We lift up our sword of valor, up high it goes.

Again we lift it up, we raise it high cos as they say the third time is the charm.

We lift, we lift and we lift.

Our hands are tired but still we lift.

Our enemies come cutting through the jungle, we are on the pride rock but our ego they mush on the floor.

They separate us, they vanquish us into exile, where we speak and never understood.

Our works are never of our minds we know nothing cos it’s a strange land.

But on our lands they dance,

They dance till they break each and every bone in them to suite the beats that emanate from the drums of our land.

Their hair flies through the sky as they dance, they dance till they hurt themselves.

But I ask does victory bring pain? Does excitement hurt, does it?

So they keep on dancing and dancing, would they ever stop.

Would they ever pause and say let’s bring them back, would they?

But we come, we come to dance with them, to dance with them with dagger in arms,

We dance till they lose their senses then we hit them in the guts,

And with each thrust we feel the pain, the pain of victory.

This is our land, our pride is our rock and we have come to take it back. But we wake and it is just a dream, a dream in exile.

 

 

In recent times poetry has been on study rise to prominence it has in its own way gained relevance in the heart of the little Ghanaian.

Poetry a work of art with dots and rhymes, poetry the ink of society, the words of the wise which are mostly nuisance, makes sense here, there and then.

An empty space works makes it full the wisest saying but an insult to the fool who never gets it. The blank white sheet, the knife that slices the meat, the ink makes the difference telling stories of the past the present and the unknown.

Taking it shape, it’s meaning floating in space, with the wondering mind the searching thoughts trying to catch it with the hand but grows weary.

poetry, treason , reason can’t look can’t stand can’t ignore the fact that it has been underground for so long, it stood in line , it had its own song. sick rhyming punchlines.

The cat and bull sat on the kitchen stool they had nothing to eat but knew the heavens was on heat to pop down manna in a marvelous manner.

The world never expected that the rejected would stand and proclaim goodness a sense of belonging. It has been underground for so long the wind whirling round our ears if not for centuries then years.

A spider weaves it nest, a fly gets caught in its predicament unable to move again solely in disdain.

Poetry like a mother gives rise to new inspirations, poetry like a mother the spine of society.

Poetry the river of thoughts flowing into streams of ambiguity, poetry you are welcome.

 

 

We just live once, twice is a SECOND CHANCE, don’t hold onto the hurt the pain and disgrace they inflicted on you Vengeance is of the lord CORAZON INDOMABLE. just Cruz, just chill, ease the adrenaline rush at ACALPOCO BAY, they laugh at you call you fat but you are MY SWEET FAT VALENTINA, don’t worry we shall return and return the pain they inflicted on us, call it, LA PATRONA, strong sensation I feel anytime u come around and I feel like touching you my HIDDEN PASSION, without you, is like carrying a curse on my head BELLA CALAMIDAD never letting you go is THE PROMISE, ALL IN THE NAME OF LOVE, sitting at bank of the DESTINY RIVER knowing I mistrust you come back my ROSALINDA, I have got to act fast cos our love is TIMELESS. I will raise over your head a SHELTER FOR LOVE, cos of this love you have got more foes than friends my EVA LUNA, your woes never go away on your head I see the crown of tears CORONA DE LA GRIMAS. Our story is just like in the telenovelas, I LOVE YOU.

John Dadzie

 

 

It is what I see I make meaning of,

My feelings are mine so I keep discrete.

Truth be told I fear my dreams

A clear projections of what I believe

They come in various forms

Not following any norms or breaks any don’ts.

 

My reality my heaven

This is the place I can behold

Truth be told this is what I see

And it is what makes me sane.

The tangible, the believable, the real deal

This is the place for me.

 

My eyes, the very things I don’t want to see is what is brought before my eyes.

I thought eyes are supposed to see the best in people not the worst.

Is it a choice, is it really necessary? Did my confusion cause this?

Is it what it wants me to see or it is me who makes them happen?

I prefer the better ones but what I get never amuses me.

Truth be told what my eyes sees is never what I get call it utopia.

I ask myself could this be it. Is this what I have always been waiting for? The sensation I feel inside, would it be the man from the sky would it be the one to take away the pain in my heart, to operate on these scars that they left when all was done. Would it give me all that it has got would it be patient when I feel insecure if it is true, would it understand if I say “ I am not sure you do and I just want to take my time cos they have left these scars that breaks me anytime I remember. What would it do, would it stay? Would it? Would it tell me how beautiful I am would it caress me when am in pains would it hold my hands when we walk through the park would it kiss me in between alleys when no one watches. would it say “I will never let you go no matter what you say or do cos that is the reason I fell in love with you and besides the sun you are the brightest thing ever to shine on me, you are true and I would love nobody else but you. So close your eyes let us sit in this twilight as I watch the golden sky caress your hair, you are beautiful and i love you.”… So I would ask, what might this be, could it be, would it be or could it might have been love.

