A Song For A Beloved


A Song For A Beloved

Two days today,
was the waking of your memories.
the million memories you kept
inside the feel of our minds.

we saluted!
we embraced!
Yet the fast legs of tears
would not let our eyes settle.

It was just yesterday
we recalled you in our huts.
the weather was hostile
the moon was mournful
even our shadows
which roamed about in mute,
nearly deserted our spirits.

Your smeared memories of suddendom,
we couldn’t hold!
we couldn’t bear!

when you hear the winds
take her broom of sanity
in the godly morn,
look no where, stare no land
for amongst the dust
shall linger the twirling songs of us
pacifying the hands
that sent you packing.





I am the voice of the shadows of Nkrumah
I sing of a new song
I sing of a song which breaches the norms of symphony
I sing of a song which ruptures the ethics of lyrics
I sing of a song which speaks in thousands of volume
A song which personifies a nation
A song which edifies a people
A song which embodies a continent
A song which swallowed up the crude elements of colonisation
A song which lingers in the liver of independence

He stood firmly in his terms
Stage craft still braced to his chest
An old belly of Nkroful beget him
At the spring of Gold Coast in 1909
Like the Messiah,
Not even the whistles of the birds told of his coming

Born Francis Kofi Nwia Ngonloma
His destiny however, was chained to the keys of freedom
At a new name which he held on to the power of change
Kwame Nkrumah just like Paul of Saul

His heart was sewn on the desire for change
A patron’s change and not mere change
A change to fulfill a call of Africas’ salvation
From the hands of colonialism and imperialism
At dawn, his heart beat could be heard loud in no mortal hearing
His blood boiled for tenacious change
Kofi and also a Kwame?
But how strange people didn’t realise the mystique surrounding him

Kwame Nkrumah,
Kwame Nkrumah,
The lone star from Gold Coast stretching into Ghana
That black star standing rooted in the freedom of Africa
A man with a lion’s heart
A man who kneweth no oppressors rule
A man born of the light,’ and might for a better course only fate could tell

Let me keep my rhythms in his pipeline
Stake wishes of him to his zeal
Apply loyal methodic to his philosophies
Adhere to the lines of his visions
Let me stay glued to his aspirations
I sing of Nkrumah
I sing of you O’ Nkrumah

The voice of a toddler singing in the forest
Sing of you
O’ Nkrumah

To the elements of colonialism he was a toddler
The elders of his days deemed him a token ink
Taunted him when his visions contradicted theirs
He saw a light way ahead of him that only ‘few’ could see
He saw a nation standing on the shoulders of freedom and independence
He saw a people being unified according to the pigmentation of their skin colour

He grew fierce like a naked fire in the desert
Blazed his own ideals and ideologies
Two years after his dilemma was yoked out of him
He formed his own ideological grouping
He passed through the eyes of torture
His visions were staged to it collapse
Yet his intrepidity shoved over the wink shadowing his beliefs

He was like the eagle in full flight: supersonic -speed
Leading government business under the pool of self-government
He led the orchestra of freedom fighting
He kept fighting and fighting and fighting and fighting
Until there was nothing more of a danger to fight
He led a people of unequal thoughts to gain independence

On 6th March, 1957
A new nation Ghana was born out of him
Independence which was not gained on silver platter
Independence which sapped away his passion in no shame
Making him become the first Prime Minister
And President of a newly independent nation sub of the Saharan in 1960

He brought on himself glory that restored
hope in millions
He placed himself as a symbol of hope for others
His voice was heard like a shepherd calling out for his missing sheep
He made a small nation to become
A beacon of hope for other nations

Kwame Nkrumah of blessed memory,
O’ Kwame Nkrumah of blessed memory,
Kwame Nkrumah of history repeating itself,
Kwame Nkrumah of true patriotism, 
Kwame Nkrumah of true nationalism,
I sing of you today,
I sing of you today…

Let me continue singing
Let time not sweep my vocal cord of it angelic prowess
Let not my tongue leave me at the suburb of this compose
Let the stars up and in above lead me to the brighter side of craftiness
Help me sing,
O’ Heavens help me to sing
Help me sing of the great man who made our dark path bright
Let me sing of Nkrumah
Let me sing of the man who shall taste the eminence of generations to generations
O’ Kwame Nkrumah
I sing of you today

a village thinker
Walking silently in the forest of ‘Oduma’
Producing thoughts of you under the big ‘oyina’
Sing with the voice of the gods to your name

