THE JOURNEY TO GHANA MOUNTAIN(48 LINE OF POEM)

On a bacon-crisp June Afternoon,

My uncle and I climbed steep Ghana Road

With a rucksack-loaded lollop. Dawning,

Behind trees’ skeletal silhouettes, glowed

The glaring-blue western rim of the sky;

Home fronts, concealing their dwellers who snored

Within, rang with birds’ shrill, musical cry.

Along the barracks, our icy breath poured

Fifth in spiky gouts of mist; so lonely,

Yet so close, as we trod the barren straight

Of Butt Road. We waited at the stop, slowly

Numbed with warm, before the rich man arrived, late.

Northbound it took us, leaving the slumber

Of my house to join the black, racing

Stretch of the B6. Hurrying under

The paling heavens striped with the lacing

Vapour trails of airplanes, we passed

Fields and farms, and big settlements which clung

To the roadside. All went by as in fast-

Forward mode: burst of images among

Which the vast landscapes shifted each first,

 Dropping back like discarded memories.

Towards morning, near Reading sunny clouds beckoned,

Whilst one old man muttered obscenities.

From the lashing sun we emerged, and crossed

An iron bridge over golden mud flats

Glistening with sunshine. Onwards, through lost

Valley dressed in firs like red, bristling mats;

They vanished, as hilly Accra countryside

Gave way to dry fields and meadows, fed

By serpentine rivers, swollen and wide.

We soon joined the city’s packed streets; ahead,

Lay our destination: Garden Park.

Inside the ground, flags whipped and cracked with each

Wind-breath; as for the match, we were, as bright

Closed in, viewers of a dismal defeat.

Heading front, front to where we had begun,

With the night pressing in on the window,

Deep and oppressive. Slope, once soaked in rain,

Drifted , barely visible in the glow

Of foggy headlights; like the maze of the peaks

And summits in mind, when trying to

Recall remnants of the future, which now leak-

Drop, by drop, by drop. As if through

Misted lawn grass, I barely see those three

Figures on that dry, lost June day:

Running, in the bright dawning hours, into

The distance, faster fading… running away.

TEXTING DURING MASS CHURCH(48 LINES OF POEM)

His fingers skim the keys before the mass begins;

the tone is on in deference to God,

through those next up the pews still hear

the clicking that he doesn’t try to hide.

It’s Easter-warm the radiator’s broken down-

the church looks like a thermal diagram,

sharp blue across the faces in the nave, a molten black

in the three corners where the patio heaters hum

like arsonists’ umbrellas. Full way through

‘O Little Town of Jerusalem’ the choir trills

an irritating descant and he stumbles on the notes

without support; next time, he sings too fast.

 too loud and out of the key, as if no prove something,

reflecting as he does on how religion is the cufflink

of the world: ornate, sophisticated, unless,

and that no one noticed when he took it off.

The homely was shit. He came a beat behind

on the ‘Amen’s’; ‘Our Father never used

to end like that. He thinks about the last time

that she knelt like this; not in the house of God,

or even in a house; against a garden fence,

half-blind on wine, half past the point of caring

who he was or where he’d been, or if he thought

the water was the Body and the wine

really the Blood or just a metaphor; and he wondered

if Cava could be the Blood, if you could buy and bless

the Blood in Tesco Metro, if the vicar got to take

the water home, to chew a few himself if he got puckish,

had no Pringles and the village shop was closed.

And he wondered why those girls threw

Sharpened stones over his fence, when the water, be it

Body or no Body, soggied down to tasteless water anyhow.

 HEAT

It start off straight.

You are well-mannered, a flesh of a boy,

Cool in red bricked streets baked between lines

Marking us in and out.

In a choked café with tiled walls and the curtains closed you to tell me

I like shapes of your legs in the dirt

And running circles round you

And your good honest heartbeat and that’s enough for me.

In black and breathless nights

I take your wrist, and I kiss , and the stars

Are just pedestrians and the frantic sun

A bystander in the grand scheme of the things that is us.

We blaze on through the dust

And burn in every bright afternoon.

When the storm breaks the land learns to drink

And for blurred June weeks we’re sewn in by the rain.

When it’s all hung out to dry

Words drip from my lips, unsaid , I ‘m drowning,

And glass sunken in old windows makes the world

Seem a little stranger.

All autumn steam rises:

Washed out by the downpour, I let you go.

But there’s a pale reminder cross-legged on your lawn,

Your flickering morning memory, like light on scales,

Of gasping for air, of skin on sheets.

QUICKENING(48 LINES OF POEM)

There had been too many nights between warm wall for us,

Too much. The desiccated hollows of the house

Had lain like the sockets of dead join for the long enough,

Had held us, stuck like coins between old floorboards

As the cold was lying softly in the lees of leaf stacks,

And the sky was a scum skinning over the waters

Of gutters and drains.

