Trotro stories #13 who is free

Economics is like what you can afford
How deep is your pocket to sing songs 

So when a woman with four kids
Boards a public transport 

Some amount of adjustment and calculations 
Will have to be made to get things moving 

For five to become two 
She would only pay for two her pocket size 

How deep is your pocket 
Be the judge if in a position to pay 

Or forever keep yours shut 
Life is not fair, that is just life 

But we all have to make due 
On travelling roads 

Tell me who is free 
She is a "mother" oh mother 

Pillow talk

My comfort bed lie 

My day end stress absorption 

My sleep hold my dream 

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)

A case in point

Sometimes I try, I really try, sweats attached believe me 
Sometimes not so much, with procrastination and sleep walking 

Sometimes I don't at all, no movement at all, deadbeat on time 
Sometimes I deviate, dysfunctional compass, spinning wheels 

But most times, in my most solemn moment, mirrors reflection 
I am reminded of what drives me, a beacon of light 

And what the vision holds, pictures drawn 
A goal in mind, realigning sentiments, objectives as sign posts 

The road is never a straight one, the compass still works 
And the focus will always get me there, foretold I can feel it 

Adjusting clocks, rewinding arms 
To tell the time, on tic toc of dreams, I aspire 

This is a case in point, an angle of thought 
A case in point being made here, as we proceed 

The trotro stories #1

The trotro front seat hugger  
Sir in long sleeves acting all so refined  

Not to be mistaken as thus often the case 
For a chauffeur driven car, to one's sir 

As pleased; bought a car much of late, recent 
For that, it matters, to the point being made 

Personally with preference 
A taste acquired from childhood reminiscent  

I rather the back seat and its comfort set 
Three in a lane, oh how times have changed 

From the big mama that squeezed me 
To the near brink of extinction  

Armpit odor and the art of arms stretched 
To the driver's mate, for bus fairs paid 

He half pretends to half forget I gave him this much 
Hugging my balance change on tricks of tactics 

The battles fought at Nkrumah circle 
Legendary at peak times, off peak no bother 

Gentility gets pushed out of the way 
Essence is on the strength of gladiatorial  reign 

But he always looks so refined, Sir, our Sir 
Sitting at the front of the trotro hugging looks

I Am A Soul Man

Do you hear my heart 

Listen to my thoughts tinkle 

I have got soul man   

Ice Cream

It melts in the sun, an ice cream does, so smooth and cold   

For more active on play ground I am, so I need me some ice cream 

A pound (£1) would be too much  to pay Sir, now now Sir 

Just too much Sir, I'm counting my piggy bank coins, on rations Sir

Thus an agreement is reached, a handshake, a handshake Sir  

And I will have, the joy of summer; a handshake indeed  Sir

As soon as the sound of the Ice cream van blows to annouce

Oh from a distance, from a distance, to be heard 

It chimes, it comes and we all run after 

It sings, we jump, and we all go after 

99p for a cone, Ben and Jerry's, it shall be 

Cows and moo, spoons and moon   

99p to quench my thirst and lick my lips 

99p sticky drip on my hand  99p to pay

#I have got an Ice cream 

#I have got an Ice cream 


#Hooray, hurrah
#Hooray 

A heroes poem

Produce a hero; a hero is needed 
Produce a knight to court as stand 
One with value more than silver's worth 


I want to write an epic poem 
Something with a hero defined   
Taking on the gates of irons; Illuminati of stupidity    


Battling through obstacles drawn  
Mansions, castles, skyscrapers tuxedo 
Dressed decorated in uniforms suit   


Neatly ironed with medals  
Cuff-links a' tie for oppression of the common people 
Tittles and prestige to intimidate with bluff 


That serves to warn, to weaken, oppositions  
They stand unopposed, on open parks gather  
They stand blustering with audacity 


For oppositions lost their tooth, and essence to fight  
Rushing to stock; hording on self preservation  
To save their skins, cowards are they, that joined the orgy   


But I want to write an epic poem for a hero 
Put blemish and cuts on the hero defined 
Who went against, and stood against self preservation  


Stood to fight the establishments candy 
Charity of a spirit held, like Joan of Arc or Anna Hazare 
To be victorious against the status qua   


The needy stand at the tilting edge of oblivion nearing 
Darkened shadows of deserted island, liberty cries    
Stranded with stones to call out on S.O.S for rescue 


I want to write an epic poem 
To give the stranded and modern enslaved a hero of hope  
And to stop lady liberty's sorrow so deep 


She holds her hands up to hide her face 
Obstructing her beauty that fades with unjust 
For into her hands are tears she cries    


So I want to write an epic poem 
To produce a hero, a hero of valor, a hero is needed 
For lady liberty is filled with sorrow 

And earth is held to ransom 
Being extorted and threatened 
With black mail and corruption 

Bananadrama a story of sort

I always wandered, pondered, and I asked, why the banana 

Should be surged upon to have a bad name, a bad name 

Walk, walk, slip, flip, fall that is it, it has a bad name 

Never mind, he who chooses, not to look down 

Did not look. Stop, look, listen, you did not look 

Oh, gosh that’s it, he has a bad name 

And there we go, you took your eyes off the ball  

There we have it, there he does it  

A bad name, Keyser Soze 

So again and again, I will get Poirot 

To set the record straight, I mean why

Why blame the banana, t' usual suspect 

Where placed a crime scene notice on the post 

With all due respect "Sir!"