Nkrumah spoke like a soothsayer
His speeches crept into the heart of his enemies like a sharp axe
Slaying their bitterness into shreds
His charm and charisma were something even gods desired
His organizational ability, it was like the contagion of the ‘harmattan’
An infectious wind blowing through the nasals of the nose
His visions were contagion
His personality, a striking thunder
His inspiration, a powerful lightning
His ideals, a rare potency to ever step on the face of ‘Asase Efua’
He was a gem in a million
A human in true rainbow colours

1966 was his bleakest day
His enemies combed him to his unaware fate
A putsch on gun lips smoked him
His visions were cast into the shadows
His aspirations obfuscated in the face of his enemies
Evil boiling high in the minds of men
At the deep of the heart lies their evil cradle
To topple and stifle his enviable efforts
But a man of true legacies;
is like a fountain of monumental fate
And, not even the storms of time can drain them into nothingness

I sing of you today
I sing of Nkrumah
I sing of a ‘man’ and not just mere ‘man’
I sing of a man whose life is written in golden letters at the heart of history,
I sing of the Osagyefo
I sing of Kwame Nkrumah
I sing from a well of seasoned historical archives
Of the finest wisdom brewed from palm wine, and ‘pito’
To a man who set himself as a standard for Africa’s light
I sing of these words that
“Our independence is meaningless, unless it is linked with the total liberation of all African states”

Freedom, was his name
Freedom, is his name
Freedom, shall forever be his name
Independence, Independence of a people shall be his name
And from hence I sing from the echoing entomb of his words that
“The African must be capable to manage his own affairs”
He must be free from all forms of racial and neo-colonial tendencies
I sing of Nkrumah unto a mission of Pan-Africanism consciousness

A village thinker
Still standing under the village shadows of the big ‘oyina’
Singing of you O’ Nkrumah
O’ beloved son of the land
Nkrumah, I sing of you today
I sing of you with my palm wine in my hands in a powerful calabash
Standing at the ‘ekuratia’ singing of you

Let the spirits receive your love
Let the ancestors hear my voice
Report my song, report my stories to you today
I sing of you Nkrumah
Nkrumah of beloved memory,
Kwame Nkrumah of blessed memory,
Kwame Nkumah of Ghana,
Nkrumah the black star of Africa
I sing of you on the coast of this silent sea lying at bay at Ogua

I sing of you today
I sing of you Nkrumah
O’ great man who lived for our yesterday, today and tomorrow
I sing of you,
I sing of you
that our ancestors
shall whisper our silent voices to you
across this lonely hills of my dreams
I sing of you…
I sing of you…

The Village Thinker © 2014
All copyrights reserved
Nana Arhin Tsiwah

To the men who sowed me like a grain


my son,
‘Abanoma Abeiku’
as you read this letter
of an epistle to my family
let it reach ‘Ebusuapayin Anoma’
that my corpse wishes not his face
at my burial grounds

go let the birds eat
feed them with the corn
I kept in safe as a dowry
let the 5 doves
who perches on my hut
be fed with the grains
of my sweat

and to ‘Opanyin Agyabeng’
tell him not to weep
of his hypocrisy at my funeral
under my bed are hidden
golden treasures for my dear wife ‘Ama Benewa’
and tell my brother, ‘Antobam’
not to come near my sweat
for the gods desires not vengeance
but a wake to their evil

the sun has died
younger than she ought to
I pray you
my dear son

The Village Thinker © 2014



Under your feet, I have sworn to follow your trails
To follow your trails like a hunter in search for snails
I recall the lyrics you wrote under the mahogany
They were so filled with emotional letters
Egos of the gods, sages of our lost Lords
The battlefield was left blank with no wins
And I ask,
Where did our braveness lost it virginity to cowardice,
When we knew the shrine had predicted on our sweat beads?

