Poems by Abimbola T. Alabi

On a bench, in Joe's little shed,
lying not too far apart,
were his ax and his switchblade,
having a quiet heart-to-heart.

"How small and weak you look,"
said the ax to the blade.
"You will never be able to do
those deeds for which I'm made."

"For it's me that Joe will use
to cut the boughs of trees.
You should see me at work sometime,
how I split a log with ease."

"A great help you are around
performing these hefty tasks,
but stuff I do for Joe, you can't,"
replied the blade to the ax.

"Would he ever count on you
to cut or strip a wire bare?
Try slicing open packages too.
I'd love to see just how you'd fare."

"We're designed in unique ways;
you're not superior as you claim."
The mighty ax and the nifty blade
needed by Joe all the same.

In the end, they both agreed
about their weaknesses and strengths.
Neither of them, they could see,
was truly a hundred percent.

From then on, they became pals,
got along and learned to relax.
Never again was there pride or strife
between the blade and the ax.

I thought I knew colors.
Aren't they red, green and blue? 
I know white, black and grey, 
Purple, pink and yellow too. 

And yet a lady stared at me, 
Like I committed some crime; 
A cloth I thought was green, 
She sniffed and said was lime. 

One dress I said was blue, 
My little sister called turquoise. 
I accepted the mild rebuke, 
I didn't really have a choice. 

A rug was declared taupe, 
When all I saw was brown.
Did auntie call her decor plum? 
Well, now they've got a clown.

Sky blue and navy blue, 
I'd tell apart in a blink. 
But what on earth is fuchsia, 
How is it different from pink? 

Ladies love being precise, 
With every shade, tint and hue. 
How they do this with such flair, 
I still do not have a clue.

Striving daily for progress,
Learning a paradox too --
That it's not always forward movement;
Sometimes, the reverse will do.

That progress may take the form
Of slowing down the pace.
It's the admittance of a wrong turn,
Of having steps to retrace.

It's in pausing to find my bearing,
At the risk of seeming slack.
It's in opting against some shortcut,
For a rather less-travelled track.

It's not always how far and away,
I am at a given instance.
It's a lot more about the direction
Than it is the covered distance.

Each day is a chance for progress.
Lord, I want the forward kind.
Help me, too, to know where to let go,
And what to leave behind.

Once I did hear my brother call
The sun a giant fire ball.
How can that be?
For what I see,
Is something up high so small.

I see it at the break of dawn,
When it announces the day is on.
Its brilliant gold,
A joy to behold,
And being outside is so much fun.

John might be right, for I must say,
The sun is not so cool at midday.
Its shining light
Is just so bright,
I have to pull my eyes away.

Evening comes and it's so strange
How the sun still appears to change.
No longer small,
A bigger ball.
Its tone, now a lovely bright orange!

This curious ball hanging up high,
For me, raises many questions why.
But when it shines,
Then life is fine.
Thank God the sun is in the sky.

You pass off as no big deal
Lots of splendid, gracious acts.
Friends like you are rare indeed;
That is just a simple fact.

You've done it once again,
Put a sparkly glow in my day.
Your kindness meant more to me
Than these words can convey.

A trusty, kindly soul
You've always been from the start.
Helping out behind the scene,
That is what sets you apart.

I really appreciate what you did;
I know you didn't have to.
Though you made no big deal of it,
I'd like to say a big thank you.