And there came the day when the sycamore seedlings

Pushed their red root from the working of their wings

Into the rubble, and sniped

For the forest returning to Ghana, lay

Like a swarm on the blank ground

When the sky was Ghana glass above

The trees whose leaves hung rotting.

So we had to move, to break

The crust on the eyes of things, sick

Of watching the blue mornings stare

Through windows mapped in rain

Held desperately in frames, and swollen shut-

We forced them. Tugged and barged

And came out gasping as the panes began

To shift and snap.

Broke outwards. Burst . I like drowners

Cheating the sea, and choking, spitting

Gobbets of moth scales and mould

Gone ashy with age, over the hacked-down

Gardens whose wounds where newly seeping.

We woke the birds which bled among the hingers,

Tricked out over the bronze,

Carmine and diamond, and left

The traces of their bitter, insect fear,

Yolk-yellow patches on the frost-peeled paint.

We breathed their bitterness, and felt it as we lay

Among them on the windowsills

And hung there,

Hurting.

MY HANDS HAD NEVER SKIMMED YOUR NECK

My hands had never skimmed your neck.

I hadn’t felt the skin

Of your lips. I did not know if you and dimples

But I had seen your eyes

and although I had not seen if often

I knew your tongue.

When you asked me. I hesitated.

I said yes.

You closed your eyes and spent hours

In the chair, I had not used razors before

and did not know that with one wrong stroke

I cloud cut you open. Forgive me,

I wanted my mouth to be

the first to scar that line.

There are too many storms in your body.

Your hands are pale lightning

Bolts; they strike my hair

and dash from me

to the street lamp, Accra’s belt,

the highest part of my house.

If I could catch your cough

in my hands, I would keep it

trapped in the cage of my fingers

and let you breathe.

Rain causes nothing to change

inside your nostril. I hear the thunder

as you whoop and clap in the dark.

After the Dog Days(60 LINES OF POEM)

The Dog Days are the last hot days of summer which precede the autumnal mists and mellow
fruitfulness.

I’ve been walking the dogs through the damps and the fogs and I love you,
I love you I cry to the sky and the shuttering sun.
I’ve been spending my days counting all of the ways that I love you,
And the sum of the ways that I counted amounted to one.
It’s the way that’s the best and it covers the rest and I love you,
I love you forever since weather began to unwind,
Since the sauropod plod through the memory of God, still I love you
Till the last lazy star fizzles out and the cosmos is blind.

You’re a child of the light, you’re a ghost in the night and I love you,
I love you: I whisper it low to the loitering leaves.
You’re as flash as the flight of a meteorite and I love you,
You’re the cream of the milk, you’re as subtle and silky as Jeeves.
You’re as pale as a bone and as true as alone and I love you,
I love you: I sing to the crystalline ring round the moon.
You’re as black as the tone of the membranophone and I love you.
You’re as luscious as honeydew sucked from a runcible spoon.

You’re as soft as the rose, you’re as solemn as prose and I love you,
I love you I shout it aloud to the teetering trees.
It’s the way your hair grows, it’s the splay of your toes, yes I love you.
You’re as sweet as the scents of September borne up on the breeze.
As the North loves a magnet or cops love a dragnet, I love you
In the darks of my heart, in the swells of the wandering wave.
As the Lady loves iron or Baptists love Zion, I love you.
You’re as pure as poitin of Knockeen, and as sure as the grave.

You’re so fresh, you’re so funny, so bang on the money, I love you,

As a packet of vinegar crisps loves a lager and lime.
You’re so slick, you’re so smart, so exclusive as art, and I love you.
As an old fashioned poet loves patterns of metre and rhyme.
As an old fashioned poet I love you, you know it, I love you,
Though I’m crumpled and creased and obese and as ugly as sin.
I’m a popper of pills and I’m late with my bills and I love you,
And a world with you in it’s a wonderful world to be in.

THE JOURNEY TO GHANA MOUNTAIN(60lines of poem)

On a bacon-crisp June Afternoon,

My uncle and I climbed steep Ghana Road

With a rucksack-loaded lollop. Dawning,

Behind trees’ skeletal silhouettes, glowed

The glaring-blue western rim of the sky;

Home fronts, concealing their dwellers who snored

Within, rang with birds’ shrill, musical cry.

Along the barracks, our icy breath poured

Fifth in spiky gouts of mist; so lonely,

Yet so close, as we trod the barren straight

Of Butt Road . We waited at the stop, slowly

Numbed with warm, before the rich man arrived, late.