Teach me the rhythms of your finger tips
Of the meandering of the river’s valley you crossed
The ego at the stream looks deserted
The canoe from the sea looks wrecking
And O’ when did the green leaves begin to wither,
When all are in merry of the days beyond obscurity? 

Under your feet papa, I have learned the hymns of royalty
Upon the crossroads to the eastern shrine
I have learned to pay heed to the whispers of humble antelopes
The robes you left under the hut keep a stare at my forehead
The gourd you left under the palm tree has been filled with wine
What more is left papa?
I need only a sweat from your imprints
To let my tongue taste sour of the lion’s tail
You brought from the evil forest last night.

The Village Thinker © 2014



On limbs of a butterfly
I shall sing halleluyah
Chants chemical chemistry
Of wisdom of the old
For the golden old oak
Behind the spiritual walls.

Strange night appeals of cold weather
Tales of aftermath birthed in oracles
I paint the eyes of the priest
Sound the horn of the great elephant
Tomorrow shall be another day for libation
And call for reunion of the past.

On limbs of a butterfly
I shall fly above the greying skies
Plead with the goddess of fertility
To let this barren land regain her fertility
From the long silence of the ugly harmattan.

I need to revisit the shrine
Call the future a stardom pose for Africa
And where we would bear witnesses
Of the fate of our people
The struggles of our generation
And the might of generations unborn
To kiss this sweat bile of pain
Heaped into the core of our bones…

Africa must sing aloud from the wells of history
Be revived by the treasures of mystery
Africa must revisit her silent butterfly
To give her a befitting soothing song of appease.

The Village Thinker © 2014



Part I
‘Before 2nd World War’ (Proto—)

So soaked by the passion of nationalism
Swimming in the deep ocean of proto-nationalism
Opposing obnoxious legislation
Highly enriched in the craft of intelligentsia
Blackmailed by the complacency of the chiefs
Who were not willing to help move wheels to change the status quo
Stung by chronic economic hardship

Condemning everything African
Yet propagating a missionary concoction of equality
Beholding a mirror of lies of no better elites from us
Smoked discrimination against us in our own homeland
A concomitant of western classroom dishing us in high unemployment
Drunk from the wells of Fante  Confederation
1868, Mankessim brewed and imbibed in us the spirit of consciousness

Determined more to the full of zeal and will
Chiefs played against each other by the head to the tune of bewilderment 
Mensah Sarbah on the hills of Ogua, Cape Coast
Seen blowing the flute of Aborigines’ Rights Protection Society in 1897
Fiercely antagonised by colonial tendencies
The cry of the nationalist still blazing
Their flames burnt to fill time zones

Then appeared from the half smoke
The Nationalist Congress of British West Africa
An eagle’s widest scope of the libation of Casely Hayford poured
Time seemingly right for this libation pouring to rekindke cold spirits
Inter-territorial connection of the fate ahead
Gold Coast, Nigeria and Sierra Leone embraced in one spirit of a common destiny

The new dawn of the positive sign waited for now born
As it ushered the wheels of the elective principle under the umbrella of the 1922, 1924 and 1925 constitutions
Of Gold Coast, Nigeria and Sierra Leone respectively
Hearts stolen by a more desire for change
‘WASU’ rose through the blood of two young men
Setting the flow of it transportation on fire to it birth in 1925
Bakole-Bright whispering the voice of a deific direction to his spirit Comrade Ladipo Solanke
The other side of the colonial threat revealed
As Wallace-Johnson’s fortified zeal set in flames to no colonial quash
With the spectacles of the West African Youth League sprung to it feet of conscientising

Part 2
‘After 2nd World War’ (Militant—)

Nonetheless inebriated with the palm wine of nationalism
The tide of the new light rose to the birth of militanism 
As they delved deeply into new paths of elitism
Hearts and souls sewn to flames of fervor for freedom
Bitten by a more ardor conscious than ever
To fulfill the call of destiny for the people, nations and continent
Enlivened by the light of the Atlantic Charter
Adorned by shea lotion of  consciousness in 1945 by the Pan-Africanist Congress

Spirits moved to the feet of eager minds
By the fragmented supremacy of ‘theirs’ on the heated warfare
With our brothers and sisters form India,
And Pakistan serving as byspel of red sea crossing on leaf ribs
About what we must let the fluid dreams of minds ought to hope for

Fortified by built up militant ideals
The approach took we leaf from was strict radicalism
Ideals brewed under the distillery of 1945 in Manchester
The will of our people still crying on the wilderness of their own country for help
But where was the saviour of our soul coming from,
And who could be that being of a man born of a woman,
To still this stormy way towards freedom and independence?

