Inside A Poematician’s Percipience★ Poetic Series— Poems to watch out for



Come O’ my Eve

I am eyes,
gloriously watered
for flowers, and anointed
apostle of love
for thy daughters of Eve
O’ ye goddess!

Cry no more; thou
beauteous beautiful damsel
for as I searched:
through your tales if your eyes,
I found in multitude–
gleaming testimonies of love.

Come, O’ come
thou beautiful Eve,
come forth in thy charms,
enchanting my soul into a souless river:
where I long to sit by the river,
with olives of you pressed on thy hips
come O’ Eve of gleams.

The Village Thinker © 2014

I nurtured it

I nurtured it—
it was that wonderful dream
conceived in the womb for thirteen months
and right before the shrine
I saw it fruits falling to the earth
to feed hungry spiritual souls. 

I nurtured it—
right before the throne of Kings
and wisdoms of Kingdoms
as empires died out
and chiefdoms blossomed
I laid bare-chested on the goat-skin
with stillness of a ghost’s river
I heard the cries of the land
engrossed in the eyes of no saviour
and, yet, I nurtured it.

But after the seed of me fell
did no dangle of me to the earth
I have seen where souless souls meet
I have witnessed why breathless breath expires
as countries get robbed away the wisdom of the lingiust
and treasure trove of the palace fumbled in books
so did the seer quivered at his own grounds
as a book stole his divinity.

I nurtured it—
though came the winds of destruction
the mysteries of devastation
the tramples of the times seen lingering
and, yet, I never mellowed
for the blind eyes of a god,
is worth more than the enlivened eyes of a mortal
I had been buried before the hurricane could sing
thirty thousand years ago,
I was still the trade of empires
and a thanksgiving to the east god of rains
where I served till the end of this torrential.

Castles bridged to rescue tradition
hapless pair of truth foregone under displeasure 
and we hearing the saint slaying us day-by-day
but if yesterday I never complained with my mouth
for burning the treasure of my ancestors
all because I was under the eyes of the oracles for nourishment
I tell you, o’ men of little faith that
“even the goat when it dead testicles are stepped on feels the sensation,
how much more a soul with a living testicles” 

The days have surely come and I have
shifted the roots of the smoke of blindness
I no longer kowtow to this world of indifference
where the land cries out for purification
an intolerable abomination has been committed…
but take heed that your souls not be sold
for I have seen it enfolding from afar
I have nurtured this art–
and in this shrine I shall forever live to speak with the gods
and the undying souls of my ancestors!

The Village Thinker © 2014

My lessons, your cautions

Did I hear the bells of cries,
was it the true soul of Afia Amoateng in tears,
and just this morning,
the the smoke in the village ceased floating
for the skies were sinking in
–beseeching the earth to fall in.

With stools not ceasing;
and rabbit meat not properly roasted,
she was on errands to natures
and by insignia, she was muted
as the silent humming birds of an untold outbreak beamed,
she had been stung, and bitten to souls

She ate barely everything,
clinging carelessly to anything
that pleaded for mercy in her buccal
but after she felt the ruins,
along the squares of her stomach,
the sky blued and glued!
and surely, the end wasn’t nigh
and, yet, she was in the hospital.

After her long suffering,
and recovering from the realms of this sad fate,
Afia Amoateng pasted on her entrance
a page reflection of her ordeal in a thesis 
She wrote, “my lessons, your cautions”
In this thesis, she drove minds far like she had
in the streams of light,
“It is here! they are here with us!”
Need not be held to the conscience of your soul
it was cholera and I nearly died
let’s save perishing souls from it claws
For if you die— I die!
She dies— he dies!
And if they die— we all die!
and posterity wouldn’t pardon us— not even in our weary graves.

— The Village Thinker —
[12:48pm, 9/28/2014]

Cry no more son

Cry no more son
save your tears
save that precious water
wipe away your duct
and wallow no more
in the oceans of pains

I have crossed the ninth;
river of the evil forest,
cured the last breath of walls,
and communed with the
three hundred thousand gods
the river hangs the hope
of an antelope for you.

I hunted–
the beliefs of our Lords
with the hide of a buffalo
to rain you the fate you told me
solemn no more my son
weep and toss not yourself into cries
but as you sit pensive;
under the boabab of the forest,
with thoughts of your dead mother
escaping through the windows of your mind
I say, son, cry mo more!

