Poems by D.M Aderibigbe


After Hurricane Sandy –

It’s a joke,
I assume, so I presume. So I resume,
Back to 3 days ago.

It’s a joke,
So I think, until a friend on my
BBM contact list shows me truism,

I see gloom stirring the sky, above
The aloft hand of the tallest creature
In the world,
The white man, who’s stood for as many years in New York,
As I could remember, without shaking
His hand.

Hurricane Sandy, he titles the
stagnant rumble.

I log on to CNN, to see authenticity,
To read originality,

Flood, rambunctiously running down from the ocean,
Sweeps through the East Coast,
Like a house owner clears
Spiders’ webs around his room with
A broom.

16 lives were washed clean,
Later 40,
Electricity impounded by the police
Officer of nature.

The sprightliness of New York,
The tranquility of New Jersey,
Flushed into the over 7 billion
Worried eyes of the world.

My feeble temerity wouldn’t let me
See more,
I hide under the universal-length blanket of
Social networking sites.

Grievances, commiseration, despondence,
Advices, stalking my twitter account,

Facebook statuses, splashing the missing bloods
Of the victims on my home.

I switch of my phone,
And try to forcibly make the
Journey to the land of respite,
I feel flood, sloshing in my heartbeat,
I hear wailing of the victims in my ears,

I could even see some, struggling with the water,
Yet, they are submerged, like a bad swimmer gets
Drowned in a swimming pool.

I go outside, to join my family members,
Who always have
One trifling thing to
Schmooze on,

Still, I see Hurricane Sandy,
Hovering around the grey sky
Of my street.

My heart flips to the Asian screams in
Black tears in Nigeria,

Without bun-fights, destruction is the
New culture of the


For the Mississippi River

The earlier the better they say.
I’ve known River Mississippi, before
I knew the subjects, taught in

Secondary school. The longest
River in the world, the white bearded
Beninoise, the

Chief mason, who laid the
Foundation of my intelligence, who
taught me Current Affairs, and

Social Studies, will sing in class.
But I’m a skeptic, like the Philosopher,
Who sometimes, doesn’t

Want to believe my mother
Is a black woman, and mind you,
Skepticism knows no

Age. Skepticism becomes
a teenager inside of me. The
American embassy,

A stone throw, a mile away.
I could drive in, get a visa, and visit
Mother Mississippi,

Me as an ideal illusionist.
The world is rewarded and remodeled
By science and his kid,

Technology. I can stay and learn
about my liquid interest. So I’ve learnt.
Mother Mississippi is 3 places

below the whistle the white
bearded beninoise blew; there are 9
others, larger than you.

In the water world of the
United States, you’re larger than life.
You exert tributes from

More than 12 other wiry water-holds.
And spread your clout around 10 states.
Mother Mississippi!

I knew you were important,
But didn’t know your importance
Was this important.

Maybe I should ask the
Native Americans! I mean the

The herders! They’ll tell me
their history survived, because it
thoroughly tasted

from your hospitality.
The American Civil War! So you
assisted the Union in

securing victory, rather than
be seen as a perfidious personality?
Mother Mississippi or

Messipi? I’ll come to you,
And see you perform your magic,
Divide yourself

Into 3 – the Upper, the middle
And the lower Mississippi, I’ll swill
Myself with your pallid

Skin, which sharply shatters
Into incorrigible particles, like the
Flesh of a

Suicide bomber. I’ll go to
the thirty one defined territories of
The State, and

Two parasitic provinces in
Canada, structured by God to
Be between

The Rocky and Appalachian
Mountains. I’ll tell them to remain
Grateful for

Perpetuity, like a good kid,
Will remain to his parents for sending
Him to school.

Then, I’ll lower myself, so
you could get a hold of me, I’ll feel
your cold touch.

But after then, I’ll say thanks
To Lake Ithasca, for keeping you alive,
Till I finally met you.


Homage to Natasha Trethewey

The first trip I made to Gulfport was
Through her poem, it’s amazing how

Words would pack pictures into man’s mind,
When it’s not a video. It’s the handiwork

Of God. We are God of creativity,
Weaving words wonderfully with

The tips of our fingers, and creating
Images beyond the ordinary. The

Pier you painted with your
Master-like skill, the beach

Invented by man, which you invented
With words, the 26 miles of sand,

And then I find my fact. The highway
Sign, along U.S Route 90, the home

Of the Seabees, the brainchild of
William Hardy and Joseph Jones.

Gulfport! The root of the poetry of
the roof of my poetry, hope you’ll

Pass my regards to your twin, Biloxi.


exhuming past regrets with the
Honed lips of my pen, might

Be tantamount to evil. But sometimes
Evils prevent evils. Hurricane Katrina,

So beauteous is your last-name, that
It reminds me of the expensive hooker,

Who went by the same name in the
Hotel sharing one of the fences with

My childhood memory. What a
Coincidence! I hear you’re the

Costliest natural disaster. 3 times
The price America paid to your

Older Brother, Hurricane Andrew,
Who checked in, in 1992. I hear

youíre one of the 5 deadliest. Maybe
I could ask the over 1,900 prospects

you swept away in New Orleans or
Louisiana. I could also go to your

Home in Bahamas, where you were
born sometime in 2005, or Southern

Florida, where you crossed over to.
I wouldn’t mind visiting the Gulf

Of Mexico, where you became a god.
Well, I’m gloating over your many

Records, the most prominent of
which is the steep 108 billion

American Dollars, the American
Dream coercively coughed out.