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My Poetry Book

My Poetry Book

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Published by kofiansahasare

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Published by: kofiansahasare on Apr 11, 2010
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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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, slowlyNumbed 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 flatsGlistening with sunshine. Onwards, through lost Valley dressed in firs like red, bristling mats;They vanished, as hilly Accra countrysideGave 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 eachWind-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 peaksAnd 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 threeFigures on that dry, lost June day: Running, in the bright dawning hours, intoThe 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 trillsan irritating descant and he stumbles on the noteswithout support; next time, he sings too fast. 

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