From the fertile womb of Gold Coast, 
Came a man of multiple brightly colours
A man who felt the need with urgent passion to set the foundation laid right
Kwame Nkrumah that tune from the mirliton of freedom
Breaking the long overdue silence in 1950
With the epistles of Mahatma Gandi in the satyagraha strategies
Tightened to their waist tightly
The birth for a new era towards independence was here
Far from the perceived assumption on litmus paper to London

Newspapers of consciousness going viral like naked fire
With Nnamdi Azikwe’s Accra Morning Post
And Kwame Nkrumah’s Accra Evening News
Serving as healing catalysts for minds towards finally breaking the huge chains of colonialism
Gold Coast sub of the Sahara took the firstbite of self government in 1954
Thus paving way towards what was seen at the other side of the mirror’s reflection in (1957)…

The Village Thinker © 2014
All copyrights reserved
Nana Arhin Tsiwah

Till I’m called to eternity–


Till the path we share glows,
till heaven kisses the earth,
till we live like stones–
dying younger than death–
praying longer than Christ–
we share a fate of unison;
a fate of division,
a fate of completion,
a fate beyond yardstick measure,
——time and fate beyong our eyes.

For I see the throne of God,
and an irony of satan,
for when a guinea fowl is at crowing,
then the hen is surely at laying.

I beseech you my blood–
I beseech thee my soul–
that you will give ears,
and give your heart,
that I may speak to quicken thy soul….

I am a believer of Africa,
a soul undertaker of the universe;
so let Africa speak,
let Africa stand,
for the world is a glorious ours….
Our souls,
our fate,
our Africa!

The Village Thinker © 2014



The following poems are unedited collection of poems from an up coming Anthology known as,
All poems written by Nana Arhin Tsiwah Theophilus, also known in poetry circles as ‘The Village Thinker’.

Poem Title: Paranoid

I see a brighter me in mind
come let’s play whilst there is darkness
an overview of me a narrow
for am not the you

When darkness transfigures me
and a thousand saint sing in me
details of me testifying
I know the me not

Strange things are my choicest
as the orchestra of borrowings
sing hymns of praises in my room
that is me in mind only

They all look at me
beginning from the left
nurses in cutest white robes
but I don’t need a doctor
and my eyes all dimmed to tears
I am the message of me

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Issues from the pillow

I am a sage
bounded to tales
the rod of the day
laid to the beams of ponder

The pillow is silent for today
the two member committee discussion
is almost dissolving this night
I can reason well

My grandfather used to say
“the depth of reason lies in the pillow”
but the pillow is mute
could it be a tower day-mare?

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem Title: The Miracle

Even with magic
I breath deep into lungs
a sorcerer’s delight I stood
there were several ironies of them
none could cure me
of the turmoil enslaved me in.

I know not the way
herbs forming a narrow identify of me
a priesthood initiation I missed
no home was cool there
there was not even a sign
of my healing in line.

Three alphabets pressed on my index
the first wouldn’t say much
only the two had much to offer
their bond later was  nevertheless my power
it was a miracle…
and my ink did that.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title : Infectious

We were the best—
the three of us
and the they were the worst
we stood out in the first year
as our charms of behaviour
enslaved them all
—even our teachers admitted to that.

Pledges of our traits
the school’s second billboard
as seniors advised to take sip
from the good calabash we held
but as female butterflies as we were
we knew when was our weather.

As calm as the wind could be
it won’t woo much to ir desire
Akwasi Dabi had told us
and as they angles praise
the winds of the devil blows
little did we know our end was nigh.

Three years on
and the pressure has caught us
no need to seek return home
for we were at it deep swimming
our good palm wine for sip
has poured down from the calabash.

