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Sunday, 29 September 2013

Faustina Addae, a missing name


How do any of us ever make it to see tomorrow 
When the rose cottage seems so close by 
Why do I hear funeral bells, they ring loud in my ears 
In my backyard, with familiar names 

Like a roll call of the living and each time  
A name goes missing on the list inscribed  
I just found a hole in my back yard again 
Stepped close and looked inside shadow-less grave 

It laid empty, empty but prepared for burial 
Tomorrow I know it would be covered 
And another name would go missing 
From the list of the living 

The shadow-less man calls out  
The shadow-less man calls out 
The shadow-less man calls out 

A voice in a room, goes missing, vanishes 
Leaving echoes of her voice behind 
An old friend, kicked the bucket this day
It made a loud sound, and woke the neighbors 

When I got there, there was no one present 
Just the bucket and the sound it made 
How do any of us ever make it to see tomorrow 
When the rose cottage seems so close by and calling 

Why do I hear funeral bells, they ring loud in my ears 
In my backyard with familiar names calling 
A name goes missing yet again on the list of the living 
Faustina Addae would not respond to her name, calling out 

The girl with the loudest voice of joyful living 
Has gone silent in a crowded room 
She joined the names that went missing from the living 
Faustina Addae, will not respond to her call 

Now a missing name among the living  
Faustina, Foustina, Faustina Addae 
Now a missing name among the living 
Rest in peace dear friend, Faustina, rest in peace 

KSJI Auxiliary NO554 

Saturday, 28 September 2013

Pillow talk


My comfort bed lie 
My day end stress absorption 
My sleep hold my dream 

Wednesday, 25 September 2013

The Calling


Do you hear the early calls in the morning 
That wakes you before the alarm 

Do you sense the yearning in your heart 
When you sit to gather your thoughts 

Do you dream about it constantly 
And each time it is the same old dream 

Do you see, visions of it gathering form 
Clouded days, loose their clouds 

Like the sunflower that follows the sun 
Do you feel yourself following the path 

Are you engrossed in it totally 
Deep dive and into depths of drown 

Yet still able to walk the sea bed chest out 
Like the water has not yet replaced the air 

And your options are not very limited 
That the last breath is all you hold 

Are you that person, you see in the mirror 
Looking at yourself, back at you with smile 

Do you speak the same language 
Of perseverance even when you are scared 

Have you got what it takes, have you 
Does the fire burn solid in you 

Then I would say to you, you have the calling 
You are  blessed with the burden of a dream 

Anything else, old friend don't bother  
Look for something else that matters to you 

Just don't bother without a calling 
For you will fail carrying this heavy load 

The calling, this is the calling 
Live life true..............

A response poem to Charles Bukowski (Live True)

Sunday, 22 September 2013

Kenya's silent birds


The earth, is silent today 
The winds will not blow protesting 
The birds will not sing, tightening their beaks 
The trees refuse company, welcoming no friends

The trees would not allow the birds
To sit on their branches not without songs 
The birds would not recite in songs 
The morning poem to wake man 

All flags to half mast, except for red  
All the rainbow colors to be put away 
It is the season for black and red 
To be worn, it is the season for tears 

It is the season for men and women 
To sing sorrowful songs of poetry 
The birds the birds would not recite 
The morning poem to wake man 

He stayed up all night mourning 
And the women wallowing in pain  
For the loss of the inscriber who writes 
The songs of poetry the birds sing in the morning  

The darkness of man, the darkness of religion 
Has taken the voices of the birds to the grave 
So silent the birds have become, not reciting in songs 
The morning poem to wake man 

And the trees would not give a branch 
To be sat on, without the promise of the bird's song 
The inscriber of the bird's song is no more 
Religion has taken him away from us 

A moth without the lamp of light, the earth is silent today 
The winds will not blow protesting their sorrow 
The tree branch would not dance with the winds 
For the birds have lost their voice in Kofi Awoonor 

Rest In Peace....The inscriber of the bird's morning songs 
Killed by Al-Shabab in Kenya, all for nothing, nothing to stand for, nothing at all
and all the other victims in the shootings, like the birds have lost their voice

In Memory of 
Professor George Kofi Awoonor-Williams (A Poet)
( 13 /03/1935 - 21/09/2013)

Monday, 16 September 2013

Trotro Stories #11 Front Seat


I have become a graduate on the trotro ride
And so I moved up to the front seat

I realized most people avoid the front seat 
Yet others, have an affiliation like religion 

I mean, it is easier to hide in a trotro 
At the back, and easy to be spotted at the front 

I find it easier now, though with a willing price 
To be seated at the front and I am at easy if spotted

Being that I have to get down 
On an un designated place, to alight on routes home 

This though comes with its own politics 
To be privileged will be to sit on the outer side 

Not so if pushed between the driver and his gear
And the passenger with the window 

Then you have to find a sitting angle 
Sitting at the back becomes oh had I known 

Saturday, 7 September 2013

Branch of life, Dove


Wings white long love spread 
Branch to Noah's ark they brought 
To symbolize life 

Friday, 6 September 2013

Trotro stories #10 The dead fish



Details details, trotro 
Memories on smells that lingers 

A dead fish, a smoked fish 
An invasion of my nostril 

Must I be tortured through 
This journey home, I plead thee 

Squeezed on both sides 
Smell that engulf like physical approach 

Chocking on each breath I take 
Must I be tortured for my peswa 

Oh but who would be brave 
To vent a comment, a hero 

Come out of the cowardly stay 
And say something, say something 

Like must we suffer this torture 
Of lingering smell, dead fish, smoked fish 

Something odd that smell, so funny 
Invading my personal space 

My nightmarish voyage 
On the trotro with smell 
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