​ON THE EVE OF YOUR WORSHIP


You have cut the ribbon of shyness

From our very eyes

All contours leading to remorse

Have been made comfortable

From the slippery slope it was

Why?

Because sins grow into norms with time

And you are the programmer of the dramatic brain

Which engines us


II

I wonder if you peep through the anus of discos and clubs

To see sins dance in varied sneakers and heels

I wonder if you see through the “drosses” and “trousers” of fornicators

To see pestles in pleasurable laughter

And mortars in needful beckoning

I so wonder, if your eyes reach

The joints of high points in smokinghood

To know how deep nostrils reach

To fetch the line of smoke from lungs

Oh! Do you follow their steps into darkness through to your temples?

Are you regretting our creation?


III

I know you know the machetes

Which cause some hands to sin

You do know the poisons which will cause some minds to scheme

You do know the words which will make some vocals turn villains

Yet, you sit and watch as many perish

On the eve of your worship

How delighted are you watching the path to your glorification?

Disrespectful me!

How dare I? How dare I taunt you on the grounds of my sins?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 25, 2017

​WHEN DAYLIGHT SLEEPS (Adult Poetry, 18+)



When daylight sleeps

Prepare your foot to heed to the call of my beads

For surely

You must dance in my wet ground

Whose rains began at the first tear of dawn


II

Mow your lawn

And clean your gun

Load it to perfection

There sure must be a fat game of pleasure

At the end of the hunt

Yes, a dance in a hunt


III

Be sure to borrow the air of freshness

Around your red towel

Which will be on my plate as one toffee

Whose sweetness never fades

Of course I will add that to the lollipop

So be sure to prepare your all in pleasing scenting


IV

Actions for passions

Reactions for hyping

Matching for matching

Hanging for hanging

The eyes of our darkness have a lot to expect

In our unholy confines

And so must yours

When daylight sleeps

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 24, 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

GAOL

When chains police beings

In hollow caves of innocence

At the audience of  culprits

Who like sheep giggle with eyes of a lionesses

Fate sits on a slate of unfairness!


II

Sounds of feet with rifles!

Sounds of breaths with struggles!

Sounds of deaths which plant fear

Watered by self mourning!

Sounds of freedom of the lucky

Fertilised by covetousness!

Fate, why sit on a slate of unfairness?


III

You are a king of your domain

You are the captain of your ship on a sea of life!

Why can’t you navigate truth from mouths of lies

Into ears of justice?

Why can’t you order conscience to sun bathe

In the full glare of the populace

To cut loose the shackles of victimization?

Why can’t you defend the poor defenceless

In your fearful court?

Why can’t you?

Why can’t you?

Why sit on a slate of unfairness planing the credibility of great personalities

And painting them with guilt

At the full glare of unforgettable eyes?

Ah! Why sit on an unfair slate? Oh fate!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 23, 2017 

​BEST TO DO NAUGHT

Let the hen dance in the midst of hawks
To the appeal of the vast sky

Its bones would never fail to lie naked

Before their beaks

So sometimes, it’s best to do nothing
II

Let the snail run as fast as the rabbit of its fantasy

In the angry survival of the hippopotamus

It sure would taste feet to its death

And lose itself in a mud coffin

If rains seek asylum from the sky

There and then

Sometimes, it’s best to do nothing
III

A mad hungry dog hears no excuse

Of a sick cock

Neither does a vulture know an impoverished corpse

Sometimes actions wake threats and hurts

So I dare say

It is sometimes best, to do nothing

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 20, 2017

​THE SICK’S ATTENDANT

Many a pain holds no stamp on bodies

Many a pain stems from sight and hearing

Many a pain give no pleasure gain

So place no insensitivity on this anger

This anger you feel towards you


II

Every pain in your being plants my insanity

Every stain on your life

My very frustration

Watching death drag and taunt

Dangling your being like a thing

In dreams of a grave

Is no pleasure trip

So pardon if my temperamental trips


III

No heart that loves feels no perplexity

At the hurt of a target

There is a reason the hen shields its chicks

At the sound of a hawk

Love binds in happiness and sorrow

So even at your low, do know

This hard looking me feels every fibre in your body

And its unpleasant vibes

Just like an electrocution burning the wires of its veins

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 20, 2017

ESCAPE FROM HARARE by Hon. Prof. Kwesi Yankah

Harare, Zimbabwe. Driving through any city is a joy, particularly if you are not the driver. That way you transfer unto the driver all your high blood pressure, and relax to observe in good detail the ridges and valleys, and the contours of all you survey: passers-by with mini bags tucked in armpits; neatly dressed men who forgot to comb their hair; rickety combis, the local version of trotro, abruptly stopping without warning; and teenage girls in ‘abbreviated’ blouses, virtually floating on foot.