Before the entire academic  year could break neck 
Kwame Menpemehoasem had alredy
escaped through the mental window
and the remaining two of us
the cart was our best mate in the streets.

We had been infected
by the poisonous school canker
a canker so infectious to the bones
and have been robbed of our goodness
as the good calabash we held
laid emptied and cracked to half.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Pledge of an African

The world has so soon changed
new things evolving
shifting systems to the graves
and there is also a new diction

I heard the world is new light
with new culture already taking shape
yes and the African must bear it all
so they say to make life comfortable

As an African
as a soul formed out the soil of Africa
my dreamest pride
lies not in my skin only
but the worth of it culture.

When I walk through the corridors of the streets
and seeing my own kind drenched in it matters
one thing crops in my thoughts
Africans are indeed not the yesterdays
where values and principles of culture cherished.

I pledge not to fall victim to these trends
of culture and values trampled upon in impunity
as chaos floods the walls of our dear nations
just like a lake
I wish not to be dried away
by this harmattan of modernity.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Melted

Well endowed in pride
her worth beyond pricing
and only the deep of her soil
are hidden treasures
of harmonious living souls.

Beyond her skin
lies her true identity
where only creation is aware
as many sought her
and found her not.

from the very top of her hill
I see all melted
and grey endowments
to be proud of.

She is bare
her shame revealed beyond control
the plot on her crusade has yielded
nothing is worth admirable about her.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: From bed to psychopomp

Seeing their lone life travelling
their luggage not with them
their wealth was beyond measure
as no mathematician could calculate

That one in particular was ‘special’
even his dogs were like humans
but beyond this point of life
is an increasingly pressure of no pleasure

Before bed
it was all raining in joy
as the romance of the bed kept me nesh
to the reality beyond morrow

The leaves here all looks dried
and no landscaper to put the flowers in shape
night and day are of no difference
and could it the land of the lifeless,
or just a freaking dream?
but the reality was,
“I was dead”!

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Wrestle of ages

His beard is mulching now
and the tantrums of the old walking on
he looks into into mirror
and all is but an assumption

The best read into old age
and that if the light on you is young
you keep your thoughts to yourself
as tradition laid plainly to the claims

You look at the words keenly
lay an axe of scrutiny to what greyed decides for you
and all looks not to better your lot

But who dares to bet on a tortoise
when all animals are in the race?
and it is only the eyes of their wish
you seem not to construe their truth

Ages at conflict
as the old seem wise
and the children seeming wiser
but who is the wisest?
that is a question for the eleventh child to answer

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Painted in mud

It was all white
pure and purely
like a fresh snow
from the dairies of the sky—
so the people made it their castle
built houses around it for protection
and to seek comfort therein 
entrusting their all to it
for they hoped for a better tomorrow—

Years have flung their feathers
lighted their candles to the deep of bleak
and they are now mud smeared
their houses have been robbed
the white colour now darkened
the snow milked to titles of individualism—
mud paintings all over the robes
hearts and lips
all painted deeply
in dexterous prevarications—

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Gestures of a sinner

In the dark room
are no firm walls
to coagulate motions
of a shining emotion.

Rhetoric play of her lips
blending to undress
of twining eyes to sedulous sentences of massage.

meditation outreach of a saint
the lord grant nature patience
that lies won’t lie
and reds won’t red…

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: I dreamed you

I dreamed you all night
even in the day
I still dream of you
you are the captures of my soul
the beats of my heart
not of ending love
but of boundless love
beyond boundaries of the continents.

I dreamed you
all to my lungs breath
to see you have your glory on again
your glory has been under the spell of jilt
with so many wounds
all over your body.

In this dream
you took on a new fate
grew conscious of their intents
smarted their pending lures
you were so beautiful again
flagged in the powers of nature beyond their comprehension.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Bleakest arrest

Bleakest arrest;
    the shadow lies on the wall,
      it cast is on my fore—
           so bleak in confinement.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Nightmares of summer

I want to free myself
from this zone. So I can wake to new horizons,
of a dream come true.

Maame never came with the “bone shaker”. She said she do leave to the market,
but here is the wooden lorry,
which she owed her life to this morning. 

“is she dead”?,
for we heard of the accident. No tears please,
tell us how terrible the situation was, but I don’t want to hear
the pronouncement of death.

