The Cursed Old Man

It was eighty four days without fish
The old man had always made a wish
to catch even a catfish and make a dish
But the sea had cursed him
and the apparent wind made swish
The sun died in his boat that night
and he murmured a song to his delight
He had returned from another empty day
Sat on his skiff and ate sardines of yesterday

The old man was gaunt with wrinkles in his neck
The scars on his hand were fresh yet old to check
Everything about him was old except his hopeful heart
He liked American football and he followed the chart
Santiago,the boy, said while they climbed the bank of the sea
Maybe I should get some sardines and a hot cup of tea
As they sat on the terrace,they discussed the boy's departure
I know you did not leave because you doubted
Am a boy and got to obey when Dad flaunted
You are with a lucky boat now and make a catch daily
Make some money and come every evening to drink gaily

Eighty five was a lucky number and this must be the day
"Today I await my destiny" and the old man pray-ed
The boy bid him good bye and wished him well
He sailed deep into the ocean and whistled along
And soon he was all alone with old eyes to watch
He followed the ineffectual movement of fish birds
The school had left him and they were moving farther
Maybe I must cast somewhere here
Maybe somewhere my big fish is here
If others heard me talking aloud,they may think crazy
But since no one is near and I am not crazy,I don't care
The old man cast his net and sailed steadily around the region
Two sea birds had settled on his skiff and waggled their tails
They sung of summer and sweet soaked smiles and the struggle
The Old man was old enough to appreciate and thanked the birds
He thought of sleeping but that would be dangerous,he said

It was dark and the old man still sailed
It had become true that he wasn't going without a fish
He felt his rope becoming heavy and he smiled
The old man wept, he wept of many days without a fish
He became wide awake and hoped for glory at last
The fish was big,he thought....this fish can buy the shore
I hope no one has been worried,the boy am sure will have confidence
The fish is a calm one or he just aware of who has caught him
Now the boy's father won't insult him as well as the younger fishermen
This fish won't kill me,I fight till I die,he thought
He leaned against his stern and he knew he was not dead
He spat into the ocean and said, eat that big fish
The wind was blowing harder and the pungent smell of flesh
Let this wind blow us to the shore quietly,be gentle as you have been
For I have no strength in these bones to carry you,the old man said aloud
As the old approached the shore,he was close to death
He ahoy,but there was no man to meet him, not even the boy
Have they gone looking for me or they are drinking a beer,he wondered
The old man reached where he could see the fish and pulled it up
Alas,the boy lied in the net, he had fished the boy's corpse
For eighty five days without fish but dead body of dear boy
The Old man stopped fishing and wept the rest of his life
Such is the destiny of a cursed old man

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The Exonerative People of Ghana

With markings to adorn
Everything there seem awesome
The people and the dresses
They do it in colours you will envy
Bridges, channels and culverts
My brother you will covet
Go further, down the street
There he lies, one Ghanaian
Flesh and blood oozing
Lifeless and wailings
You see why I said, SA is beautiful
Very beautiful, we won't complain
Neither will we cry, we will wait
We will patiently wait for our corpses
If we decide to fight back, we will fail Nkrumah
Theta Madiba can continue his long walk to freedom
For now, no freedom ,he can continue in grave
We will wait for that faithful day
We will together sing that freedom song
Beautiful tarred roads
Nkosi sikelel' Afrika
Maluphakanyisw' uphondo lwayo,
Yizwa imithandazo yethu,
Nkosi sikelela, thina lusapho lwayo.

We shall forgive, why not , we are Ghanaians
The birth of today is the death of yesterday
We do not have memories, we don't remember a thing
We shall dine and wine together, why not, we are Ghanaians
Is not one of us who was murdered, its wassa or Fante
Ewe or Ashanti, not a Ghanaian
Over my dead body, if it were a Ghanaian
Like what we will do to South Africans,
we will forgive them right?

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Naked Tides

Have you ever seen the sea undress
Throwing its waist about to impress
Coming closer in tides to you seduce
While you scream more for the juice
The tides
The sea
You
Me
Are we mysteries to keep
or ancient science so deep?

