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)

The Award; Best Original Content Blogcamp13

It is a joy to be recognized and rewarded for following one's own dreams and passion
I have often been asked how much I make from writing, followed by "whats the point then"
Justifying spending time writing poems is never easy to defend when asked by parties with no interest in the art.
Friends like Efo Dela http://efodela.blogspot.com  a nominee in the Best Blog category is to be commended for their effort, dedication and web presence.
 But then all appreciate good reasoning and content "Content is King". Wining an award for Best Original Content is to me the best accolade one can be bestowed, for now that is.

To Diana McAlister my editor, I thank you for going through the poems with a fine-comb, I know your essence.

For the rest out there, I will say be inspired.

The following also deserve a mention for their win:

Best Creative, Literary Short Stories, Poetry Blog

ganyobinaa.com

Best Organisational Blog

accradotalttours.wordpress.com

Best Technology Blog

techy-africa.com

Best Citizen Journalism Blog

circumspecte.com

Organisation with Best Social Media Presence

Vodafone Ghana

Personality with Best Social Media Presence

MutomboPercy the Poet (@MutomboDaPoet)

Best Business & Commerce Blog

estockanalysisblog.com

Best Showbiz and Entertainment Blog

ameyawdebrah.com

Best Lifestyle Blog

ganyobinaa.com

Best Activist Blog

adventuresfrom.com

Best Photo Blog

africaphotographer.blogspot.com

Best Blog

adventuresfrom.com

List by
http://ghanagist.com

The bank of books

Books stocked, packed on shelves
Each word written by a beautiful mind 

Some as rich as the value of  true wealth 
Some as rare as the sight of a red emerald  

Some as records of events that was   
Some as fiction and some as law 

Some as print media dated 18 something 
Some before the time of the industrial age 

Some on sheepskin rolled round as scrolls  
Some for kids, poetry and music books   

Some by Darwin about the evolution of nature 
Some by Einstein on the theory of relativity 

Some by Shakespeare, said of Othello  
Some by  Wordsworth and some by Victor Hugo

This is the house the bank of books 
Where all of knowledge is kept stacked on shelves 

Penguin rejected me

Penguin would not touch me today 
Not until I am dead to value me more 

Penguin has long lost its calling 
A crusader for the poor in the alley ways 

Where Jehovah's witnesses walk like salesmen 
Penguin was once amongst  

Same as, with black suits and white shirt 
Penguin, championing the voice of the poor 

But penguin would not touch me today 
Not until I am dead to value me more 

Yet I take solace from my penguin snob 
One less tree falls by my name as published 

And the forest grows greener each day 
Bringing the rain out to celebrate life 

Giving me more of nature to be inspired
When I am dead, Penguin will name me as great 

But for now as it stands 
Penguin would not touch me today 

A Heart Driven Dream

The standard constant is only given in paradigm 
Subject to change as evolution
Of the process, mutant gene 

Who would be the King Arthur 
To pull Excalibur's sword from the rock 
That holds this status strong as the norm 

I dare you to be different, to act different 
To think different to be a rebel
Against tradition's strong hold 

Though many a man would try and have a go 
On promises of wealth  or be it the princesses hand 
To wed, many a fool would try as foolish do 

Many on stampede that excite to compete 
So do be brave, me old son, do be brave 
On noble grounds, as such hearts are sure 

Sure to rekindle the lights of gods
That sit quite within  you
And be this a calling, a true calling 

As one embarks on this voyage to settle 
The hungered soul awakened by 
Honours yearning call. A heart driven dream  

What is poetry to a poet

I hang on a cliff  edge wanting to let go 
And holding firm to draw so tight, my life 
I would not let go of grip to fall 


I yearn to unload these thoughts 
They sit with burst on my mind 
Begging to come out and be heard 


Read, noted, examined, re-examined 
And be understood in context by so few 
The rest just blaspheme, leave them out  


Though in the same light, lone candles, shadows of day 
I fear what would manifest out on paper like scripture 
When I open these taps of my mind to draw fluid thoughts


