I Am A Poet

I am a poet. I weave words from the finest tapestry of my deepest thoughts  
I paint words like pictures on the canvases of your imaginations with the brush strokes of literary devices

I attack parchments with quills like every ink stain had a destiny

And pound mics with metaphors and similes like every one of ‘em sound waves had an unabortable mission

I patch paradoxes, puns and poesies together to form pieces of precise poetry

That was alliteration by the way

Did you miss the intro? I’m a poet
Poetry is my home and I’ve got my shoes off ‘cos I’m here to stay

I gobble up assonances, oxymorons and onomatopoeic words for breakfast and regurgitate them at lunch time so I can chew on the cud of processed imagery

Unlike cheesy clichés, corny consonances and cagey concepts,

Rhythmical rhyme schemes, ingenious ideas and sublime stanzas are my playmates

When my pen kisses the sheets of my favorite yellow pad, reminiscent of the unifying of lips of two fond lovers

Or my fingers hit on the right spots of my iPad’s naked virtual keypad,

The resulting orgasmic expulsion of brilliant art is electrifying

Am sorry, was that sex metaphor too ‘unpuritan’ for your holy façade?

Forgive me, I am only a poet
I am no footballer but yes, I dribble pages of journals with scribbles from the tip of my ball point pen

And the dexterity with which I juggle words reminds you of an ambidextrous circus clown at your favorite amusement park

The agility with which I write and speak tickles the whimsy of my audiences and boy, do I glean their oos, cheers and snaps

My tongue is like a sword, slicing through subject matter like a surgeon’s scalpel dissecting and dismembering organs, tissues and vessels

Swift are the movements of my lips, and my rhapsodies are the resonances of your heart’s symphonies 

Need I say again? Well yes, I am a poet.
I love this art with such resilience as Romeo the Capulet did Juliet the Montague 

I go on dates with scripts of sonnets and slow dance with poetical trilogies

Me and poetry double with designers and fashion, artists and artworks

Yes, poetry’s ‘bae’ and I fancy her so!

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Only if I Could…

If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And find words worthy of your description
If I could just find the exact combination of words
To gather a simple poem

If I could find words to rhyme again
To tell the world how much you mean
Only if I could put into words the exact intents on my mind
Of what an exact 21st century replica of Cinderella you are

If I could dispute Shakespearean literature
And discover an art to find the mind’s construction in the face
Only then will you see yourself through my eyes
And know how special and beautiful you are to me

If only I could compose a twenty-line poem
To let you know that in my twenty something year old life
I have never seen a princess of a lass that quite amazes me like you do

Only if I could,
I’m sure the unborn generation who would read it would say ‘this poet lies to us’
That ‘such heavenly beauty never touched earthly faces’

The Pains of Love 

I woke up in a dim white light

It had been a long restless night

Hopes had been killed with dreams once so bright

O how it felt once all so right

A mystery till now exceeding my own wit’s might

How love had changed to ice cold fright

Ella was her name

And love was the game

She entered my life and it never was the same

She was one lioness I thought I could tame

One torment now I cannot really blame

The heart really loved but she thought it was for her fame

It never ceases to quiz me how she made such a claim

One sunny day, on a summer holiday

A fine time it was in the second half of May

At a breezy cozy beach, was a pretty cool way

To spend a time as this with Ella on a date

Then came the time when I decided to make that move and say

The three magic words that eventually killed the love

She burst out laughing at the sound of my proposal so plain

I like you as a brother , came her shocking response, staring with a grin

A relationship between us she said would eventually wane

So broken my heart was, bleeding in pain

In the dim white light of my chamber I sat, wishing in vain

Wondering to myself if I could ever love again

Smitten By The Love Bug

Once there was an age

An age down memory lane 

A backwards flipping of my diary’s page  

To see how far my memory goes

An account of events so very memorable

‘This is a fairy tale,’ is what I thought

An interesting dream was what it seemed
She arrived like an angel only not with wings

A princess, yet only no chariots and knights
What is the name?’ ‘Ella,’ she said

‘Okay Ella, please be my guest,

Along the road of life my princess shall we tread’

O how inward beauty burst her seams

And my heart was sure to ring

A declaration of a love tale to begin

So I said to her again, ‘your beauty quizzes me Ella, so pretty you are

Your lips, your brows, how charming they are

And your eyes so dazzling, like the twinkle of a star

A 21st century Cinderella you truly must be-an express epitome of pulchritude
Hold my hand pretty one as we face life’s strife

Through thick and thin together, we shall thrive

Stories of our lives my dear, let us merge

Into joy and plenty may our offsprings dive

Not six, not seven, let’s have just five

Enchanting Ella, will you be my wife?’

Dear ‘Friend’

It’s ok if you have lost faith in me as a friend. I ‘prolly’ would too if i were in your shoes. But i couldn’t be. Your metaphorical shoes would be too comfy for me, i would end up no where at all in my life’s journey. I’d just be moving around in circles, enjoying the comfort that your shoes offer.

Now, you also could not walk a step in my tattered, pinching, comfortless metaphorical shoes.

And since comfort and smooth sailing is all you’ve known along your road of life, i can understand how being in my shoes is a tad far-fetched and unimaginable for you.