The banana, the banana? 

You see legend has it, as the story goes

Two men came into contact with

The banana, the banana

Well, a lot more than two and a monkey 

If you choose to be picky, add Super Mario 

I mean why be picky it’s just a story

So two it is, two men 

I say, two it is, sue me, boo hoo 

In this story just t' two, I am t' story teller, telling  

Anyway two men came into contact

With the banana, which found itself

At the crime scene, chalked around for evidence  

The story goes... one unplugged the banana 

So yellow, ripe and tempting
That's why, not I say, dare I say

A woman, "naughty minds 
You lot, naughty minds" 
He pushed it down his throat

And in the excitement he dropped

The yellow peel down on the road in trivial thoughts 

The story goes, as I was saying

The second man walked by

In dream state, up in the air, clouds daydream

He stepped on the banana and went flying off

A mystery that holds, the accused banana

Why is the banana to be blamed

The banana, the banana

I always wondered why the banana

Should have so significant a bad name

I would get Poirot to investigate this strange


This strange, this strange 
Bananarama, drama 
A story of sort 

Having a warm soup

We all meet up in the middle sometimes 
When the seasons are right 
We all brush off the mud on our boots 
On the doormat, that spells out welcome home 


Walking out of the cold into the warmth 
An empty chair seats idle  
With our names imprinted on, reserved  for
Like a movie director's chair with comfort 


Here take your coat off 
Here have a seat, here a warm soup 
Or coco, have some bread to fill you up 
And do tell us stories of adventure 


And trepidations, dragons you have slayed 
 At some point, I feared I wouldn't make it 
Nightmare rings awakening, like alarm clocks 
To my sleep awake and I sweat the demons out  


Words do, belittle experience to talk of 
But hold on, it is a lie what was spelt out  
In the beginning so bold, like prophecy 
And infested with assurance that mild  


We do not all meet in the middle sometimes 
When the seasons are right 
Some never made it back and empty seats 
Remain around tables in advent 


An old friend passed away 
He will not be here this year 
An old friend changed alliance, false start   
He now stands at the front line with the enemy 


An old friend lost his map 
He sits in the cold in street corners begging 
Without direction on course to take  
The magnet in his compass is without life 


So I hold back my speech of travesty 
And look into the hamper bag I carry  
To bring out presents of merry, I carry more of those 
Don't be fooled by t' size of t' bag, it is like the Tardis   


The most valuable of all, is to have made it here 
In the middle sometimes, when seasons are right 
To brush off the dirty on our boots, on welcome mats 
Hang our coats and have a warm soup 


NB: If you saw the baby in the picture above 
you have good eyes and Merry Christmas 

Sweets wrapped

Confectionery presented presents, I want 
Packaged with ribbons, its seasons greetings 
Someone wrapped me a parcel sweet 


Candies comes in a mixture of colours 
Grab me a paper bag, extra large 
Scoop me a handful, varieties to have 


Hold me  an edge back, greed to want it all 
But for this occasion in celebration 
Allow me, to grab me, a mouthful to have 


Save me, tooth from rotten hold 
Keep t' tooth fairy away, I pray
Allow me this occasion to celebrate free


Give me, taste bud sweet 
A sensation so great 
Allow me sir, a bag full of celebration  

Shared with: http://www.theme-thursday.com/

Favouring one

Would I favour the fool 
For he agrees with me, always 
A' expresses, no objection on subjects I speak on 


He lays no grounds to withstand a position 
And passages path, he offers free to pass 
Would I favour the fool 


Or that of the sceptic, who always objects 
Even when reasons beyond doubt 
Has been made, tailored, tabled to warrant no objection 


Do I favour his kind, to grant a forced compromise 
For passage as a price paid, too high 
Stiff in his own right to oppose and be seen as so


Neither one do I want in my backyard play 
To have the fool answer for he thinks
To please, and lead me down a plank blind 


Nor the sceptic paranoid 
Who he wraps up, all in a bubble 
And refuses to have dirt shadow, his day 


What of one in-between 
What of one to dance between lines 
What of one with sway to favour  

Losing and Things

In the storm of things, the dawn of things 
Where shadows lay siege 
On the brightness of things 


And blindness attempts to colonise 
The sight of things 
To make void of things 


Where principles and compromises 
Exchange seats and things 
And good men pick up arms and things 


For a cause and things 
To defend, define, protect and things 
The status quo and things 


Remember not to lose sight of things 
To know what they stand for and things 
To be left with value, after the storm and things 

