Poems by Abimbola T. Alabi

I don't mind accolades
freely passed on my way,
I'll take encouragement
gladly, any given day.
I don't shift responsibilities
that land upon my plate,
and I'm fine with criticism
when it's laid out straight.
An offer of assistance
I'm not the type to dis,
will swallow the hard truth
despite how bitter it is.
But if it's pity you're selling,
you've got the wrong guy.
It's a luxury I can't afford,
the one thing I won't buy.

A sleek and smart device,
Is taking everything out.
Little things and big things,
It's looking more like a rout.

It's taking out the camera,
The wristwatch, the clock.
Walkmans and desk calendars,
Didn't have a better luck.

It's taken out the road map.
It's taking out the flashlight.
Good riddance to the land line,
It couldn't put up a fight.

It's wiping out newspapers,
The DVDs and Cassettes.
It's taking out the textbooks,
And it is not finished yet.

How about relationships,
Real interactions for a start?
Friendships and even marriages,
Are being taken apart.

It is taking out our eyes,
When we're texting on a trot.
It's killing our cervical spine,
When we're rooted to a spot

And it'll take more than that,
If we're slow to take control.
The smartphone comes in handy,
But can take over a soul.

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.

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.