A week later...

And so where have I been?

Last week was extremely hectic for me. I was trying to piece together words for a presentation and also trying to organize something else, (I have forgotten what) but it seemed like my forever was near. I did not want to write poetry or read poetry or even.... Here I am, a week later, feeling bad for not keeping up to my promise/goal. I don't have seven poems to make up for all of this lost precious time, but I have a few...

True story...simply that

Passing Winds

I lost my big toe nail

On a Sunday afternoon

Sliced in half

By a falling blackboard

Pushed by the passing wind

My sister nursed

The green and pale skin

With a white napkin

Salty bubbly water

Pierced my wound

The steam in my screams

Called the hot winds

To serve me with cool warmth

My Well Runs Dry

Aku and I

raced with empty buckets

to the well

while crickets stretched limbs

and the sun cracked from its shell

My metal bucket

half empty

balanced on my neck

My arms stretched

to guard what remained

We didn’t race back

A mountain of clothes

laid waiting

My grandmothers garden

Grew thirsty.

Ampe is a game little girls like me used to play in Accra. It was so much fun because it involved several people. Sometimes I made my greatest enemies from playing ampe: simply because they had “shot” me out of the game at its early stages. I can’t play ampe in America, whatever that means.

Ampe

girls jumping

kicking tan sands

into the air

they clap

pa pa pa

singing songs

of home



Channeling my inner African? NO! I was simply retelling observations of my lifestyle. I didn't live in a jungle...it's just similar to how New Yorkers (some) live with rats/mice/roaches :Each region to its own.

Wild life

in Accra,

I shared my bed

with a yellow lizard

and ate with a baby cockroach

I ate my sweets with red

soldier ants

and sold my garbage

to the bald wet vultures

I complained to the bats

their bite marks

impressed on the indian almond

a green snake watched

my grandmother’s crops

grow

and fed them to the crows.

The Mirror

I have two poems for you guys today. "The Mirror" and "Looking for the Song in my Life." Both poems were written as I began my 2nd semester in poetry class. I like writing poetry because I am honest. That is all I have to say for now.

The Mirror

Why do we
call Narcissus 
a fool
For falling
into the water?
let's ask the flower
it will know.
Our image drawn
reflects our imperfections.
If mirrors were oceans,
we might all be roses, lilies,
flowing amidst the stream.





Looking For The Song In My Life"

I forgot how to write a poem
how to make letters dance
and touch the skin of the brain.
So I began to sing.
I sand numbers,
calculating
the time and time
I thought about
rhythm and rhyme
alliteration
I whistled to the birds
some blue, some yellow
watching us converse.
The voices tell me
if you ever forget how to love
Just remember. 

For April 8th -Untitled

I was fooled
Beauty is not skin deep
It's soul deep
It's the worm eating
Up your essence
The sand covering
Your graveyard
The need to justify
That existence becomes explosive
Each time
You hold your
Breath...e
Beauty is that dying boy
At the end of the street
Who sticks his tongue out
To taste the rain

For April 7th...

I know, I don't want to forget about tomorrow so let's start living it now...

My Ghana is blue

My Ghana is blue

like ink

floating

on a burnt British Flag

sweat flows

from the forehead

of a schoolboy

selling charcoal

blue like

air inhaled by taxi drivers

in the cracks of harmattan

black like tainted oxygen

that shreds bullets of war

My Ghana is blue

like the voices in the sky

walking away...

There is so much joy knowing what you like and knowing what you don't. I like being able to express what I want to say but I don't like being questioned for what I believe in. I believe in Ghana but don't ask me why.

April 6th- Betrayed

Betrayed

if rage could be dipped in butter,
and melt in a frying pan,
I will be that heat in glory
steaming to burn the life out of you.
The lies you told me crippled my eyes.
I felt the coldness of your mind,
and the knife you held close to my heart.
Truth be told, I always saw your hands
dripping of cold sticky blood.
You washed with water from the purest valley,
but the scent of life remained fresh.
Now we stand face to face
You wound me.
You rip my love apart.
I bleed dark hatred.

I wrote this poem because I was so very angry. It wasn't a break up or a guy trashing my love. It was a friendship that had been mishandled. Maybe I was taking things too seriously but at that moment I felt betrayed and the excuse was just not good enough. I am grateful for the experience even though my friendship with that person is not as strong. However, I have learned to walk around with forgiveness in my pocket...

April 5th-West African Paradise

West-African Paradise

My West-African paradise

stands behind peach bars.

A mango tree folds

its arms

but throws down yellow beans

when whipped.

High in the dirty violet sky,

a pale pawpaw tree hides

treasures of soft pebbles

but spits black seeds

when whipped.

The blind vampires

chew the purple

Indian almond,

licking the seed dry.

The leaves of the yam

hug the fufu pistol.

Blushing red tomatoes stand

beside excited carrots.

Mild green peppers sweat.

A forest green snake

guards my grandmother’s jewels.

I wrote this poem because I missed my home in Ghana. The only thing "unreal" about this poem is possibly the vampires. Of course they were only bats but sometimes exaggerating ideas makes life more interesting.

April 4th- There Are No Spoons In My Kithcen

There are no Spoons in my kitchen

There are no spoons in my kitchen.

We cleanse our hands

of the black dirt,

washing away the skin.

When we eat,

hands feed the tongue,

sucking sweet marrow

from the legs of the quivering goat.

Hands dig out yams,

wipe the sand off its skin,

and hold the knife that breaks

it into white chunks.

The hand greets

heat, leaping out            

of soups, flowing                                                                                                                       

with pink garlic strips.

When we eat,

we talk with our lips,

swallow with our tongue,

taste with our hands.

Obviously, there are many spoons in my kitchen but I prefer to eat with my hands. I think you waste less of the food when you eat with your hands. Eating with your hands does not mean you are"uncivilized or incapable of using a spoon, it just means you are connected more to the food. So I wrote a poem that allowed to reason out loud and share with the rest of my class..culture/ethics/life.