What is poetry to a poet I ponder 
An open book, abstract dairy of  the very private 
Or creativity with words from the subconscious  


Half the time I am at a loss to know 
Half the time I wonder if writings hold any meaning 
What is poetry to a poet, yet each time I write, I write    

Shadows on the wall

Some times I find myself  in that zone of demolish thought  
Caught between entangled nets of confusion, abstract 
Between light, shadows and the objects they project 


Sometimes it is just ordinary entities, they portray 
Like a hand rabbit projected on walls 
Sometimes it is the others, more scary and wary 


That gives fright on walls in the finest hour of dawn 
Like seeing a shape of a man in the middle of the night 
Stood in the middle of one's bedding space 


Between sleep and wake, resolutions of know 
Illusion of thoughts, that sends shivers 
Delusion of grungier, on what fright they bare 


Some say t' day a' its hills, a' what tomorrow brings 
Holds excepts of our anxiety and fear, transformed in shades
It is these that travel through t' winds in shadows on the walls 

And appear in our dreams 
Shadows on the wall 
I just saw a shadow on the wall 

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 

Close to dreams

A step close to the ocean sea, fairy-tales lay 
Where I am to be made, held to crown  
The fisher of my dreams 


I have travelled far, to get to this shore 
I have walked through the forest 
Battled beast and many more  


I have escaped the trenches 
Dug by my foe, wishing my fall 
I have prayed for fresh water 


To quench my taste 
I have sweated, buckets  full 
And sucked my shirt, so I walk without  


Finally, I saw the shore line 
And blessed, there in sight, stood a boat waiting 
This would be my fortune change 


I am to be made the fisher of my dreams 
Little did I, think to look this late  
Why put quicksand my way, this late, this close  


Why, so close to fairy-tales 
But know this, foe of sand, before the tide I will sail 
Before the night falls, I will cast my net 

Finding the words

Quietly I profess to acknowledge 

Covert to announce in whispers, I love you

How do I share this with you  

A Funny Poem

I know, my punctured cold fingers feel numb and unused 
Winter holds grip of it, for it  has been a while, a long while 
Cobwebs have gathered, like gloves and claimed ownership


A long while, since I wrote a poem 
A love poem, a fun poem  
A family and friends poem  


A summer poem, a winter poem 
A poem about autumn and spring 
I know it has been a while, a long while 


And  my fingers have all gone cold, no jerk on key pads 
My mind follows asking for answers " why carnage"
For why would I have starved such cherished tree 

And watch it weather and gloom 
It follows my bonsai tree in faith 
I got from love on summers day 


It died before autumn came 
I lost a fish as well this period  
These days my fish tank looks so deem  


I can no longer tell by character any more 
How each of my golden fish does behave
I know my cold fingers feels numb  


It has been a while, a long while , influenced by t' status quo
Like darkness hold, of  days in the pole
A long while, since I poured my heart out warm 


It has been a while 
Since I wrote a love poem 
A happy poem, a funny poem  

Mystery and Magic

Blankety blank, doors goes bang  

Mystery lurks behind

Ah, bang goes rabbits! 

Edited by: Ramesh Sood 

My Right To, My Prerogative

What I would give for common grounds   
Chaos of a debate, lingering on platforms  
A thousand men demand to be heard, boiling kettle


Individual thoughts on compromise, unreachable 
Opposite ends of a spectrum 
Distance of notions expressed, banquet for tea set up


Avoidance of a resemblance, tea party gather
Fear of his intention, alien of his life 
Reeks of toxic propaganda, allergy to his breath   


"Do not come close" Manifesto set
Far is near enough of want 
Buffer zone, requested, demanded   


Strangers intentions, unclear to observers
Worried with paranormal thoughts 
From outcome of encounters, drink up notions  


No progress or developments, buying into the production  
No innovation through links and compliance 
No effect on cause of sharing, knowing, understanding 


Fear mongering on old folk tales, passed on, them against us
"There is something in the woods" it worries 
Factions of individuals, groups, "puppet masters" 


A vote in voices heard , hostage of a party held   
A thousand men demand a stage 
A thousand more queue in line 