But while in Southern Africa, watch out and make sure you don’t take over the driver’s seat, if you are not the driver. If you did, you would betray your West African origins; for not all countries joined Ghana in changing from right hand to left hand drive several years ago; and not all countries drive on the right side of the road as we do here.
In that sense, Zimbabwe is left-handed. Indeed you would instinctively feel there was something wrong with the country. Vehicles moving on the wrong side of the road; pedestrians looking at the wrong side before crossing; and the driver using the wrong hand to change gears? Life indeed looked odd.
But going to Harare I had also done something odd. I mistakenly took along several new Ghana cedi notes, which kept interfering anytime I reached for other currencies. But I later realized how useless these were, when I left a bundle in front of my dressing mirror at the Hotel, and returned in the evening to find it intact. Not stolen? I later realized my folly when I read from across the mirror, a message boldly inscribed on a card, and meant for careless clients like me: ‘And lead us not into temptations.’ But the room service boys were not tempted. They were either angels, or were simply uninterested in strange currencies. Their interest was probably in the Zimbabwean dollar.
The value of the Zim dollar paralyzed me when I was browsing through the room service menu card, looking for a familiar meal to gobble. I realized there was something wrong with the price list and nearly called the front desk to complain. Were the figures right, was this a typographical error? A small bread or drink was going to cost me 50,000 dollars? I looked again adjusting my glasses this time. But like any wise ‘Ghanaman’, I decided to visit my chop box that afternoon.
That evening, a colleague and I zoomed off to see Harare by night. Not much to see that evening since most parts of the city were in darkness. We went to a sprawling pub, which doubles as a cricket stadium, and walked out on realizing there was no seating space since a game just ended, and spectators were celebrating with booze. We shifted venue and sat for two hours at another location, chatting. It was there that the reality began dawning. I had taken a small local beer, while my two colleagues went for a bottle of wine. And what was the bill? I heard the bar tender whisper in my colleague’s ear, and in the next minute I saw my host counting a thick wad of notes to pay the bill.
“What did my beer cost,” I asked, anxious to know how much inconvenience I was inflicting. My host smiled, and reluctantly confessed how much he had spent on me. “Your beer was not that bad, it cost three hundred thousand dollars!” I jumped! “You don’t mean it,” I was incredulous.
“That’s normal; and the wine Yaw and I drank cost about two million dollars.” Wheeeew!!!
My head started aching from the breaking news.
“And by the way, what is the official exchange rate to the American dollar.” I quizzed.