We looked into the eyes of the erotic tides
The current at which it curves with no shame rides
The aphrodisiac groan its waves whisper in our ears
And I become jealous of those stones which over years
Stood to these tides without ejaculation or a blink
Thrust deep amorous sea,make us want more with a clink

We are flesh and blood
Lick us if you like with a flood
Touch her G-spot; she wont break
Smooth and gentle make us slake
Caress us; feel the warmth of our breast
Don't stop; not even to rest
Feel the weight of your body against ours
Now suspire and resume labour for hours
Your heaving breath upon our skin.
The most gentle touch on our thigh,
The soft nibbling on my breasts -
Moving slowly in a downward motion.
Now you see,there's no mystery here.
Its just a love affair among
The Sea
Its tides
You and
Me.

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Man Is a Builder and Artist.

He who finds the desire in either drawing, writing or building, has found the purpose of his existence and his soul will forever be at peace with nature.

Man has been always considered a builder and artist, and nowhere has he shown himself more significantly than the building he has erected or the words he has written or the gallery he has painted. When we stand before them - whether it be a mud house, a mansion, a pyramid, a pantheon, a poem, a short story, a painting or a picture - we seem to read into their soul.
The builder or artist may have long gone, perhaps ages before, but here he has left something of himself, his hopes, his fears, his ideas, his dreams, his tears, his joy, his life and his death. Even in the remote recesses of the Andes, amidst the riot of nature, and where man is now a mere savage, we come upon the remains of vast, vanished civilizations, where art and science and religion reached unknown heights.

Wherever humanity has lived, and wrought, we find the crumbling ruins of towers, temples, tombs, and scrolls of vellum or parchment, and monuments of its industry and its aspiration. Also, whatever else man may have been -cruel, tyrannical, vindictive-his building or words always have reference to religion.
They bespeak a vivid sense of the unseen and his awareness of his relations to it. Of a truth, the story of the Tower of Babel is more than a myth. Man has ever been trying to build to heaven, and the story of the codex gigas, is proven beyond all possible incertitude, to be true, that man has ever written the biggest book, embodying his prayer and his dreams in brick and stone and the ink.

For there are two set of realities-material and spiritual-but they are so interwoven that all practical laws are exponents of moral law. These laws are found to be sacrifices, truth, Power, beauty, life, memory and , as the crowning grace of all that principle to which polity owes its stability, life its happiness, faith its acceptance, and creation its continuance-obedience. These laws are as applicable to the building of a character as to the construction of a cathedral, they are as relevant to humanity as the writing of our heart.

Therefore, my brother it is important that we build a superstructure perfect in all parts to the builder, the laws of nature and to the Great Architect of the Universe(God).
We are afraid of losing what we have, whether its our life or possession and property, But this fear evaporates when we understand that our life story and history of the world was written by the same hand.

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BITE A CAKE, TAKE A BEER BUT DON'T REST.

There comes a moment in every craftman's life,when you get carewore about the trade you have artistically built over years or months.

That period when you wish you could put the pencil down at last and suspire. It is the minute of your doom and you literally or metaphorically implode.

It is easier saying you are tired and need some rest,and it is another story making your respite become your day of reckoning. Every artist has something unique inside him that seems to conflagrate his muse or passion,it is only that some times,the hour produces some sort of otiosity.
However,I give it to you all in strong terms of recommendation,to bite a cake,take a beer if you do drink and move on,for the temple was not built half way. Until you throw the canopy or network over the pillars,you just cannot rest.

The times will be hard,in fact no one promised us a smooth run,hurdles are placed in our paths,to make the journey interesting and a memorable one, that when we are eventually labeled masters of the craft,it must be that we served the world in good faith,it must be that we ran a good race,it must be that we helped shape society.

Financial constraints,health breakdown and employment conundrum cannot impede on our order,for every man to himself a temple build,and at the end he shall be judged by the exquisite design and workmanship on the pillars he erected,our words and actions make the world dance in style.
This I say to awaken the spirits of all the tired artists ,of which,I am one big victim.Forward to all haggard artist to resuscitate their interest.

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