Northbound it took us, leaving the slumber

Of my house to join the black, racing

Stretch of the B6.Hurrying under

The paling heavens striped with the lacing

Vapour trails of airplanes, we passed

Fields and farms, and big settlements which clung

To the roadside. All went by as in fast-

Forward mode: bursts of images among

Which the vast landscapes shifted each first,

Dropping back like discarded memories.

Towards morning, near Reading sunny clouds beckoned,

Whilst one old man muttered obscenities.

From the lashing sun we emerged, and crossed

An iron bridge over golden mud flats

Glistening with sunshine. Onwards, through lost

Valley dressed in firs like red , bristling mats;

They vanished, as hilly Accra countryside

Gave way to dry fields and meadows, fed

By serpentine rivers , swollen and wide.

We soon joined the city’s packed streets; ahead,

Lay our destination: Garden Park .

Inside the ground, flags whipped and cracked with each

Wind-breath; as for the match, we were, as bright

Closed in, viewers of a dismal defeat.

Heading front, front to where we had begun,

With the night pressing in on the window,

Deep and oppressive. Slope, once soaked in rain,

Drifted, barely visible in the glow

Of foggy headlights; like the maze of the peaks

And summits in mind, when trying to

Recall remnants of the future, which now leak-

Drop , by drop, by drop . As if through

Misted lawn grass, I barely see those three

Figures on that dry, lost June day:

Running , in the bright dawning hours, into

The distance , faster fading… running away.

TEXTING DURING MASS CHURCH(60 lines of poem)

His fingers skim the keys before the mass begins;

the tone is on in deference to God,

through those next up the pews still hear

the clicking that he doesn’t try to hide.

It’s Easter-warm-the radiator’s broken down-

the church looks like a thermal diagram,

sharp blue across the faces in the nave, a molten black

in the three corners where the patio heaters hum

like arsonists’ umbrellas. Full way through

‘O Little Town of Jerusalem’, the choir trills

an irritating descant and he stumbles on the notes

without support; next time, he sings too fast.

too loud and out of the key, as if to prove something,

reflecting as he does on how religion is the cufflink

of the world: ornate , sophisticated, useless,

and that no one noticed when he took it off.

 The homely was shit. He came a beat behind

on the ‘Amen’s’; ‘Our Father’ never used

to end like that. He thinks about the last time

that she knelt like this; not in the house of God,

or even in a house; against a garden fence,

half-blind on wine, half past the point of caring

who he was or where he’d been, or if he thought

the wafer was the Body and the wine

really the Blood or just a metaphor; and he wondered

if Cava could be the Blood , if you could buy and bless

the Blood in Tesco Metro, if the vicar got to take

the wafer home, to chew a few himself if he got puckish,

had no Pringles and the village shop was closed.

And he wondered why those girls threw

Sharpened stones over his fence, when the wafer, be it

Body or no Body, soggied down to tasteless water anyhow.

 QUICKENING(60 lines of poem)

There had been too many nights between warm wall for us,

Too much. The desiccated hollows of the house

Had lain like the sockets of dead join for long enough,

Had held us, stuck like coins between old floorboards

As the cold was lying softly in the lees of leaf stacks,

And the sky was a scum skinning over the waters

Of gutters and drains.

And there came the day when the sycamore seedlings

Pushed their red root from the workings of their wings

Into the rubble, and sniped

For the forest returning to Ghana , lay

Like a swarm on the blank ground

When the sky was Ghana glass above

The trees whose leaves hung rotting.

So we had to move, to break

The crust on the eyes of things, sick

Of watching the blue mornings stare

Through windows mapped in rain

Held desperately in frames, and swollen shut-

We forced them. Tugged and barged

And came out gasping as the panes began

To shift and snap.

Broke outwards. Burst . I like drowners

Cheating the sea, and choking, spitting

Gobbets of moth scales and mould

Gone ashy with age, over the hacked-down

Gardens whose wounds were newly seeping.

We woke the birds which bled among the hinges,

Tricked out over the bronze,

Carmine and diamond, and left

The traces of their bitter, insect fear,

Yolk-yellow patches on the frost-peeled paint.

We breathed their bitterness, and felt it as we lay

 Among them on the windowsills

And hung there,

Hurting.

Standing At The Door

This poem is about having to be the bearer of bad news to a military family. I was inspired to
write this because of the friends and family that I have lost to the defense of this great country. I
tried to write this from the bearers' standpoint because I wanted everyone to see that they share in
the sadness of a compatriot.

Standing At The Door

Standing at the door,

dog tags in hand.
About to tell
a loved one about
their loss.

Thinking of how
it could have been me.
Wondering how they
will react.

Reaching up
with heavy hand,
I knock on the door.

Waiting nervously,
I prepare myself
for what's to come.