Merry Christmas ! Merry Christmas! ! To you, you and you. A son is born his grace has shone. How benevolent is he, what did he ever see in me? I wouldn’t have done that yes am that selfish, I tell a lie if I said I would do otherwise…

he said, with a grin I have never been able to write about Christmas. For poets we normally write what we feel the emotions we conceal deep inside the belly of our soul.

I have lived it long enough? I think, I have had experiences of how it really feels, the nostalgic moments the meals, the women the drinks I think.

His eyes gleamed and glowed intermittently, was he about to lie I asked myself? Many a times people tend to lie immediately after that.

 

It is the time christ was born, debatable true, relatable thats also true. But if christ is love what is this all about looking at the facts each side present. The lost ones,thoes who belong , and the we just want to celebrate ones they all have it, they all are believable and thats not true.

but today is not the time for explanations lets keep our religions to ourselves for now and for the fairytale they end when we grow up. It’s Christmas and it is love we share when it comes. If the whole world is watching let’s make it beautiful.

do you wish to tell her how much you care about her , the words you never got to say the first time you met, I sing this song for you out of the blues with cool sounds and the lovely harmonic arrangement that makes the music. Pick up the phone call her and if she ask why tell her ” I just called to say I love.”

throw the love around don’t be selfish its not yours to own. His love gave us this opportunity, and that sacrifice we should uphold. Merry Christmas from Nyameye sky.

awwwww! lets start all over again.

Nyameye sky

A boy on a sick bed with the mother beside him, she was making funny faces just to cheer him up.
It did work and with every face she made she got a laughter and a big smile at the end.
But suddenly the boy kept mute for a while and asked, mom do clowns cry? Just then tears droped down her cheeks and her answer was yes son clowns do cry.
They paint their face so you wouldn’t see the tear marks, they wear that big colourful dress so you wouldn’t see the scars on them and the big red ball they wear on their nose so to make them sound funny hidding their saddened voices.
But you see anytime they see that spark in your eyes it dries their tears and they smile also. Clowns do cry.
Nyameye sky.

Look at me , take a careful look at me ?

is this how a royal should look?
you can speak can’t you speak to me ?

how convincing can you be, can you tell me i haven’t tried all the tricks in the book?

i have walked all path the broad the narrow and the rocky. i have met many faces with different intentions the good, the bad , and the ugly. i have than the illogical i have seen obscure sight which are mostly not optical. i have cried all my tears, i have ventured all the spheres but up to no avail.
so i ask is this the royal life you promised ? a life not of gold but with riches untold a life with my naked eye i cant behold. they are in the book you gave which i read from sunset till i become cooled in the midnight breeze. would you say i haven’t tried harder ? i have with my bare hands built houses more huger than the tower of babel  i have conjured up paths which are mostly complicated than the red sea exodus.

i have cried and is that not enough? i thought life was hand to mouth never new there was more i thought i would always win but the more thought me i could loose or draw. like a dead plankton all i do is follow the current of the ocean, with this motion i don’t even know were i stand, is this your plan? a trick life question with no answers.

nyameye sky

up on the deck, cool breeze fills my lungs. happy? no. Home sick? yes. Rolling deep on the ocean with the ship dancing to its rhythm up and down , to and fro, the highs and the lows.

the stench is up, got to seal my nostrils. Those rotten ocean dwellers , how careless can they be , don’t they know what to do with the dead? That even said where are those sagacious delphinus capensis? Are they not sane no more ?

This journey on water, my favourite adventure why do i complain anyways, why do I sometimes sound the jerk? is it the hole in it? Is it the false pretence of it never existing? Is that the reason for the rage, Or the tragedies that fills my pages in this epic exodus?

the fear of pirates those stinking meaners with a hook of an arm. Begging for arms in arms, robbing Peter just to feed his rotten soul. I bearly sleep, I lazely slumber so not to be caught of guard. Is that the reason for this rage?

deeper I go , how less did I know, when tears flow down my cheek. Is that the reason for these? The rage the fall of stage of the mighty and the great their heads are the same. Sometimes I ask if the world is sane but when I realise my position I know that it is I who is “in-sane”.

a walk on the sea, the reliefs I yearn to see , why am I on this ship. It goes deeper , it sinks hesitantly but very fast. I knew it would so I had my boat which I rolled to the shores.

A nyameye sky poem.