M. Olayinka
Bio
Stories (7/0)
Mathematics
Time is a concept and a measure of how long things last. It is evidence of existence. It is philosophical and debatable. In some cultures, the idea of time and quantity as we know it does not exist. They would instead base the year on seasons and the day's structure on light and darkness patterns. If it is monsoon season or heavy rain, work may have to pause. In the U.K. and other western societies, everything gets done by the clock. Once famously, Nina Simone said we do everything by the clock, even drink by it, as she spoke in the live album Young, Gifted and Black. Almost every culture understands that there are 365 ¼ days in a calendar year. The days equate to twelve months of 30 or 31 days (February has 28 or 29) and 52 weeks. Each week consists of 7 days, and each day has 24 hours. Each hour consists of 60 minutes, and each minute consists of 60 seconds. We have the academic calendar, the moon cycle, and various other cycles and rotations within the year. However, regardless of the season, rain or storm, work starts and ends at a particular time. The majority of us do this in sync.
By M. Olayinka3 years ago in Education
Mow the lawn
A master told his servant to mow the lawn The grass in the garden is far too tall, Mow it down, let it fall. Lest they should stand up by themself, Cut it down take their wealth. Cut it ragged, cut it neat, Lest they should stand on their own two feet. Break the clouds, let it rain, Reign on people, bring the pain. Let it run red rivers of rouge, Beat the clouds, black, purple and blue. Beat the clouds well soft as clay, Those who stand tall, make them pay. Cut the grass quick, do it at night, Turn the light off, blind their sight. Leave the weeds and the thorns, Let them grow like fields of corn. Let the grass turn brown and red, Cut it down make it dead. Can’t you see my green uniform, I am in charge, my law is the norm. I'll break your white teeth from straight to crooked, I am the law, my way is not wicked.
By M. Olayinka3 years ago in Poets
Layers
Stanza 1 This is the fruit borne from heat, the sun, the sea, the tropics meet. Superficially, aesthetically pleasing Beautiful, vibrant, buxom, teasing. A delight to four. The urge for more. Peel away a layer, going deep, Saliva secretes, readying the teeth. It becomes bitter, visceral, sharp, Though it can nourish the skin to the heart. For it has the potential to restore and revive, so easily it can turn your four into five. Though it can turn against you, a sting in your eye; or intoxicate you. Peel away a layer going deep, The white resistance you will meet. Underneath the beauty of the sun, comes bitter truth - the war has begun. This is the skin it comes in two parts, one seen, one hidden in the heart. Peel away the layer, going deep, the forbidden gem, the jewel greets. Some say protected, others say stole, the branches you came from, centuries old. Stanza 2 What joy. This is the prized trophy, A bedazzled egg, to see you closely. Segregated but joined in segments to share, Government officials seem to care. It has the ability to bring people together, the sun, the seas, the tropics, the weather. Having you is like an everlasting party: four wheelers, sand, poles and limbos. Coconuts, pineapples, oranges and mangoes. Roller-coasters, cinemas, attractions of fun, cocktails blended together with rum. Making me feel the community is whole. Until I bite the sun and come across the soul. Peel away a layer, going deep, The truth is bitter, it is no longer sweet. You are the source of the pain and the present, yet you are deep within vain imaginations. Without knowledge, the world will never know; that simply put - a lie was told. It is covered, like an innocent body 6 feet under. The truth is bitter and so is the seed. To remind you of the pain, the wants and the needs. It has spoiled the taste, awoken you from your sleep. Reminds you of the death, the chain, those who weep. It can be death, but also be life, it gives you wisdom to remember life. If you have bit one, you know the rest, the bitter truth, the vanity flesh. Your experience is ruined, but do not discard it, Plant it, Nurture it, Grow it, Share it, Eat it. So that generations can consume it too. Peel away the layers, going deep, keep it, decompose into the heap.
By M. Olayinka4 years ago in Poets