GENEVIEVE

(to a lady by this name, whom I met in a trotro)

Good thing I met you on a Saturday
Experience outweighs experiment by the way

Nevertheless your image has been the same
Ever since I inquired of your humble fame

Verily, verily, I tell you of a truth
It has been recorded in heaven the day I met you

Eternity seeks to roof our cordial souls
Vacate and board my boat of goals

And Enthrone your heart on these propitious scrolls

THE VANGUARDS

The vanguards of the army
Have already reached the gates
Advancing stealthily for the castle
With galvanized machineries
To oust the wishes of votes
Cast by great gate keepers.

For a moment peace is at stake
Only to be assuaged by curfews
Imposed on progressive states
In need of cranes to usurp
Their economies from recessions.

Like spurges coup d’états forfeits
The artistic principles of democracy
Nominated by the entire modernity
To rule the kingdoms of all races
And cleanse iniquities
Hidden in the backyards of African politics.

Blood, very lucrative and deft,
Launched on governmental seats,
Weighing than secrecy, stands on
The corridors of false perjury
Ready to exist the door of cosmos.

Some leave at will where grace
Falling like dew has not been drilled.
Others go in great pain as guns
Smash up their brains when they
Tried to save the life of their countries
With words malefactors cannot preserve.

THIS DIARY

Sombre was the entrance
Into the heart of these contents.
Blood stains and dread
Naturalized each rife page
As I flipped my eyes through them.

This diary with seals broken
Before my life was born
Popped a new language
Out of my lips –

Investigating feminine injustices
While policing the landmarks
Of rape and sexual abuses.
These have chopped the engines
Of societies while rendering
The future bleak and unfaithful.

Unhealthy lust bark at innocence
Like wolves all day and all night,
And bite the virginity of dainties.
With wellingtons, fertile grounds
Are cracked, some, beyond recovery
Though in the presence of constitutions.

APPLAUSES

A Praise Poem for Ghana on her 53rd Independence Anniversary Celebrations

Ghana is old, both in age and in sage
Says the pages of time
Recorded on foreheads and lips
That once blasphemed against
The days of colonialism,
And the torturing whips of imperialism

Hurray! Hurray! Are the shouts…
Boogey! Boogey! Is the dance –

This land pruned from Africa,
Mobile as its culture,
First to be ordained mouthpiece
And gateway to Africa
Is 53 years old,
A number too huge to be sold –

Hurray! Hurray! Are the shouts…
Boogey! Boogey! Is the dance –

As the 6th of March
Reminds us of lifelines
She encountered in Earl Marshals
Whose philosophies expires
In worlds to come

Hurray! Hurray! Are the shouts…
Boogey! Boogey! Is the dance –

Happy birthday to Ghana, our motherland!

THE FALL

It pleased this lad to ride
On a bicycle this hot noon.
Exceeding joy took the better
Part of him, and him not noticing the
Tragedy ahead seduced the legs,
Paddling faster than an hare, crushed
Into a school girl right beside the gutter,
Swam on the floor forgetting
Life was but short with constant shocks.
Up he got and again went for his ride
With a lesson screwed to his heart,
And a scar sketched on his skin.

SPEAK! COCONUT SPEAK!

Speak Oh thou genuine investor
Having mens’ heart under thy gracious umbrella;
Shading them from life’s tempting aroma
Before they that are tempted remain so forever.
Speak! Coconut Speak!

Rebuke and chastise the lips that speaks guile
Of your name born until Adam’s revile
Towards the Maker for such a creative style
Refined in His everlasting wise dial.
Speak! Coconut Speak!

However, as green as you’ve dreamed to be
Let others come to thee daily for a cup of tea
Heated in the oven of striking cutlasses without a plea
For which many will buy at any fee.
Speak! Coconut Speak!

This carrier, on which thou art seated,
As wretched as a dungeon, wrecks tainted
Galleries surrounding earth’s predominated
Memories shared on platforms fermented.
Speak! Coconut Speak!

And as the hairs of thy skin fall to the ground,
Nourishing the face that forever will gaze at the cloud,
Smiles of rivers declare they have found
New wines in thy bosom’s resound.
Speak! Coconut Speak!

FEAST OF THE GODS

They seek to play the gong
With hands tied tightly to the cords –
Their lips must have seen some white shells
Harassing the tone of these comforting souls.

Blessed are their works before gods,
Crazy they are when sung as pop –
When gossips, like straws roof
Whistles blowing above bristles.

Behold the intensity with which so strong
They chase melodies like frauds
Out of the depths of sinking wells
To face commodores collecting tolls.

Watch them dance the agbaja
All night as the day spies behind this rock –
This feast cooked for the gods
Shall not rot, no! Not like thistles.

Oh, what dance shall be danced
For this great harvest relished
To sweats that rained on the ground
That cassava and maize may spring forth.

The songs – they minister very loud,
Tuning their voices to furnished
Keys marked on xylophones
Created before the invention of stoves.

A celebration to be remembered
In everlasting vicinities, shames all other
Treasonable efforts enforced by a racketeer
Whose name a reverend has interpreted.