Prayer Of A Boy By The Roadside


Prayer Of A Boy By The Roadside. 

his lung wrote home
while his face wrote solitude.

here was a soul, lost
amongst boundless feathers
falling off a lone bird’s tail.

his eyes greyed the half-seated moon
and you could read
memories holding themselves
to the feel of an aged-past.

the tuckiness of history
panting down his scored skin,
sent peaceless pieces of pains
which whispered through the exhaust
of wooden vehicular fumes
that fast passed him in gossip.

behind his reddish-dusty hairless head,
a chapter of his prayer wrote:
do not circumcise me..
do not break me..
do not curse me..
for i hold within me
uncured illnesses of a broken home.

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah
All Rights Reserved, 2016
image credit: national geographic tv


~My one fine morning~


~My One Fine Morning~

I wish to die
Permanently will i be no more
My days not like frosts now in the moonlight
Of course, deep on course will i die
A life lived on purpose
And a death earned on a good course
My body keeps draining its glucose
I keep surviving with just few lactose
Doctors keep prolonging my death with more fructose
Death keeps giving me its photos
Today, white coats
Tomorrow, black boats
One fine morning may i die
I would love to see a thousand pictures of people around me
Singing me poetic dirges

“Death Death Death
And its thief
Never ever Never ever
You are good
We lay westside to have our half soul in your book
We never ever can claim what you took”

For my soul to laugh so cool
And my memories to hang around in a so called joyous pool
In a moment so true
My sleeping web should be carved with a poetic tool
The lining of my web should be a poetry wool
In order for me to rest so cool
My fine morning i await for
My voice now so low
Death races to be my so foe

(C) V.Sefah Anokye



(of wishes that limits not)

I wish to forge
magical thoughts
into the heart
of this beautiful

I wish to breath
innocence into
her glowing soul,
and sing poetry
of memories
into her gleaming

I wish to dance
before this bird
sending her feet
under the rhythms
of a moving rainbow—–

I wish to whisper
into an unknown ears
breath deep into
the marrows of a

Let this stage
found be called
let this victory song
composed be called
let this art
traced be called

I wish to wish
of wishes
so vast like oceans
where a fishing rod
shall lose it bait
at the heart of
a star fish.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Before me and bed


before me and bed,
are seven couplet coups.
nine out of ten mingled,
on soft spread sheets.

behind closed eyes,
is a fast flowing emotional waterfall.
flowing not gently in plunge,
fifteen out of twenty nestles.

I filmed yesterday’s day,
and combed the day gone by.
inside the half opened eye is tomorrow,
thirteen out of fifteen is yet to ripple.

beneath muted pillow,
the dreams of sage shared.
on top of the flowing dreams,
fifty thousand gigantic tipped prospects.

every sleep brings newer dimension,
with loads of taped mission.
every wish for bed breeds dynamics,
with heavily piled aspirations to weave.

before me and bed,
all I see is life stories rewritten.
before me and bed,
are dripping forged memoirs rewritten in new ink…
—so dozed off me into the nights deep,
in bed and in soaked ratiocinations.

The Village Thinker © 2014

wishes of a silent desert


There is the big wonderous ocean; 
lying grey at it abode,
and almost asking the sky to kiss that soft lips.

This year—
there have been countless number of rainfalls,
with doubtless magic squares of showers.

We live just close to the tropic,
and just overhead our fore lies the doldrums—
but still our surpluses keeps baking under the mighty sun.

An epistle of letters not clarified,
still under the urge to feel the power of the rains;
and taste the full of fertility.

Where did the cassava and maize go wrong,
that they never taste the passion in my heart—
And endure the lot in my soul to harvest?

I wish the winds could flag my emotions;
—and the stream of the roots of herbs bath my deep
so I can share my all with humanity.

The Village Thinker © 2014