Grow into manhood,
see today’s plight as an elephant’s bladder
whirling under sunbeam for the future
I am a hunter, an inheritance
from your bravest ancestors
—’Oburumankoma’, ‘Oson’ and ‘Odapagyan’

brave son of my blood–
brave son of my soul–
—wipe away those tears
—wipe away those tears
for life is an ancestral journey
to the world after life
grace your soul and heart
with the talking drums from the webs (anansententan)
of the old wisdom pool of our ancestors
Cry no more, my dear, son!

The Village Thinker © 2014
[10:56pm, 10/5/2014] “THE VILLAGE THINKER”:


So did the past wrenched me
my back wretched to nothing
I my people lost to fragments
and nobody our banner to seal
“thy kingdom come”, thus said the leader
that we would forever be tormented to chains

I did see the silent whispers of shame
the banter banner of sadness peeled
paled parlance spoken to us in mileage
And the wheels of devotion
said unto our white maker for whom worthy is of
and to whom worthy is enough course to chant
whirling in the rhetoric of gold of golden
as age got stolen by a mirage soul in tattered wounds

I laid still as eyes unflinching to dishes
the whole dug deep in me cures not
Sonnet solemn of this land I weep as night falls
but as history got denounced for intolerable
and mission got seduced by lies of lake
Shame still steals the best in me
I have eyes; but the things of me unseen

But as three hundred milestone broken by nights
and decades silenced by oceans of century
I am still pitiful, and so are my people
I only pray for one moment
when my last breath will be sealed
to the calabash of inner peace;
But for now, I know Africa has no inner peace. 

The Village Thinker © 2014
[1:29pm, 10/12/2014] “THE VILLAGE THINKER”


I have been with my past
lived within the trains of my soul
I have run beyond ozones of blood
cured lures of love spells
shot myself beneath magma
and in all my debris picking
I have risen obeying captivity
sleeping admiring sacrifices of a deer
But in all, I wipe the lizard’s scales
sleep inside the spider’s cobwebs in dreams
I hover and soldier on for eternity
for beyond lies lie lies
and beyond truth lie truth

Within crystal restoration
and sideline circuit deterioration
the mangled subliminal of ghosts
I love to laugh and share moment with
But beneath grave adornment
linger shades of a better betrayal
where the bee buzzes on nectar
with honey dripping along throat length
nine months journey wonder
three billion earth surrender
and all I’ve got to share
is the beautiful moment
of my glorious days in a mother’s womb

But when am wounded
I bleat to the soul of souls
I seek for humanity in glows
Flowers leaped and sealed
but the dreams of a servant
no matter how achieveable they are
are more bleaker to his master
I whisper to my past
and listen to the future
for I know in love my wounds shall heal
and in joy my soul shall gain strength
like the bells of a morning bird
they are the tunes of heavenly composed symphonies
reaching beyond memories of hearts and souls

The Village Thinker © 2014
[1:49pm, 10/12/2014] “THE VILLAGE THINKER”

A traveler’s words

I have travelled
sought many eyes
tasted many tongues

I have travelled
met many souls
seek many fate

I have travelled
seen many beautiful cities
witnessed many chaos

I have travelled
margins built beyond request
and dreams beyond reproach

I have seen where peace lies
seen when humanity dies
seen why life bleeds in mongers

I have seen the shoot of rivers
admired not the fruits of labour
yet the farm cries for sweat

I have travelled
travelled beyond life’s ego
and subducted beneath marrows

and in all—
I have learnt castles of lessons
I repeat to regret
not the same old folks…..
for I have travelled

The Village Thinker © 2014
[1:50pm, 10/12/2014] “THE VILLAGE THINKER”

MANKESSIM— “Borbor Mfante”

History be stolen from me
one eye blindfold
two ears pounded
with mounds of forgets
these were the chains
that the grey footprints came with

Mystery be suspended in dilemmas
a piece of cloth
baled to keep me warm
nine months, with thousand moons
and am still naked
for I have being robbed of all

An olive left to shimmer in the canoe
corn and cobwebs mingled oft
but “Borbor Mfante” was me
and ye not know that
“the forgotten trails of a hunter are his miseries”?
land-locked as fraternity swallowed maternity

Deceptions stewed and mashed with oil in earthenware
like ‘et)’, the gods are not ready to feast
lost identity, windowed sanctity
as saliva swelled in the tongue of the “)komfo”
wishes of “Oburumankoma”
our great warrior in a basket  flaked
and I ask, “ye not know that the broken arrow of a hunter is his plight”?

look at your sons
look at the faces of your daughters
look at the the scowls forged in your skin
is it that you are insensitive?
History taken out of boundaries
the curse of history embolden in your pupil
the spirit of “Odapagyan”
our great ancestor skirted in ills
and I ask, “ye not know that the lost gun powder of a hunter is his own woe in the evil forest”?
paled colours, time freezing on your myths

Boundaries closed in oars
stomach wrapped in deeper myths
and the jack comes to claim politics
and claim unto themselves consciousness
and you sit still lurking cures to these lies
and you, jack
don’t you know the cemetery for your fathers,
that you would escape tantrums
and fly over “Fante Confederation”
even when the reddened eyes of “)son”, our great ancestor looks on?