Wishing anxiously
someone else had come.
Wanting desperately
not to have to
deliver such news.

He gave his life

for this country
that he loved.
Dying so suddenly
without warning.
He never got to say
"Goodbye, my love."

Sadly thinking
how to treat
the wounds
I'm sure to inflict.

Praying for peace

and getting only
a saddened heart.

The only tribute

I can give
is this poem.

His memory
will never fade
from my mind.

His lust
for life
never replaced.

His joy
in his family
and his friends,
never forgotten.

He will
live on
'till the end of time.

He is
one of us,
the unforgotten vet.

Hope
This poem is about an experience of a person who has been through hell.

I'm a member of a 12-Step Program, and I still remember being in the depths of despair, when I
had lost all love and all faith. But, there was just a glimmer of hope, and this led to a new life, a
fuller live, a more joyful life. I want to share this experience with others, and urge them never to
give up hope.

Hope
When all about you is black with gloom,
And all you feel is pending doom.
When your bones are racked with grim despair -
When every breath is a gasp for air.
Keep on going, though you need to grope,
For around the bend is a ray of hope.

A ray of hope is perhaps all that's left,

As your will to live has been bereft.
You've lost it all, it's just no use!
You can end it all, you need no excuse.
But throw away that piece of rope,
And give yourself a chance of hope.

Just give yourself another day,

Brushing aside what your thoughts may say.
This is your life and you can make a new start,
By ignoring the brain - just follow the heart.
Taking baby steps in order to cope,
And minute by minute you'll build on your hope.

Build on your hope,. one day at a time,

Though the road be steep and hard to climb.
The hurts of the past - they should be dead.
The fears of the future are all in your head.
Just live in the present and refuse to mope
Your life will sparkle for you're living in hope.

Biscuits Of Love
My Grandma has 8 children, 20 grandchildren, and about 12 great grandchildren, and yet she
always makes time for each and ever one of us.

Dedicated to my wonderful grandma, I love you and will always remember those hot buttered
yeast biscuits everyone likes so well.

Biscuits Of Love
Memories of my youth.
Flood over my soul.
When I think of Grandma.
They make me feel whole.
Gathering at her house.
With all the family there.
We made lots of memories.
For all of us to share.

Lessons that she taught me.

Guide me thru the day.
If I listened closely.
I cannot go astray.
Love and commitment.
She drilled into me.
Making the person that I am.
Just who I want to be.

Grandma has many names.

Each one has their chosen.
But the names I want her called
Starts with love,
For she is warm and not frozen.

Different
I wrote this poem for my wife, Michelle C. Ang-og Asare, because she was upset about being
"different." Also for everyone else who have been left out due to their "differences."

Different
How are we so "different"?
If "different" is just a thing.
If we all have certain features,
What does "different" bring?

People filled with hatred,

Can't possibly see,
That there's not really "differences"
Between you and me.
Looks can't show "difference",
If they're just there to be seen.
If you don't look like someone else,
Why are they so mean?

If being "different" is what is wrong,

I'd rather not be right.
And I'd want to finish living,
Doing the "different" fight.
Fifteen Crosses

Deeply saddened by the events that took place June 4,2000. I was inspired to write this poem
after seeing a picture of the memorial that was erected on the hill near the Methodist High
School, to which followed a spiritual dream. Fifteen Crosses stand on the hill one for each of the
lives lost.

Fifteen Crosses

I had a dream I was kneeling, at fifteen crosses on the hill

Not a whisper from the trees, everything was still,
I felt a sadness in my heart, an empty kind of pain,
Fifteen souls had gone away, only memories remained.
I tried to cry out to ease my grief,
Lifted my hands to heaven, prayed God's relief.
Not a sound or a word, emptiness abounds,
My sorrow overcoming, I began to drown.
Such bitter suffocation, I wish someone could hear,
Why we let this happen , in my dream nothing was clear.
I shook my fist to heaven and begged for reasons why,
But only silence spoke, offering no reply.
No sound came from my lips even as I screamed,
I prayed it's just a nightmare, an awful kind of dream.
Then I heard a choir of angels beckoning from above.
"The world is reaping hatred,"
"Because the world's not sowing love."
"You should embrace each other's differences no matter what they may be,"
"And enlighten each other with the hope of peace and unity."
When the angel finished speaking, she ended with a sigh,
Gazing down at fifteen crosses of fifteen souls who said goodbye.
Then the heavens opened up, the angels giving way,
up to the gates of heaven, Amazing grace began to play.
And as they left this Earthly realm the angels were downhearted looking
back at fifteen crosses of the recently departed.
A soft rain began falling, but no cloud was in the sky,
Then Jesus whispered to me, "This is how the angels cry."