“Nobody talks about that; it does not exist; but if you have one US dollar, you may get about two hundred and fifty thousand Zim dollars.”
Next day. We drove to a few shops to browse stuff on sale. Here and there, we were greeted with long queues without end and getting longer and longer. Looking at the front of the queue, it was hard to tell what was on sale, but the story later unfolded, and sounded like Ghana in Acheampong’s seventies, where it was advisable to join any queue forming before checking what it was about. Where Ghana would queue for milk and sugar courtesy Kutu Acheampong, Zimbabwe’s meandering queues I saw were for bread, a scarce commodity.
“Bread will come anytime from now, and some of them started the queue about three hours ago.” I was told.
But come with me to the supermarket, which had lost all its ‘superiority.’ If you need an after-shave in the poor man’s market, be ready with two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. If you need bran flakes get ready with seven hundred and seventy-seven thousand dollars. If you yearn for a box of honey flakes for breakfast, look for about one million five hundred thousand dollars! But please check your passion for Black Label Whisky if you are into sampling hard liquor. You need twelve million dollars at Bon Marche, the shop I visited in Borrowdale Brooke suburb.
But the situation with cash loads you needed to carry was better, I was told. Only last year, Zimbabwe did a redenomination exercise, knocking off three zeros from their currency, hoping the value would be the same! And at the time I visited four weeks ago, the Government had issued a fiat that prices of all commodities should be slashed by 50%; and notices had been displayed in stores: “Prices reduced in accordance with Government directives.” The outcome, which meant lesser money to carry, was what I witnessed.
And how busy were shelves in shops? The Bata shoe shop was virtually empty. Other super markets? Several yards of empty shelves; a cake of soap here and there; and about ten yards of void. In one store I visited at Borrowdale Brooke, I could have measured 30 yards of emptiness in one row, broken by two or three feet of cosmetics. It was as if an armed robber had visited the night before, and decided on selective looting, leaving a handful of items for charity.
Hardest hit among scarce items was meat. All private abattoirs had closed except one, I was told.
But shop owners are clever. They close two or three hours earlier than schedule, to avoid completely empty shelves, which could attract a charge of sabotage. Additionally, shops had complied with Government directives, and put up appropriate notices: “Not more than two per customer on all commodities.” Rationing is the word.
But where is the original Zimbabwean currency? The Zim dollar only exists in name. What are in normal circulation are bearer cheques, not the original Zim dollar which is extinct. If it existed, you would probably need a wheelbarrow to carry cash for shopping. The bearer cheques are in dollar denominations of 5,000; 10,000; 50,000; 100,000; and 200,000. On these cheques is an expiry date of 31st July 2007. But had they really expired? No, at the end of August when I visited, the bearer cheques still freely and legally circulated.
Well, after that stunning adventure we all agreed we had earned a good lunch meal. We sped on the Harare-Bulawayo stretch, but turned off and went to the city center, driving past the Rainbow Hotel, the Harare International Conference center, and Robert Mugabe’s ZANU PF party headquarters: a huge 13 floor sky scraper which puts to shame all party headquarters in Ghana. The ZANU PF, after Osagyefo’s CPP has the cock as its symbol.
It had indeed been a long, tiring day. I could tell from my aching limbs, and trembling intestines. We drove to a nearby restaurant and ate to our fill. It was a fairly cheap meal, according to my good friend.
The cost of three plates of a restaurant meal was reasonable: only two million Zimbabwe dollars!
I hurriedly brushed my teeth the next morning and rushed to the airport. Then wisely joined the nearest available plane, and escaped to Ghana!

First published in August 2007

Source: Hon. Prof. Kwesi Yankah

CHANT ME INTO DISPOSSESSION (Crazy Stanzas)

Chant me into dispossession

Ye who held my navel

And crossed to the shores of earth

As my voodoo watched your fragile steps

With no evil stone cast
II

Chant me into dispossession

Ye who fed through the clays of my pot

In the dirty dust you now so abhor

Deliver me from the spirit of my ancestors

And baptize into the ways of alienation

But remember this eraser might leave no trace

When your uniqueness calls tunes of your intrusion
III

Chant me into dispossession

Ye who was healed by the leaves of this land

When the heels of death chased your infancy like a hyena

Weed all the fetishes and cast out your blackness

Into a bleach of civilization

I am sorry to have been the curse which birthed your existence
IV

Chant me into dispossession

For I see the me in you screaming at the lashes of your rejection

And the hurt of your hate eroding the very soil that did you plant

I am only sad that plants can’t do without their roots

Still, chant me into dispossession
V

Chant me into dispossession

I am a filthy animal with a crude tail

You are as white as the dark with a soul as black as snow

So chant me

Do chant me child!

Chant me!

Chant me into your suitable possession!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 18, 2017

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 10

“HEARING THE SUN SING”

I have seen many a moon

Wrestling suns as I acted their baboon

I have craved for many a dark cocoon

But here I watch the sun and swoon

As it sings “didn’t I tell you it will be soon?”

Yes you did, and it is not even my life’s noon”
Ms. Barwuah was not only impressed after reading my poem, she was happy for me. Obviously love was written all over me. If anyone had told me I would find love in a wicked looking, tall and well muscled black as ebony man, I would have sworn on my life it would never happen. But there I was, with butterflies and bubbles playing tickles in my stomach just at the thought of Ntwanu. He called more than three times everyday. Saw me at least in every two days. I thought of marrying him, having multiple children and living happily ever after until Mimi asked me to wake from my fantasies.

Mimi had never liked my association with the trio who were cultists and armed robbers with the worst and most fearful gang in Kumasi, according to rumours.

