This morning I woke up and didn’t pull your hair
with those teasing words I say every time.
I couldn’t since I woke up next to an empty room,
void except for a bed that mockingly yawns
with the hollow of when you last slept in it
and the  mess you left (for me to clean)
but it’s okay,I won’t tell my sister about it
as it would be mad to report you to you.

This afternoon, I went to church (like I always do)
and everyone was happy to inform me
with news they heard from me.
They said, now she’s gone, how do you feel?
So on the outside I smiled
but gave them head knocks in my mind.

This night is the end of the first day you left
but clichés hate the mouth of this poet
though I often wonder what the point is
to say very simple things such as
“I miss you” or “I love you” complicatedly.
I’m certain however that you’ll enjoy your new bed
while ‘tomorrow’, I’ll watch things scatter together here.

(c) Tolu’ Akinyemi

For 3 years, I shared a flat with my sister in London. Last year she got married. Yesterday she moved across the pond to join her husband, so I wrote a poem

P.S. My newbook is available on Amazon. http://www.j.mp/your_father





Rotten grass is food
to a starving man,
(he’ll even steal to survive) as
a rioting belly knows no shame,(and)
an ‘un-food-filled’ one, fears no rebuke.

A woman in labour has no regard
for funerals and solemn rites.
She needs her help and wants it now.
She’ll scream for it and doesn’t care
if the doctor’s busy on (his) duty
making children with his wife.

Like this dying man scrambles for air
scribbling dire words with his blood.
He wants to live, (so) he wants you now.

(c) Tolu’ Akinyemi




I had turned the corner of a bank building into a connecting street when his voice slapped me in the face like a Monday morning.

It was a Monday morning really, a bit cold and with the usual orderly morning confusions. This gentleman’s voice was ringing out, loud and clear over the heads of people going about the day’s business.
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Taken Everytime


Taken every time


On a mango tree that lives by the roadside
I never find a ripe fruit.

On a pathway that leads to the market place
I never find a gold ring.

Yet fruits get ripe on the road side tree.
And gold is mislaid n the market pathway.

But like good women
Another man finds before me.

-Tolu Akinyemi


A poem from "Your Father Walks Like A Crab" :Poetry for people who hate poetry available on Amazon in kindle and paperback editions.