Just Being Me
This poem is describing who I am in this world of ours. I feel I have the right to say what is on
my mind. What I am and how I feel is simply my choice, others may not come to agree with me
but really I hold my head up high and am proud to be myself. And so should you!

Just Being Me
The life I seek must be fast
The speed of life makes me laugh!
Death's just around the corner for
a Queer like me!
Well so they say all of them Freaks.
Homophobia I really do detest
What I am is what I do best!
Like if you want, Answer! This ain't no test
If you like me, "Great," then we're friends
If you hate me don't make me get upset!
I'm just a Dike whom nobody Straight likes
Well forget you all, cause we love each other
my Baby and I!
You don't have to shake my hand,
I'm not asking you to stare.
If you don't like what you see,
then get the Hell out of here!
I am what I am, So please understand
Even if you don't "Who really gives a damn?"

The Road Less Traveled

How often do we ask the question "Where do I go from here?" If life is a series of challenges and
lessons, then only by reflecting on our past triumphs and mistakes, can we wisely choose the
next path that we will ultimately embrace.

The Road Less Traveled

How often we must bear the challenges of life;
The endless roller coaster between happiness and sorrow;
The constant ups and downs of daily strife.
And always the question remains .... why?

Life is not an easy road for most;

It twists and turns with many forks in the road,
Although always, and inevitably, we are given a choice ...

Do we turn to the right ... or the left?

Do we take the high road ... or the low road?
Do we take the easy path ... or the difficult one?

Decisions are not easy for those struggling for direction ...
And sometimes the many choices and signs become overwhelming.

While standing at a crossroads in life,

The urge is to take the most comfortable path;
The road with least resistance ...
The shortest or most traveled route.

And yet, if we've been down that comfortable road before;

Have gleaned its lessons in life, and learned from our experiences;

Do we yet again follow the known?

Or does our destiny lie in another direction?

The fear of the road less traveled is tangible and all too real;
It manifests itself in many ways,
And tends to cloud the issues that might otherwise be clear.

It is in these times of confusion,

That we must seek peace and solitude;

Time to contemplate on our life,

Our experiences and our choices past;
Time to look back, and reflect on what we have learned
Without fear or confusion.

For only each of us knows our own personal thoughts;

Our unique past and personal history;
The experiences that brought us to the crossroads we now face.

We can always learn a small degree from others experiences,

And yet ... no one person can walk in our shoes,
Others know not, the trials and tribulations faced in private ...

For each is individual ... unique ... and personal.

And that is why ... while standing at a crossroads,

Only "we" can formulate the decision for ourselves;
The true direction that lies within;
The choices we must deliberate on with clarity and wisdom.

For it is only through personal reflection,

That we can now choose our destiny;
... Our next adventure;
... And the future we will embrace.

A Great-Grandpa To Me
This was a dedication to my Grandfather who passed away several years before he could see his
first grandchild born. Each year since he's been gone, our family has written a poem on the
anniversary of his death to remind him that we love him.

A Great-Grandpa To Me

How often we must bear the challenges of life;

The endless roller coaster between happiness and sorrow;
The constant ups and downs of daily strife.
And always the question remains .... why?

Life is not an easy road for most;

It twists and turns with many forks in the road,
Although always, and inevitably, we are given a choice ...

Do we turn to the right ... or the left?

Do we take the high road ... or the low road?
Do we take the easy path ... or the difficult one?

Decisions are not easy for those struggling for direction ...
And sometimes the many choices and signs become overwhelming.

While standing at a crossroads in life,

The urge is to take the most comfortable path;
The road with least resistance ...
The shortest or most traveled route.

And yet, if we've been down that comfortable road before;

Have gleaned its lessons in life, and learned from our experiences;

Do we yet again follow the known?

Or does our destiny lie in another direction?

The fear of the road less traveled is tangible and all too real;
It manifests itself in many ways,
And tends to cloud the issues that might otherwise be clear.

It is in these times of confusion,

That we must seek peace and solitude;

Time to contemplate on our life,

Our experiences and our choices past;
Time to look back, and reflect on what we have learned
Without fear or confusion.

For only each of us knows our own personal thoughts;

Our unique past and personal history;
The experiences that brought us to the crossroads we now face.

We can always learn a small degree from others experiences,

And yet ... no one person can walk in our shoes,
Others know not, the trials and tribulations faced in private ...

For each is individual ... unique ... and personal.

And that is why ... while standing at a crossroads,

Only "we" can formulate the decision for ourselves;
The true direction that lies within;
The choices we must deliberate on with clarity and wisdom.

For it is only through personal reflection,

That we can now choose our destiny;
... Our next adventure;
... And the future we will embrace.