“No matter how much you love him, know you have no future with that armed robber. The earlier you start working, the better for you. No matter how much you have in your account now, sitting at home and daydreaming about an advanced thief and cold blooded murderer will deplete your account. A word is enough for the wise”

As much as I hated Mimi for pointing out the obvious, as much as I failed to apologize for the slap I gave her for stating the only thing I did not want to acknowledge, I had to agree with her after thinking deeply about it. There is no great future for children between prostitutes and robbers. I knew I did not want that life for any child of mine. So I decided to go to work a week and two days after my lovely holidays with Ntwanu. I felt bad considering his pleas for me to stop prostitution. He even asked me to marry him but I politely declined and promised to think about it in future. I was sixteen and had seen too much to make any hasty decisions. What I felt for Ntwanu scared me but I was not ready to let go.

I called Guru to tell him about my plans and told him not to tell Ntwanu. We thrashed our differences. He was angry that I had exchanged him for Ntwanu but told me he begged him to let him come into my life. His problem was that I accepted. We settled on he still protecting me as we maintained a civil relationship. So I went to work.

My client for that evening was a depressed man. He looked like he wanted to cry. I sat opposite him in his huge hall and tried to cheer him up.

“I have been in serious problems for sometime now but the sky is clearing. I may not know what you are going through but do pull yourself together. Your friends contracted me to be with you for a reason”

“I don’t want anything. Just leave” was his only answer.

I did not leave. I went to his kitchen, boiled some water, poured it into a bucket and with my additional towel, called him authoritatively to the bed. He was taken by utter surprise. I massaged him roughly, then gently. After the water went cold, I used his shea butter to smear him from his bald pate to his soles and gently massaged him with my fingers. When I got to his crotch, I gave it a proper palm to skin massage, he came without intending to and felt very shy. I laughed it off, kissed his crotch and proceeded to sit on it when it woke up again. All the while, I continued to massage him as I rode him like a needy horse.

By the time I was through with him, he had warmed up to me.

“They all died in an accident. They all died!”

He broke down. This time, I listened without any form of interruptions.

“I was always busy with work acquiring all these things. My wife complained but I did not mind her. I did not do anything she wanted. All she wanted was time with me. Quality time. She also wanted me to enhance my penis a little but I did not mind her. I learnt my lesson when I met her with our neighbour’s twenty four year old son in bed. I felt small. I felt little. A powerful man like me felt like an ant. I left home for a while to think things through, came back four days later to find a letter on the centre table.”

He paused to cry for a while.

“The gateman told me they had left few minutes before I came in. The letter asked for a divorce and a fair child support for our three children. She was never a materialistic woman. Barely ten minutes had passed when I got a call that they had been involved in an accident. When I reached the scene, they had all died. Grinded into paste in a blood mess by an articulator truck on the Tema Highway. I don’t know how I have been living since then. It’s been two years! Two whole years young lady.”

I understood his pain then. How do you comfort a 54 year old man who had lost his entire family in a ghastly motor accident on the ticket of marital problems which stirred from wife neglect? I went to stand behind him and massaged him from shoulders down. All the while singing:

“When peace like a river

Attended my way

When sorrows like seas billows roll

Whatever my Lord

You have taught me to say

It is well, it is well, with my soul”

His tears subsided so I sat beside him. He coiled himself like a short millipede and laid his head on my laps. I left when he fell asleep because his friends had paid me beforehand.

The next morning, he called to thank me and invited me to lunch. He took me out and bought me a car. A brand new saloon Toyota Camry. I tried to decline but he would not take no for an answer. He said I gave him back his life. I gave him hope for tomorrow. I gave him the needed peace, I woke him from the sleep of living dead. That night I slept like a baby, feeling glad that I could, through prostitution touch a life in the positive. Of course, everyday is a unique day and comes with its varied surprises.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 2017.

Photo Credit: Google Pics

​GHANA SUCKLEMENTS

When the same breast nurses many mouths 
From stomachs of greed and or promises

Milk evaporates and calls for the blood of the mother

Showcasing paleness of her body

Awo Yaa!

May this portion of yours change for the better!


II

This building which has seen the palms of many masons

And still suffers from foundational weakness

Due to stolen cement

Unbought stones

Unpurchased water

Which are all buried in the belly of pockets

Housing blood of the land

Is to be pitied

Awo Yaa!

May this portion of yours change for the better!


III

This vehicle whose driver and mate

Dwell on the monies of passengers

But do no servicing

Even as it creaks in painful destruction by the day

Rebelling here in concerns

There in embarrassment

Needs a different story

Before it breaks what it protects

Awo Yaa!