Walking to the shade under the cocoa, drenched in sweat bath
please where is maame? Papa tell her not to go to the market,
she might not come again with the “bone shaker”

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: A journey made, endless

I made a journey into myself
I dug deep into my details
I walked into the depth of my archives
All I could find was still more miles to journey

I wanted to know my real ‘who’
I made enquiries from my blood
Made comparison with my kind
I saw some similarities
Yet that wasn’t enough journey
To let me know my real ‘who’

I took my roams to the mirror
I asked if she could help me
I asked the sky if she knew short route
But all ended in the chambers
of endless exaggerated appeals

The journey stills continues
To finding my real ‘who’
And knowing the real ‘me’
But until life lingers
This journey of my knowing
Still limbs on in the tunnel of endless.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: A dipsomaniac’s chorus

Trenches of a dipsomania
the applause of the wind
as I breathlessly sing my chorus
in the deep hauls of bottles
where the wheels of my tongue
sweep me to it endless desires.

I thought astonomers make dubious claims
it felt like unmeritable
but I drench in my deep self
of the reality in the liquor
duly their claim is very meritorious
the earth indeed does rotate
for I feel it in my element

My world is the wildest dream
that can ever be experienced
where no worries is the continental anthem
sing me a melody from the wine
let the taste be of the gin
that I would pledge solemnly
to the tales that comes with you
for to dwarfed in intoxication
rings a feeling beyond nature’s melodies

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Diplomatic

concerns of my people
stored deep in my heart
Their wails—  
baled under tongue
Their cross—
a burden feast of me
I seek in sleepless nights 
of countries to find solutions
or a cure to their woes
These are my people
and with their plea in hands
I wear you my face
to the world of relationship
that I may find root cause to these problems

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Extremities

There are portions I do not want reach
distances I fear to go
if it were to be our misunderstandings
and our little problems at home
if it were left with the squabbles
that always boils tempers
then please don’t go extremes

I know how had things could be
and how regrettable they are sometimes
look at the faces of these innocent  kids
and the reckon the malediction
that broken homes evokes
so you don’t go extremes

Going extremes aren’t solutions
throwing tantrums at each other
are the road to ceasing fires
on the point of extremities
lies the ring of knock-out
either ways are sways of normalities
please don’t go extremes

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Thwarted

That is your only dream
dear malices of progress
you hide behind deep smiles
plotting to maim me of hope

You mastermind through the dust
stab me with obstacles
laying my back to bare
so thou foes might lipstick me 
in all these euphoria of no intentions of yours
there is still one burrow to editorial
and that is your heart!

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Nihilism

This is our land
the land of our birth
of people so peace to the zone
with one night appeal to help

They have taken our negligence
to be our prime weakness
yet they claim in the dailies
that we shouldn’t be doom-sayers

Inside our marrows
are many hidden sorrows
of why you! haven’t cure our ailments
or find measures to lessen their pains

As philosophical as I might be
expressing my profoundest love
for nation and continent
of sentiments locked up in emotions

I rest my case of judgement
in the ink pool of nihilism
that these people at the helmage
won’t take us anywhere
even near the land of our dreams  

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Familiarity

I lied beside you
jumping hurdles of your features
I counted them well
numbering them orderly
with bulletins of ink all over
I saw the part we share in common

It’s like a magma
flowing extrusive
but of hidden beauty
intruded between the bedding planes
of your heart beats
the pulses same as mine

No wonder we hugged so deep
with imprints of our chest
all written on our shirts
of us sharing a unique familiarity
indeed the heart is such a soothsayer
it sees the all mere eyes see not

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Behind closed doors

Behind closed doors
are eligibly written pages
of troubles unraveled to the public eyes

Behind closed doors
are heaped burdens
of teeth gnashing 
and plain worries unveiled

Behind closed doors
lies the real home
of a man and woman
drinking tears of sobriety

Behind closed doors
lies unknown mysteries
of life’s related issues
never told to itchy ears

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: The chopping board mistake

It took leave of me in the shadows
swallowed by the nights aroma
in a trianglular prism’s quotation

