Monday, 30 September 2013

In The Butchers Hands

Each day we wake up
There are tears in the eyes of earth
So our little joys
Become little toys
Tossed into the blaze

In the burnt up moons
We measure our strength with blood
The volume split
Tells our love for dignity
Yet battle songs are not always for the brave
The brave keep their hearts pure but unafraid

Recently it was Alkebulan
That submerged
In the flood of human body parts
Piled up, yams tubers
For sale at the World Trade Centre
But before they got there
The Centre was burnt by peace lovers
Sparking several vengeful display
Of scientific supremacy

Now Syria lies at the crossroad
Her fate lingering in the divining room
Each mystical message
Telling different tales-
Germany said no
UK said no
France in a dilemma
USA full of venom
Goes to Congress for death certificate
All for Syria

The diviner lies prostrate
Trying hard not to tilt the du

We all stand
Holding hands across our heads
Praying Syria never goes to the butchers
Her meat, to the soul-prison

Like Libya

Friday, 27 September 2013



The cockerel doesn’t
Summon day to rise from its snore
As it is in down-south
Man and nature are far
In thought and deed
In music and dance
In laughter and sorrow

Earth takes a bath
Keeps herself clean
And man is cautious
Not to offend earth.

7/8/2013 Trondheim

Thursday, 26 September 2013

Wonder Children

We grew on orphaned kenkey
And physically impaired kalami
But the dawn 
Never died in our dreams
Once we were the hunted turtle
Whose every cell made our predator
The master of our clan-
Maiming souls
Crippling spirits
Quenching hopes
Shuttering lives,
Long ago
We were the mineral rocks
Broken to extract the wealth
And dumped on the offshore,
We dwelt among pigs
Dinned with birds
Slept with mosquitoes
So long ago
We were the last desires
Of a world growing
On blood and flesh
On bones and marrows
On tears and chains
But dawn came
Restored the smiles hidden
Under the scar of yesterday
So they now see us
The Wonder-children

The Hippo Overturned Our Canoe

(Tribute to Professor Kofi Nyiᶑeʋu Awoonor)

Nyiᶑeʋu meᶑea keʋu o

The hippo does not overturn
The canoe with sandload

Nyiᶑewu meᶑea keʋu o

This hippo overturned it
This hippo overturned it

We are the snake
Whose head Al-Shabab caught
We only wag our tails defenseless
The hippo overturned our canoe
But never it’s content
For the sand is too HEAVY to sink
Your voice, too loud to sink

In this corner of our common fate
Fire in a neighbour’s farm
Consumes all farm-huts
A dirge from a distant drum
Splits the tear-bag in our brains
The blast of toy-guns
Mold fireballs, dispersed across all souls

Indeed, yours is a great journey
So let not the children mourn
The transition of a pathfinder
And his voice, the path-adder

Let monuments rise
Lift up the anthems
Sound is mother to words

And let the great ancestor
March on into eternity
To remain
Eternal father of modern Ghanaian poetry

Nyiᶑeʋu meᶑea keʋu o

The hippo does not overturn
The canoe with sandload

Nyiᶑewu meᶑea keʋu o