Standing Alone
Knowing yourself is very important. When I first wrote this poem I surprised myself with my
own thoughts. I wasn't hiding what I felt anymore. Everybody is special whether or not they
believe it. This is for everyone that doesn't believe they are beautiful.

Standing Alone
How often we must bear the challenges of life;
The endless roller coaster between happiness and sorrow;
The constant ups and downs of daily strife.
And always the question remains .... why?

Life is not an easy road for most;

It twists and turns with many forks in the road,
Although always, and inevitably, we are given a choice ...

Do we turn to the right ... or the left?

Do we take the high road ... or the low road?
Do we take the easy path ... or the difficult one?

Decisions are not easy for those struggling for direction ...
And sometimes the many choices and signs become overwhelming.

While standing at a crossroads in life,

The urge is to take the most comfortable path;
The road with least resistance ...
The shortest or most traveled route.

And yet, if we've been down that comfortable road before;

Have gleaned its lessons in life, and learned from our experiences;

Do we yet again follow the known?

Or does our destiny lie in another direction?

The fear of the road less traveled is tangible and all too real;
It manifests itself in many ways,
And tends to cloud the issues that might otherwise be clear.

It is in these times of confusion,

That we must seek peace and solitude;

Time to contemplate on our life,

Our experiences and our choices past;
Time to look back, and reflect on what we have learned
Without fear or confusion.

For only each of us knows our own personal thoughts;

Our unique past and personal history;
The experiences that brought us to the crossroads we now face.

We can always learn a small degree from others experiences,

And yet ... no one person can walk in our shoes,
Others know not, the trials and tribulations faced in private ...

For each is individual ... unique ... and personal.

And that is why ... while standing at a crossroads,

Only "we" can formulate the decision for ourselves;
The true direction that lies within;
The choices we must deliberate on with clarity and wisdom.

For it is only through personal reflection,

That we can now choose our destiny;
... Our next adventure;
... And the future we will embrace.

Door To Decision
Door to Decision is a poem that questions our attitude toward the world in which we live. Will
we continue to have the same devastating effect as our predecessors or make a decision to
change.
Door To Decision
We come from a turbulent past
To an info-age moving way to fast
The fate of these lands
Is now placed in our hands

Will we bring destruction to an end

Will we have the power to mend
Save this fragile dreamland
Wash away our footprints in the sand

Global warming is causing weather changes right before our eyes

But we still blacken our skies
Sunrays take less time to burn our faces
But we still destroy our rain forests and just leave empty spaces

The men spill out of the factories everywhere

Punching their time clocks basically unaware
Don’t realize what's happening to the big picture
The massive devastation of the atmospheric mixture

Every day go through their daily motions

Waiting it out for measly promotions
Distant stares and silent prayers
Monday to Friday . . . say goodbye

Our oceans are slicked with oil spills

Our waterways full of toxic waste that kills
We build our cities on mountains of pollution
Without an environmental solution

We live our lives in search of wealth

In the process damage our good health
Crime stories are found on every newspaper page
People loosing control in an uncertain age

The victims of greed are getting younger

In a world that still allows their hunger
Our petty problems make us hang down our heads
While million's go unfed

Desire unfolds the light of our day

But we cannot give in to the subtle decay
We must rise above the haze descending
Toward mass action mending
We must take control of our actions today
or the children of tomorrow will be the one's to pay
The new innkeepers shall soon take charge
of the next generations voyage at large

Trends are patterned and patterns trended

But man's damage must be ended!

Walking Alone
In 1982, the wonderful and nearly mythic Samuel Ansah Asare opened a poem describing his
feelings of uniqueness and aloneness. He knew, early on in life, that he was different from
others, created and shaped in a different mold. History, of course, proved he was right.

Over a century and half later, Michelle Ang-og Asare my wife read those words. He recognized
a Golden Truth in Samuel’s poem, 'Alone,' and it lit a deep-felt sense of comradeship ironically
based on shared aloneness. It also provoked a response, the elegantly simple, sweetly flowing
words you are about to read.

Samuel and Michelle Ang-og Asare are gifted writers. Using words and rhythms, and uniquely
universal imagery, they are able to conveny both meaning and feeling. In this, perhaps, they are
unusual. Even alone. But the Truth they share with their talents is far less unique. Samuel was
different, and history remembers him for his differences. Maybe, a hundred and fifty from now,
My Wife Michelle Ang-og Asare will be similarly remembered. But each of us, even if
unremembered by history, is nonetheless equally unique. Each of us is born and shaped in a
'world not the same,' and each of us is unable and maybe unwilling to bring our passions 'from a
common spring.'

Each of us, in the end, is Alone.