May this portion of yours change for the better!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 16, 2017

​COME BACK

Videos keep playing

Where you shyly, with roses

In sweat, called Holy Moses 

In proposing


II

How a perfect vehicle

Zoomed into a thorny bush

And saw itself in an empty desert

Has opened my sky of tears


III

The video of you playing horse

In the shore of peace

Me, playing sheep

In the shores of settlement

Begs to be born

But alas! Time’s driver refuses to reverse


IV

From electrifying kisses

To enemy hisses

Touching Blisses

To sad misses

Painful disses

Which threw in the hard pisses

I wish it all did rhyme


V

Where the road is long

And pair needs to share

Do come back

I sure will be the smile

Which will go the mile

And the knot which will end the flow of chaos


IV

These sheets have placed me

And the phantom you in a court of blame

It so does me shame

And I wish you could see

Do come back if lateness is not the arms of another

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 16, 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

​PROPHESY TO ZIMBABWE

Dust for powdered pepper

Or powdered pepper for dust?

Which blows now with the air of Mugabe

In the Zim Nation?

I see chicken to hawk, hawk to eagle

In a devilish transition


II

Destruction sure needs some action

From any faction with an apt reaction

But the leg of time shortens celebration

And or “frownation”

For already made shoes of fame

No matter how tattered presents a choice of ease

Deleting zeal and placing seals on power

Sometimes in the worst forms

Oh careful!

You might be running from a worm to a cobra!


III

Political eyes are pious only in opposition

Greed stamps most signatures in the highest seats in all lands

Great tongues of sages are caged by enmity

We are in an act of jubilation

Probably from the land of the Pharisees 

Hoping to get to Israel without thoughts of hardships

Reckless risks rip ripe ribs

Throwing chances into hide and seek gutters

Let ears with wise holes sip the wisdom from this scribe

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©November 15, 2017

​HAUNTING A GIGOLO

Since age knocked its understanding tag

In my infantile brain

I was given a telescope

Whose only visions were of the past

A telescope which killed the zeal of laughter

Planting in its stead a vile rage for revenge

Watered by society’s hails at my target

And its many chains of laws for my kind


II

Like a bull with a target

I charged at a decade and eight

Towards a fine breed of its demigods

Pouring all the gold of my ancestry at his feet

And disrespectfully asking that he worked his waist

Into my pleasure into my treasure

At my leisure


III

His teeth showed a blessed awakening

And like a goat, he held my coat of cloth

The dark little hut which stood in the compound of many

Promised me no privacy

The bed’s posture whispered a higher creaking

A pound and another and another and another

My resolution, no tears, no show of pain

Until he lost his all and started to call to be saved

I envisaged his shame!


IV

An hour and a half

My energy grazed out

My field had turned muddy

My little opening had been manholed

His screams for my well being pushed the listeners in

What they saw brought in society’s law

Burying me in the shoes of my wronged ancestry

With the antonym of a gigolo

Planting trees always loses to waterers, I guess

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 14, 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics.

NHYIRA

Day has broken from the clutches of darkness

Aiding eyes, like a pathfinder

To see all in clarity

If breath stands at post

And health is on wealth’s coast

I say “anyame mu Nyame”

Nhyira nka wo din!


II

I can see hens leading their chicks

And cocks looking for stocks

Through the warning of wings

The insults of crows

Through the biting of beaks

And the uprooting of feathers

Through a run and a chase

Life sure says a lot about onlookers

“Ɔsoro soro Nyame, nhyira nka wo din!”


III

Let minds in mine know the miracles of thinking

Let hands in mine know the blessing in working

Let tongues in mine know the worth of silence

Let legs in mine know the advantages of walking

And let all stomachs in mine

Know the importance of selectiveness

Life is life because strive is rife

“Omintinmirim Nyame, nhyira nka wo din”

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 13th Nov. 2017

(To all non speakers of Akan, the quoted versions mean “thanks be to God”)

