mat to
Future of strange miens, tongues and strongholds-

Iruo’s calmness soon reached its autumn
As winds of sunrise howled at his skin-
As red rays from the-blue met his skin,
Dew of his brio was gently fleeting-
Like dewdrops flee before red rays of
Sun, his dew fled before a long tramp-
His trip seemed like holding air with clamp
And hell-winged-feelings perched on his chest-
‘Did breath of pleas from my lips not cry?
O Endless-Mercy, succor my flame’,
Arose a whisper from his mind’s hall-
Still his spirit loved not any stall
Though many caressed his nosy sight-

As heartbeats swelled, Iruo was to quit
His long tramp and into his lair drip
When his stare hit-upon one sprig soul
With the spirit’s-Sword held in his grip-
The sight made Iruo find wine and heart
To swallow and get drunk with daring
To throng the harmattan air again;
For wine does paralyze wits and pain-
From looks, the sprig’s eyelids must have blinked
About same number of times Iruo’s
Have since he came from his mother’s loin-

Like lightening that brings-forth thunder proves
The mighty fierceness of the old sky
So did glow of thirst bring a fierce cry,
A cry piercing as a thunder-blast,
Irou called, urged by the holy-highs:
 “Sprig-soul! What does your footfalls hunt-for?”

Lobes not blind to the call, the sprig said:
“To where lips of buttocks will kiss stalls
And the lips on visage would be heard
Chanting psalms and Words-Of-Purity,
Draining hefty chests, rinsing flame hearts”-

Winds breathed softly that orange sunrise-
Leaves on trees shook amid the breezes
Just like winy-seas shake amid tides-
The smiling air urged Iruo as he
Flanked footsteps of the sprig and threw strides-

Having cast few foot-swings, the sprig said:
“Lad with a green-mustache, who are you?”

Iruo’s speech, mild as a nod did say:
“I am Iruo, the son of Ovie-
My cradle lies at the forest-green
Isoko-soils, the lands of my birth”-

Awe sprang on face of the sprig in mirth
And with that awe his lips did speak breaths:
“O dear comrade from coasts of my birth,
I am Oke, son of tongue-talker-
My ancestors are said to have strode
The forest-green Isoko-soils but
I scarcely know earths my fathers rode;
For since the womb allowed my cry ring,
Since I began sailing upon wings
Of the-endless-fowl and sky and lithosphere
Caged my foot-swings, I have lived my days
Here in Ubinu with my father,
Tongue-talker, shepherd over the herd
Of Christ which meet at the prayer-lair
My mellow steps currently trail”-

Iruo gladly did cast a reply:
“I will surely see your father wear
A preaching-lip and deck a pulpit”-

“Pity chance may never let me see
Your father too, countless spaces bar us”-

“My father is Ovie, his lips lack haste
But sin against phrases of they whose
Moisture-of-the-marrow is still fresh-
Sprigs say ‘silver-locks have a tart taste’
But Ovie makes their trusted line fairy;
For he is like plantains, bland and hard
In his sweating early days of waste
But now with silver-locks, sugary
And tender, a sage with prudent tales,
Tales of quests born in very far trips
Sprig’s eyesight have never glimpsed but smell
As they gorge from salver of his lips-
His silver-locks like sliver are gems
With luster from which acumen glows-
His lip is a chord that makes sprigs flow
And hate counsels of the clock’s-finger-
O His syllables hug me firmly”-

A few laughs bejeweled their foot-swings
Towards the stretch of the prayer-house-
They thronged dusts flying with unseen wings
From the coldhearted, dry Sahara-
Like stars spread about a starry-black
Were the wingless dusts pell-mell stack-

At-last they perched at the prayer-lair-
When Iruo grasped a lungful of the air,
As Oke like hands of a handmaid
Delivered him to the prayer-lair,
He found that descants of the Good-Book
Stroked him with secret musical lures-
When attractiveness of the air brought
Divine water to his thirsty nature,
Taste of the water passed taste of wine-
As he bode, smiles on his face grew more-
When his kneecap did caress the floor
Of his prayer-stained-lair and sweat from
His forehead fell slowly on his thigh
As he prayed prayers to the Chief-One
From whom fire, wind, spirit and earth root,
He who sites a boot on a bull’s foot;
That dawn ere Iruo’s feet met the crust,
Aura in his heart were those prayed for-

Iruo sat on a stall lapping-up
Milk of the prayer-lair, evoking
Silver-locks of Ovie and his lair
At fore of a mahogany tree,
That had survived many winy-seas-