Walking Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were- I have not seen
As others saw- I could not bring
My passions from a common spring-
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow- I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone-
And all I loved- I loved alone-

Then- in my childhood- in the dawn

Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still-
From the torrent, or the fountain-
From the red cliff of the mountain-
From the sun that 'round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold-
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by-
From the thunder, and the storm-
And the cloud that took the form
(When all the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Children Are A Gift From God

As I look at my children while they sleep, I know in my heart they are only here because God let
me borrow them until he decides to bring them back home to him. All children are gifts from
God, they should be cherished as just that...

Children Are A Gift From God

God sent me three packages
That needed special care
"Take care of these tiny gifts
For they are very rare."

"Watch over them with all your love

And let them feel your touch
Take care of their every need
For you are needed very much."

"These gifts will grow up very fast

As you soon will see
Love them with all your heart
And let them be what they will be."

"When these gifts have fully grown

Look at Heaven up above
Know they exist because of God
And all his precious love."
Life's Choices
This poem is what I have learned through many years of not having friends and believing it was
due to the way I looked. I have learned that looks are not everything in life.

Life's Choices

Life is full of choices

Make sure you pick the right one
Don't listen to the voices
Hear only yours and you have won

Many people will tell you

You need to change your looks
Don't take to heart their view
Fabulous bods are found only in books

There is only one voice

That you should listen to
It will help make the right choice
That is perfect just for you

Your looks are your own

Someone will always love you
You will never be alone
Look in the mirror and you'll see who.

Into Every Life

This is the story of a woman bereft of love. She believes that she is no longer able to live the life
of her dreams. Past hurt guards her heart, and she struggles to find the answer in the rain of her
life.

As she mulls through it, she comes to realize that she must take the chance in order to find
happiness.

Into Every Life

She looks into air, herself falling rain

Dripping coldness past, memories old pain.
Drops fall, the puddling her damp water-life.
Spiraling a mirror, self-lonely strife.

A sigh, one frown, crying soft saddened tears.

Storms of remember - through bleak yesteryear.

Clouds a-whorl, dark sky sheltering fair heart.

But how can she joy, while taking no part?

Covering cold soul, corona of defense.

Defying the stab of her fate's intents.

This is madness, she thinks in plaintive cry.

I'm here, on the cusp, of lay down and die.

What my destiny, but an empty-off dream?

A plaything with which gods and angels scheme.

Am I doomed then to live, time never-free?

Subsumed wholly 'Neath life's scattered debris?

Is justice, outside this torrential doubt?

Perhaps more than sorrow, painful fall-out?

Is love, perhaps, just a sliver of sun?

Shining through mists, revealing Avalon?

Personal paradise, which I can own,

Evoking happiness, hither unknown?

She raises from streets of lonely no more.

Light slicing through darkness, hopes washed ashore.

Her withered gait now straightening with pride.

She glides like an angel 'cross future's tide.

Belief in life renewed, no, only found.

Footsteps echoing, a cadence of sound.

Caressing the ground, sing the beat of her heart.

Into the sun seeking love's brand new start.

Respect
Some women of African Decent get so tired of all the trouble they go through with men, work,
church, organization etc. I dedicated this poem to those who experience my pain.

What am I to say
From a colored woman's prospective today
With my Brown skin
Dark eyes
Thrifty dreams
African American eyes

Feels like a hot breeze from Congo

Blowing my way
With echoes from the mountains
And whispers
Whispers
Manipulating my soul
To dance and sing
And listen to the drummers

Listen
Shhhhhhhhhhh

They are speaking to me

Can't you hear?

Sending a message out to us sister's

Us women of color
Us women of glory
And eternal everlasting

My ancestors look at us in discuss

With our chemical treated hair
Body exposed like we don't care

And my back pressed up against the wall

With my belly sticking out
And my tears that stained my cheek
And my intelligence turned weak

Us colored women today, yes us colored women today

What's next, they cut off the welfare checks

What's new, sister looking for something to do?
And who's to say, we still going to make more baby’s

Won't even give us a job

Cause we belong to that African tribe

Won't even love and respect our brother

Cause we all have the dark skin color

Don't color me black; don't call me a lady,

Don't offer me fine wine, or a ride in your Mercedes

Don't give me your heart, or your passionate love campaign

Don't give me some other sister, worry to gain

Just give me truth, something pure and clean

Just give me respect like an African queen.

The Mask

This poem I wrote came to me at a very difficult time in my life. And these feelings that come
across still exist in me. I think everyone questions whether or not they can show themselves, and
this is why I wrote this.