​GETTING USED TO

Let mouths allow eyes to roll

Instead of calling sounds in heels

To defile lung’s peaceful siesta

What is “ayoo” today

Might have been “bue!” yesterday

But will be “ahaaa!” tomorrow

Harvesting ovations on all stages
II

New things raise brows

Coming with scares which snake into veins like poison

But when they simmer

Minds embrace their enticings

And mate their presence even into obsession

Abomination today, fascination tomorrow

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 9, 2017

​LEST WE FORGET

There is a volcano of needs

Needs which fill not the belly of satisfaction

Instead dig bottomless needs 

Which gobble time needed to look

Look to love

Love to smile

Smile to laugh

Laugh to live

Live to write memories on our beloveds’ minds

Spank our senses

Lest we forget our paths

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 7th November, 2017

PAUSE TO THINK

We 

Carry burdens like abused porters

Forgetting the immobile end

Which for few moments trends

Only to turn garnish on memories of the past
II

We 

Cloud our emotions to rain our eyes to drain

Forgetting life’s refrain is transiency

Gathering rubbish which may outlast our taunting gibberish
III

We

Sit with thoughts that over thinking bought

And never seek the peace to keep us at ease

Suffocating on the rope of worry

When immortality is a scary nightmare to our very thoughts
IV

We 

Are our own scare

We are our own scissors

Murdering our seams

Destroying our buttons

Eating our linen into the mouths of hungry graves

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 7, 2017

CHANGE THE SCRIPT

The gate of another day opens

With varied happenings written in the future slate of fate

Like a marathon, we run with enthusiasm

Hoping our baton would reach our target

But if we hurt ourselves

Or have our breaths arrested by tiredness

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!
II

Our tasks stare at us 

Like owls whose eyes have caught an interest

Fixing rays of terror

Which surely feed on our uncertainties

If pores succumb to the dictates of fear

And legs, like that of broken donkeys kneel

Bow to the gods of failure

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!
III

Monsters of the past are on our heels

In slippery then muddy then stony paths

Hoping for our souls as trophies

Our bodies on their plates

If we end up as their game

Poked by their guns and cutlasses of bragging

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!
IV

In a sphere of many talents

Where tortoises watch hens fly in jealousy

Forgetting their hard shell

Cocks feel the supremacy of hawks 

As hawks fear the very grounds of eagles

If we get to the abattoir of greed 

Whose sole hunger needs us to feed

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!
V

There is no balm as soothing as your touch

There is no doctor as gifted as you

There sure is no seer better than you

So if we bend in hot coals of our chaos

Roasted by our fallible flaws

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 6, 2017

​DANCING ON STARS


I bless that day

When a whirlwind swept me from serenity into doom

Only to be rescued by your light

Like a Samaritan Knight from hell’s pot


II

I bless the day

When words meekly walked with shaking legs

Out from the private street of your tongue

To plead for a table in my heart’s spot

Under an adorable and humble sky


III

I bless the day

When my heart stretched its hands 

To hold the arms of your love

And saw your perfect smile

Dancing to the rhythm of your heartbeat


IV

I bless the day

When we danced on the moon of flutters

In the land of onehood 

Where each being was neutralised into non existence

As stars of our hearts shone into blending

In a festival of happiness


V

I bless the day

That day when your tears touched my cheeks

At the wince of my skin

Seeing your suffering at my body’s lashes of illness

I bless

I do bless

Oh I do bless the day

When your path crossed mine

At the junction of love

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 4, 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

CONSOLATION

Tongues taste to determine

Hands touch to feel

Legs walk with destination marks

And so it is that life does rock


II

The painful part of mortality

Is losing one whose feet never touched life’s dock

The saddest part of motherhood

Is imagining memories that never hatched

The saddest part of parenting

Is wishing for an age which death did take

Even the no suffering bit

Takes naught from the pain


II

I give you this

You seeds which never germinated

I give you this

You plants which long for your lost seeds

I give this to you

You age winds for sweeping sadness

Into regretful moments

Bowing at the tombs which received thee fresh from wombs

Surely, you are heavenly spies

Called back on the eve of duty

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 3rd September, 2017

IN THE HEART OF TRUTH

In the heart of truth lies an ocean of despair

Flanked by trees of fear

For the rejection of abnormal normalcy

In a sea of friendship
II

In the heart of truth stands a tent of loneliness

Where each greedy finger points like a gun

With intentions that can form spiritual bullets

To kill the best turned weird
III

In the heart of truth lies the court of most

Whose stomachs condone manipulations of hand and mouth

Shielding thunders of consciences

And pushing them onto the unique idiot
IV

In the heart of truth

Everything is war, everything is pain

Everything is uncertainty

Everything can be anything

Yes, in the heart f truth

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 2, 2017