I took hold of her hands
and the mistake shook me to foot
she laid bleeding

I shivered to the foams of regrets
looking at her in the hospital bed
so cold was her face
and my inner bumped

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Mashed reasons

Mashed reasons;
   smoother than knowledge,
      finest pearls mixed
         it’s full of wisdom.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Fainting

when trees bow
as roots lodging here
and auras of you
all over me in bed
the feeling remains
undoubtedly capturing–

    faintly initials of me
a dramatic loyalty
        the radiant of your curves
the finest dewdrops
so tenderly stitched
            to the moons of my deeps.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Unrelated

I looked upon the earth
and seeing all
I smiled my half
and said, “humanity”. We are all humans,
carved in one anatomical figure.

But why are some so handsome and beautiful,
with others too, deeply figured in pulchritudinous? And we say we are all humans, under the wings of  humanity!

I know we are not perfect,
and that in our imperfection, we can be transfigured to a perfectionist’s paintings. And why are some so richly endowed with wealth,
with others so broken into pieces by pauperdom? Could it be a wishful impercation,
or a blissful blessing?

We are all humans,
with different shades of integumentum. Some white, others black,
yellow and even acquamarine.
and one creation forged hands, yet the whites rules the others.
And who could be behind all these? Such a world of anticlimax tensions! And to which one is related,
that I can’t tell…

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Lures

The pink in your eyes
the streams of gold around your lips
the triple folded curves
around the well linked groovy
of sheen toned skin
these the descriptions
which kept me in your paintings

I have been stolen
without my knowing
breached to the flair of a damsel
caged to red inks
of a charm so aromatic
than the redolence of an angel
and am not finding my feet
just the gleams of your lures
of crystals ribboned to the half me
I see lured me to webs

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Gossip from the candle’s eye

Let’s preach truth, even,
when darkness wields. The candle is melting, down pours of effervescence—, the brightest time,
has graduated it drills. A night of seven eye witnesses—, none was able to speak.
It was just under the candle’s eye I read the message.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Windowing

I stared through without a blink of eye. I look keen on at the roads, the third was greying—
and all I could was your trails.

The frames are the new faces I see. No winds to shield—, for all I see is a missed you.
So not of denial, the wedges are slowly frailer. It is your shadow I keep seeing.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title:  Poetic lies

like a —
weighing millions —
on the scale.

like a —
speechless —
before my chief.

an overly
of me imagined;
of the wrongs
I rewrite!

with auras of
imageries deepened,
like a —
priest on hibernation,
timeout ironies!

like a —
muddled beyond;
reconnaissance of
inks metaphor!

seven hundred
mischievous pun —
all allured,
classified paradoxes.

like a —
virgin ‘kontomire’,
unpublished to
the realms of simile;
thoughtful cliche
of a pencil’s euphemism.

bile of roars,
cradle limb of
a parrot’s fiction;
hallelujah beams
of a broken isles
in dope romance
of radiant oxymoron.

like a —
shrine’s eye,
ransomed sacrifices
services of me,
brown kola mystic
reverenced onomatopoeia.

they are all lies—
poesy dilemmas:
poetic sorcery
of leasings

The Village Thinker © 2014

Poem title: Trials beyond truth

Beating by an angry mob
to the core of my bones 
of a crime I committed not.
The more I pleaded not culpable,
the harder the slap bangs
my sass humbly received.

The police I thought were my friends,
were the worst victims I had become
of no felony I committed.
I have been throw behind bars
for weeks without trial at the court
where is the constitution to guarantee my rights?

At last the people rose for the judge
my inner self shivered
when a witness I know not
ascended the witness box.
“I am sackless” as I heard my conviction yelling
but who was willing to sympathise with me
The judge has risen again
and am to be banged up for thirty years.

Where are you, truth,
that you would reconcile with my soul? 
the fury in the policeman’s eyes
tells of how hell my fate would be…
I looked beyond the faces of all present,
and I felt nothing less of equitable in chains of mute. 