The Mask

A mask of plastic happiness often covers her sadness

Her beliefs hidden from most
Afraid of, but willing to face the unknown
Wondering where her place is in this life
She has come close to sharing herself
Never completely revealing anything to anyone
Feelings of invisible chains corner her
When she dreams, reality shatters before her very eyes
Accomplishments she strives for just at hands grasp
She feels lost sometimes, not yet finding her notch in this world
At times the glimmer in her calm eyes slowly disappears
But within her heart a silent flame burns her inside and out
She roams day by day, playing roles
Strength unknowingly resides in her
History repeats itself once again
The translucent veil she so proudly wears
Little by little answers will come, pushing it aside
One day there will be no more mask for her to wear
One day her beliefs will be known
One day she'll know her place in this life
One day she will share herself
ONE DAY this mask will be NO MORE
Just Hold Me
I'm an adopted child. My upbringing was good, full of money and everything I needed - except
real love. My adopted mother was very possessive and tried to make me into a person I wasn't -
she tried to make me like she is - and everything within me cried against it.

Well, good news is - I found my biological mother in June,1982 and we are so happy. We love
each other so much, also her husband and my two half sisters and my little half brother. We are
like a family that was never apart.

But it's hard for my mother to understand me, to see the pain I still have - so I wrote this to
explain to her how I felt and what she must do when she doesn't understand my feelings and my
moods!

Not many have ever known

and if I tell - who would believe?
There's nothing I can call my own
not even the things I have achieved.

It's always better that way

All that is aching inside
It's better for it to stay -
covered up with hurt's pride.

All in good time

I will open the gate
of this little heart of mine
in a moment of fate.

For a soul that's been torn and

a heart controlled by other
there's not much you can do
But to hold me in your arms -
my dearest Mother.

Within Me
Beauty isn't always what's on the outside. It's what's inside that counts.
Scarlet lips as red as a rose,
perfect hips in a seductive pose.
On the outside this is what I may be,
but what about looking at the heart within me.

Long black hair, surrounding my face,

baby blue eyes and full of grace.
This is what most men chase,
but my soul and feeling cannot be erased.

Long, untouched legs with a snug fitting skirt,

a short and sexy tube top shirt,
I take my looks with little pride,
for what I care about is what's inside.

They say that these looks are a sensation,

that I am one of God's best creations,
But all I really want is for you to see,
all the good that is within me.

Imprisoned By Guilt
I wrote this poem after hearing the tragic story of a local man who decided to drive while
drinking, only to end up taking the life of his wife in a horrific accident. After hearing this story I
couldn't help but wonder how the man felt. What his life must be like, knowing that his
ignorance was to blame for a life being cut short. How he must have felt, having to carry such a
heavy burden.

Imprisoned By Guilt

I can't seem to find the words

to say just how I feel
The pain is ever growing
since they put you on that hill

I stop by to say I miss you

almost every day
I pray that God above will soon
take this hurt away

I can still see you lying there

among that crumpled heap
I wish that I could close my eyes
and this memory delete

It haunts me every waking hour

and in every wink of sleep
Ever losing grip on sanity
no longer mine to keep

I would give most anything

if I could rewrite history
Cause in my heart I know that you
should be here instead of me

In my cell, my private Hell

locked inside my head
If I hadn't had too much to drink

then you would not be dead

The Miracle

This poem originated as a challenge from a friend to write a piece containing the phrase, "the
miracle continues".

There's only one "unexplained phenomenon" I have experienced in my life I would deem
miraculous. Witnessing my deceased father's gestures, attitudes and facial expression in my now
8 year old son I first found kind of spooky.

Now I see the gifts we all have to give in life is why life, itself, is deemed a miracle.

The Miracle
There is a majestic quality-
In everyone for all to see.
Some keep it hidden, some never realize-
The magnificence they hold in others' eyes.

Ah, yes, life itself is the gift.

Though the memory, itself, Time doth sift.
And some might think the reverence gone-
As those we love one by one pass on.

But the intricacies Fate doth weave-

In commemoration for all who grieve.
Are the blessings given to rebirth-
From souls no-longer of this earth.

At first notice I came undone,

My father staring at me through my son.
But, now, in joy I ascertain-
Through him, my father lives again.

I look to heavens' resounding grace-

Renewed appreciation of life and my place.
Knowing as each newborn child opens their eyes-
The miracle continues, no one really dies.

Columbine Crying
This poem is what I have learned through many years of not
having friends and believing it was due to the way I looked. I
have learned that looks are not everything in life.
Life is full of choices
Make sure you pick the right one
Don't listen to the voices
Hear only yours and you have won

Many people will tell you

You need to change your looks
Don't take to heart their view
Fabulous bods are found only in books

There is only one voice

That you should listen to
It will help make the right choice
That is perfect just for you

Your looks are your own

Someone will always love you
You will never be alone
Look in the mirror and you'll see who