Pure-voices made pure tunes from pure zest
As smiles roved face of the Infinite-
The light of Eternal-Smile flung off
Pile of nights that piled on sundry chests;
For that light cannot be grasped by night-
Spirits decanted cups of their night
Unto sea of wastes, were reborn bright,
Fair, crystal, stainless and white as snow-
Surely God must hail from that abode;
For high glory tumbled-down with bliss
Of serenades from lips hearer loves kiss-
It fell pure as it tastes on the sight
When glorious sunrays perch on grass blades,
Sweet as tunes from an angel’s lip-

When tongue-talker, Shepherd of the herd,
Roused by the Eternal-Gaze whose sight
Finds us even in the darkest night,
When tongue-talker set words before them
As Heaven lent him aid, he did say:
“Flops want comradeship of rousing lips
But such lips hunt dwellings of triumph-
They hunt lilies musically all day,
They hunt nectar from hearts of lilies,
Snubbing grassy weeds whose ugliness
Is reason looks of lilies are loved-
They ferry in hunt with rousing herbs
But dwellings of triumph need not such-
Physicians leave patients, hunt the hale;
For gold blinds their wits, o what a tale”-

Such burly breaths fled tongue-talker’s lip-
Iruo’s fealty to holy-highs swelled hot,
His sword-of-faith fatter, set to sip
Moisture-of-marrow of any fiend-
Aye the star of his faith bred more heat
Than heat many other stars put-on-
When ado was sated, all breaths said,
Like battleground when swordfights are won
And wine-of-veins on greensward is left
To sink into the soil of the field,
So the herd dripped from the prayer-lair
As each human sunk into his pole,
Aye like the ants draw into their holes-

Like seasons rise and fall so did veins-
Many emotions changed like weather
But hearts of bona-fide cross-bearers
Lingered unwavering as the clime-
Be it wreath of rose petals on brow
Or wreath of hawthorns, true hearts stayed true-

When the spiritual affair was done,
Oke swiftly went toward Iruo’s crook
But ere he could speak a sound, Iruo spoke:
“Is the tongue-talker whose voice just took
Holy bread and fed my heart your dad?”

Oke replied with a giant smile:
“Aye, I am the lone fruit of cold nights
Of petals and smooches betwixt the
Tongue-talker and his wife, his bedmate-
Aye, I am the nestling of that dove
That perched atop the pulpit and drove
You into fealty to holy-highs”-

“Branches like you, hues barely quit your
Door; for every sap in trees which bore
You is routed to you, the lone branch”-

“Aye, but hues, they lack from my basket-
Poor me, I am damsel-mad and the
Damsels are like crocodiles with a
Thousand jawbones, draining my pocket-
But though my pouch is a vacuum, my
Reputation all over town hikes,
I’m the pretty damsel hunter who
Never misses a shot when he strikes”-

“Then surely my dear friend you have not
Circumcised the foreskin of your heart-
All stealth of wise lines from tongue-talker’s
Lips are being flung to the dirty rot
And stamped underneath the sole by you”-

“Aye comrade, how strange but wholly true-
But do you rope those saga’s from Ovie’s
Lips about your neck like necklaces?
Ovie’s lips like lips of all grey faces
Are chords holding the quest seeking sprig’s
Soul from tasting the splendor of this
Carnal life; making them hate counsels
Of the clock’s-finger which tell them years
Are piling and gain of youthful twigs
Once untapped never affords the soul
That missed it another chance to try”-

“At times I fail to do my dad’s breath
Just like the moon fails the Mother-Earth
When its dim rays are halted by clouds-
But when away roll such ugly clouds,
I sling back my subservient lights
Upon sagas of my father’s lip”-

“Then like me you have disobeyed, be
It few times or countless eyelid-blinks-
O wretched brother, pleasure has not
Found you yet you are guilty as me-
I rather hold the pleasure and die
For the sentence than be guilty but
Not partake in the orgasmic feast-
Leave old men to flash silver-locks at
The sky, waiting their life’s-clock to tick
A final time but young man, flash that
Sable lock at a damsel’s visage”-

When Oke’s words were said, Iruo gave
No words to his lips, naturally
The conversation met its grave-
Smiles like pat of rays of rising suns,
Such were shared by Oke and Iruo,
Twain who met a virgin hour that morn-
There was a marvel grabbed by Iruo’s ear
Now glued to thoughts that ushered him to
His prayer-stained-lair after farewells-
‘Twas the pure-voice of a damsel
He beheld while her pure-voice caroled
Sweet melodies to the Throne-Unseen-
Aye that voice which bore a blazing raze,
Voice that made souls like Iruo turn grass
Forced to man sward inept to flee blaze,
Like grass starved of voice to cry for aid;
For the grandeur of the voice’s grips
Drove away phrases from Iruo’s lips-
So like a grass in a burning sward,
Iruo was seared into purity
By burning ether of the pure-voice-
Aye the girl touched Iruo’s orb sweetly
With the finger of her warbling voice-
........to be continued......