The Village Thinker © 2014

‘W)nsom w)nsom’— Collective Efforts


W)nsom, w)nsom
For it is collectiveness that we stand
The day has already ridden to far land
Mpaninfo) se, “s3 anomaa any3 ne buo a, ebu tra nek)n”
As I lick my little burden off
The pride of our culture laid to rust 
Nothing beautiful seen among our pride
All written in lines of lies beyond means
“s3 y3reyi apay3 a, na 3no nkyer3s3 takyer3ma nante asaase aniwa mu”
The law was created, —likewise men manifested.

All we do in our prime is walk unconcerned
Whilst our last days look blur upon the waters
A clean pair of hands far fetched
The destiny of our people neglected
Along the shores of wishing to be soaked
Tears welling up in the eyes of our people
Hunger tearing up their bellies at night
“Y3ts s3 3k)m de y3n nanso wo ne whan nK)ka s3 patio ani y3 ap)twe ap)twee”
This beautiful nation is ours
She is fast greying beyond boundaries 
And all our leaders keep doing is nothing
Which they call something
and O’ all is but mediocrity
“Ampa s3 k)k)sakyi di ap)nkyer3ni ani a, nano na 3soro”
Thousand minutes of traversing this journey not maximized
The castles hanging up in us not whistled
This still grey of us is too early.

W)nsom, w)nsom
the land is bare
The people are still lying dormant
Hoping that the top layer would be peeled
And you hide in your chamber
Calling on the clouds to pour on you luxuries
The stench of the open is swallowing our noses
Mosquito bites ripping our hearts apart
O’ such a shame, such a fate
So adamantly ignored for that someone expected
We wallow, and roll all over in bed
“Nanso kuntu w) h) yi, d3nky3mbo) renpronsuo”
The fly of our veins, brimming the sleeve of our clave
I surrender not to the tramples
Like a child awoken to humour by ghosts
“Tetefo) se, 3y3 den na ap)nkyer3ni ho te mfifiri?”
When our agreement on sheet is seen folding beneath craze datum. 

If I sing and preach like the thunderstorms
Of angry birds in the graveyard
And whistle like vultures in paradise of carcasses
With no slim shade of me representing true saving
And I keep it all dried, and still hide in dirty sleeves
Expecting the man of the helm to descend to me
I am nothing worth near patriotism
“W)nsom w)nsom 3ne nipa”
Firis3 3bu travel woa, 3no nkyer3s3 p3s3menkomenya w) ndase3″
I am a fictional jointed soul
Roaming with my fate above boundless traces
I speak not because I have to
But I speak because I need to
Times of our nation,
Hours of our sad condition,
All calling for the loyal writes of our lives
Think as I think,
Reason as I also take to reason
“Na s3 y3n adwen a, daakye mfofo b3dane y3n kwae3”

The Village Thinker © 2014

The night I first saw you


The night when dogs barked not
and the entire village caught in the webs of quietest
with only the owl of the eastern forest’s voice
sweeping along the beds of ear drums
and the moon halfing on it contours
with the blue star nearly kissing it radiant
of love for this sheening village
that I saw you adorned in those golden beads.

On seeing that deep beam in your dimple
I fled to hide behind that mud hut
just beside the big neem tree
the fact of the issue was
the tongue in my mouth shivered
I was thoughtless of what to do
tongue so ladden to heaviness of words
lost to the missing planet in my mind
about what to say to you
I felt my ankle birthed to softening
I was dumbfounded.

I kept starring at you
as you made your way amongst the maidens
from the waist beads ringing on your hips
to the anklets of beauty around your legs
I knew you were the ‘Royal Princess’
not of your father’s palace
but of my daily glittering dreams
there I stood muted
with eyes so wild
catching every twist and swing in your walks.

I heard the drums of excitement
from the dancing square of the village
I knew you were to dance for the new moon’s blessing
for our dear hard working farmers
and I didn’t want to miss this bright day
for when I looked at the stars
I saw my day with you gleaming on
I run to my mother’s hut
came out in my finest sack cloth
with a charming beam on.

With those flames all in your eyes
and the cheers of the people urging you on
you were in your element
and I was in mine stares
when you caught me to looks
and smiled right to my face
my soul flew to seek refuge in you
when finally everything was over
I felt your cold palms around my shoulder
slowly I turned to whisper into your ears
“you’ve kept me panting for long”.

The Village Thinker © 2014