No compromise, gathering solid ground 
" someone always looses out on that
and it want be me " 


I demand to be heard 
It is with my self interest that I speak 
I demand to be heard, observers worry


My right to, I vote to, kidnap of an old machinery
My prerogative  
My tea, just went cold, on my crumpets

Awaiting Answers

I am out of coverage area 
Sometimes you aught to be 
To find your self, with meaning 


The buddhist prefer a solitary area 
Or would avoid uttering words for years  
In meditating mood, for enlightenment  


On journeys back I took  
In the clouds I saw a rabbit, a sea horse 
Land-horse and a boar  


Meanings, I still don't know  
But for seeing such beauty in the clouds 
Aught to be a blessings of some sought  


A silver lining across the pond of life 
A sign of thee, from thee  
To reflect on others to come, I'm sure 


First signs count 
I saw them, there, there  
Those silver lining, I saw them

Standing Tall

Rebels with words  
Protesting to be heard  
A romantic at heart 


Wielding words to wow   
The damsel in distress 
Calling out an SOS 


For the attention of love  
Oh mine its cold outside, my knight 
Tonight the chill feels intense with intent 


A call out to the one with words 
Sat by the open fire, to tell stories, recite poems
And break chains the chill holds on me  


Like a knight to free his princesses 
On top of the castle in old fairy tales 
Like Joan of Arc,  full of bravery  


A social commentary, a political activist 
But don't let your words just be words 
With no meaning on intent  


Beating around the bush on acts
Be bold with words on commitments and deeds
Be Gandhi, be Luther King, be John Lennon  


No not just words, be Bob Geldoff 
Be more than just the words, be Helen Killer 
And inspire a generation, be Mandela  


But not if darkness 
Clouds your thought  
Like Hitler the writer, your heart  I query  


Leave that out 
Or see someone for help
Just don't add to the chill 

Typos Like A Rush

The feel of face pimple, mountain of topography 
A rush of molehills sat firm on the face, picture perfect  
Looking back at me in mirrors, does my bump look big   


Holds in form the same gravity of annoyance 
As typos firmly sat in notes, pee ka boo
Poems and essays written, on thoughts  


Steven Fry thus quoting from Oscar Wilde
Thus wanting to make a point, on peek-ka-boo
Once included a note to his publishers


Saying "I will leave you to tidy up the woulds
wants, wouldn'ts and should, 
will and shall, should and whiches"
Etc etc etc etc.....on and on and on and on, pee ka boo 


I wrote a poem, an epic poem 
And got the title all tipsy wrong
A few typos, nicely stack like they belong 


Hidden from view, on first read
Second read, third read, blind 
Still hidden from view, pee ka boo 


Only to stand out like a post 
With flag on mountain 
On the critics first read 

So I ponder with frustration asking questions
Why does such glitches  always happen
Not always, sometimes, but too often, sometimes 


Sometimes it takes a whole day and more 
While typos play pee ka boo, hiding and poking out, bumps 
Like a fresh pimple, ready to be popped, squeezed out 

Would, for will, there and their
And all the other misfits, misfits 
My mind reads over, blank to blind 


At least I have 
Steven Fry and Oscar Wilde 
On my side, looking at the bigger picture 

Best have a second read before the critics' read 
Just in case, I overlooked another pee ka boo
Misfit, hiding from plain view 

Stranger Than Fiction

Shared with:http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

On mask worn 
Identity on spinning wheels 
To give false notions, emotion 


Thorns  on  narrow roads walked on  
Telescopes with blurry visions  
Compass spinning with no thought   


Of direction, purpose, sequence   
Giving way to none on blockade    
And the wind is on strike   


Even the lightest feather knows no breeze   
The elephant in the room, chasing his tail  
Braking chalices and china plates in the process  


No one knows what roads to take, delimma of actions    
To assert whether this is reality or a dream   
But some times, when ordinary gives way to surreal  


Life can be stranger than fiction   
Imitating art, imitating life, imitating art  
I am left without a voice when angels falls