And things 
And things 
And things 

Opposition (Free Verse)

I am the one they talked about 
Like prophecy see reasons
New seasons 


Find me in scriptures 
I  am whole made, holly  
Like the beam of moon light shine, full moon


Shown light, bright on  dark delinquency 
And they come running out 
Like bats hanged on ceiling, away from lectures 


Defecating in their habitats 
Negative energy of doubt 
Breathing deep breaths they take 


They just that, jesters you know 
But jesters are still welcome 
In the kings kingdom, open arms 


Know your place, amuse 
We all need a laugh 
Every now and then, so bemuse  


We consider such acts 
Amusing from opposition 
Tolerated for a reason 


They call our bluff 
To allow us reaction on mood  
So come out you jesters   

Pouring Libation

At the front line, where backs are   
Firmly stack against walls, that hot  
Transmitting the burning coals of larva 


From the bosom of dejected dissolution  
Deep beneath the heart's crust knocking 
With increased temperature, in temperament  


Of  the heat, in trepidation gushing up 
As time passes by, like street lights so fast 
Distancing, one from dreams with stretch  


With age count, adding burden of  guilt on lost hope
Like the gas filled cylinder left out cold 
Awaiting sparks, just a single spark, for its day 


To burn, combust, with might  in the light 
Showing its glory, showing its all
As given to proclaim as destiny to be 


Yet slowly, increasingly, widening  
This hatch, hole of opening enigma, 
Escapes hope, from an opening 


Sucks out, leaks and dilute with air 
The essence of once so defined 
Taking forms of deflated objects, wrinkled   


What do you do son, what do you do 
 To keep from drowning souls  
As once so care free, a spirit trapped in cages 


Today we will pour libations, it is needed 
Laugh and mock life and dreams had
Tomorrow we will saddle up, back chasing that dream 

Anchored In Seats

I am anchored in my seat 
Sweat runs through my glands 
For the battles, we are assigned to 


To deal with, on allocation, on life
Destiny's reflections, demands I take my share 
Of the weight and sweat it out 


The rest of the world thus the same 
And everyone comes in, to pick up tools
Wake the morning, to clock in work cards 


Lined like chickens, in farms
Industrial in categories, battery
Of predicaments faced, order pickings 

Forced on or by choices made 
Stood in subconsciousness of uniformity 
If only we shared stories to know 


Too much weight for that, time spent
Sympathy will only slow us down
Productivity on targets to be achieved 


On factory floors,  on thread-miles of life
Each to his own, departmental codes
Obstacles assigned to


I am anchored in my seat 
Like its nobody's business 
You don't have to know


You don't have to know, my child
Where I slept the night 
If  I slept the night, or sat with worry  

After I finished my shift in day light 
To be granted a rest bite
If I slept the night 


Others pick up tools, on their turn
Pick up from where they left off 
Anchored in seats 


Departmental codes 
Predicaments of obstacles assigned 
To be anchored in seats of life 


Slowly breaking chains
You don't have to know 
You don't have to know my child 

In Tree's Chatter

The summer flower has run to seed 
Leaves fall like confetti in autumn 

Ceremonial in procession 

They blanket the grounds, that lay covered 

Long gone the winds, that blew breeze  

That made tree branches dance and 

Sing with joy in summer  

Cherished trees have lost their boldness 

Naked they walk in winter, in harmattan 

Like a Buddhist test of faith, on courage 

The circles of time they hold within 

Tells stories, guaranteed of battles fought   

With Seasons of  time voyage past 

She rather the pain of endeavor

Than pity of sorrow, nausea  

So she bleeds silently within  

Spring will affirm, what believers hold 

If trees make it, that far in seasons 

Watch, like magic the shooting stars of new  

With shots of green leaves and branches bold  

If we make it that far, on the green belt movement 
Before the chainsaw man appears with glum


If we make it that far to spring
The summer flower has run to seed 
A reincarnation is awaited in spring  




In memory of Wangari Maathai

Image by Global Crop Diversity Trust via Flickr

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Wangari-Maathai/106096576088935?ref=ts

Stages Reached

Another scenario, stage set..
Script written, dream set  ..
Window dressing, role play ..
Yeeha, yeeha to gollop on saddles 


And for the cow boy, John Wayne..
Heading south, another stop on the way..
With an open fire, burning steak..
Underneath the heavens glow ..


And then greetings and pleasantries ..
Handshakes of new acquaintances..
Laughters and jokes in exchange..
Of stories told in banters of barter trade..


For this night we are brothers..
Warmth  enlist us to gathered around fire 
Looking out over each others shoulders..
To be my guardian and I yours in the open fields 


When the morning comes..
Back into travellers paths we set out again ..
Time acquittance and strangers diner ..
We became friends, on a strangers spot..


In the morning I will ride south and you north ..
And if we are to meet again,
Some where between lines ..
Many an adventure in stories to tell..


To share again under the open fire
From the last time, we met ..
Farewell on travellers path  
Old cow boy, to being John Wayne  ..