I have travelled along the traps of days
struggled to free the cooks of crude
as the oven get cooled by sweat
and the ‘swish’ get dried by red clay
the waters flowing, the night dozing
freely laces of the sky marching
I pause for the royal  “Bodua”
of all living fainting the symbols of “Gye Nyame”
sleep no more, eyes of the old
yawn no further beyond this stretch
lest you be ridiculed by your sons

I have waters
of springs bought from mortars
quickened to life by mothers
awake ye old mother of the land
awake ye old spirit of this land
eat this kola from the gods
“for when a priest dances with his head up,
then the hope of the four hundred skies have resurrected”
“Bobor Mfante”—
I remain your half soul–
of a living witness to the great war
“)sofo Ahor” fought to defeat death
when lightening squabbled with thunderstorm under the mahogany…

“Borbor Mfante”,
of ages and spirits
of spirituality and ancestry
of humanity and myths
of supremacy and supernatural
of metaphysical and supranatural
of the break of dawn and nights
of the slide of land and stains
of the battles of souls and spirits
Mankessim ye yim wo fir tsetse
so henceforth, nurse those wounds
and find bales of clothes
to cover those nakedness
for the sustained life of an oldman, is worth more the wisdom in the knee cap
O’ great Borbor Mfante

The Village Thinker © 2014
[1:51pm, 10/12/2014] “THE VILLAGE THINKER”

As I lay dying

      As I lay dying,
the tears of mothers unheard.
     The church gone flat;
the sails souls of the living all drenched in cold,
     even my tears was in cold.

     As I lay dying,
the banner of victory folded;
     the recapture of the river deserted.
Mighties silenced and muted by the dawn of mute, 
    and of ages, all remained in cold.

       As I lay dying,
the silent whispers of the night falling;
      shadows falling on my days and am too young not to die at this moment,
but this is the day that I have to die.

    So I asked the silent whispers of the night,
I asked the silent voices of the birds,
and I questioned the Eve of the South,
    Will this be my untold end?

The Village Thinker © 2014
[1:51pm, 10/12/2014] “THE VILLAGE THINKER”: Black and white

Where did your true colour go,
Where did you leave the true you?
That I seek the face of heaven, and still see not you.
Did I hear the wells whisper?
did I hear the frog ginger,
with the grey spider still weaving no webs?
But I dare not question you
beyond this dried cracked lips.

I fell not to your feet because I had to
I fell because I was destined to;
Did I read your words right,
or was I thrown at eastward for nothing?
Do I merit a fool’s pride,
that I be blinded like an intoxicated bat?
I see no reason to cry in tears;
as this season calls for dryness
But am I still dreaming?

If loneliness could kill;
and time falter the flattened wish,
Then I first hold the key that am long buried!
Your change has fickled me to heart;
trickles of pains luring me to boundless undreamed fate.
With time as a surgeon; and me a patient on surgical
Dimmed light of you sounding my grave,
And you, not pitiful at all…

I wanted a bead on curved hips,
bead so beautiful inside-out.
I wanted fresh water from a condensed dew;
to wet away this dried throat
But nothing perfectly seems to exhist.
And where did my goddess go,
that I would call to the trumpet of hell;
to blow it five trends of her search in the universe?
But I am lost, lost and not found–
for her colour has reaches mid-point–
But do I go east, nor west?
That I may set apart these two heart colours.

The Village Thinker © 2014
[1:53pm, 10/12/2014] “THE VILLAGE THINKER”

Blood of a determined soul

The slide of the bars beamed,
and the earth smiled to thy sweat:
night and day— longed by shades
they pruned the crust and set the lust in flames
the love has resurrected from it grave
and O’ thy soul rains in earth

But I weep without tears;
crying dry waters of my soul
as many feminine get washed away
without grave heart to face the tolls ahead
I am a soul,
formed from the soil of the earth
and ages of this cross;  seeks to ride me along

I faint not to the bottom of my heart
the fire from the mantle is a rekindler 
come O’, ye equally minded
come let’s  search the deep of the earth
For in deep of this journey
lies the joy of a geographer
and O ‘ my soul—
pray with me as I lead this banner of exploration…..
— I die with the earth!

The Village Thinker © 2014


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s