Which is why you show neither me nor others thriving life’s rocky hills with patched, over-sewn sneakers and ‘chalewotes’, little or no grace at all. I get it.

But that is okay. No, really it’s fine. 

I guess it’s true what they say, that what rocks one man’s boat might just sink another’s; but you are too unbroken to realise that truth.

And since loyalty is such a rare virtue, i can dig it if that quality has not taken root and hence, not sprouted in you yet.

After all, it is impossible to reap what has not been already cultivated.

So to all my Damons thriving the deserts of life without their Pythiases, keep your heads up, be strong and buckle up your good old dusty shoes

You are not alone. There is this friend who sticks closer than a brother. You can trust Him.

And remember, the tortoise always wins, ask Propaganda.

THE SEXLESS INNKEEPER (from the now old T.V series #HIMYM)

It was the night before New Year’s

And the weather grew mean

It was three in the morning and I was stranded in Queens

The tavern grew empty

The gas lights grew dim

The horse drawn carriages were all but snowed in

Last call was approaching

And my fortunes looked bleak

Then I turned to my left

And stifled a shriek

She had a peach, fuzz beard

And weighed sixteen stone

She gobbled up hot wings

And swallowed the bones

I muffled a scream

And threw up in my mouth

I asked, “Where do you live?”

And she said, “one block south”

I swallowed my pride

And six shots of whisky

And prayed to the gods that she wasn’t too frisky

Back in her cave, she prepared us a snack

Beneath her mighty ‘hooves’, the floor boards did crack

But when she returned, she found a sound sleeper

And thus she became the sexless innkeeper

My Dream Girl

On my scruffy bed I lay

Juggling with words for play

Once sometime in November

A day I will forever remember

I was more bored than words can say

More than even poetry can portray

But like the day brightens the darkest of night

And the sun refreshes with its radiant light

She sparked up my world when she suddenly came to sight so bright

A refreshing spectacle I will forever hold tight

And need I add with all my might

So I walked up to her with my full poetic element so fine

As I rattled my well rehearsed poetic line:

“Enchanting great granddaughter of Eve

To what puzzling beauty thou dost cleave

Creations’ finest you truly must be

A Juliet of Shakespearean drama if you ask me”

Armed with all the tact of flattery

I proceeded after a recharge of my poetic battery:

“Mine is Kweku, and what apart from Pretty might yours be

A great king indeed your father must be

For he must be to produce a charming princess as thee”

She really was a sight to behold

And her beauty, a mystery best left untold

I wondered if more was to unfold

But my feet were turning cold

And I needed to be bold

Because she was the one treasure I would forever withold

Then in between giggles, she spoke in the most melodious trebble voice I had ever heard

And yes! even the most romantic of which I had read:

 

“Michelle …Michelle is the name”

 “Okay Michelle, let me be your Obama

You be my Mrs World, and let me be your Mr Ghana”

Then for the first time in my twenty something year old life, I saw a black girl blush bright red

I knew from there that she was the one,in the world of food, she will be my banana cake

Or that apple of which Snow White of European folktale ate

Basking in the glory of my masculine ego

I knew this was an opportunity I was not about to let go

So I fastened my seat belt as I changed my tactical gears

Because this ride of masculine pride was sure to lie buried in my subconscious mind for years

So I threw away the poetry, drew closer to her, looked into her eyes and said:

“I was waiting till we got to know each other better so I could kiss you

But your charming pink lips just will not let me”

Then she giggled and looked hard into my eyes and said:

“Yours will not let me either”

Then our lips, reminiscent of the opposite poles of a bar magnet, closed up…..

“Kweku, Kweku”, I heard a voice call faintly

“It’s past 11am”, It continued, only now more plainly

 

Then like smoke in thin air, my deram girl had disappeared

Only if dreams could come true, Michelle would have reappeared

On my scruffy bed I still lay

Only this time, hoping to meet Michelle one day

The Truth About Love

It was Christmas Eve 
And I had been shot by cupid’s arrow of love

I had met this young lassie

I had known her for a while

But had never quite seen the azure of love in her eyes

Smitten by the love bug,

I took her out for lunch

And just like that, a journey had begun

A journey of which I had no idea

A journey in a love bus

To the wonderful city of love

But little did I know

That the journey of love was not an easy one

Encountering the bends, u-turns speed ramps and even dead ends on the road of love

I muffled screams and shrieks and sometimes held back tears

And I endured nights of sleeplessness because I was crushed within

But through it all, I have come but to one conclusion

That love is like a rubik’s cube puzzle

There are times of frustration and anxiety when the puzzle seems just unsolvable

And also times of joy and tranquil when you finally work things out

So I guess I cannot but agree with Adele that sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead

But you cannot know the bittersweet taste of love until you take a bite into the apple of love

Then you realize that you’ve just got to keep on munching your way through

Savoring and relishing the sweet taste, wishing it never ends and enduring the bitter taste that seems to linger on.

 

The Art Of Writing

When very so often, i reach for my quill (that which Shakespeare handed over to me, ahem.. *sips coffee*) and my favorite notepad, in an attempt to scribble down a piece, my comrades think it a show of “yours truly’s” usual time wastage attitude in a way to prove to them that time and tide are to me like air and space- abundant as they are. But far from the constructions of their ignorant minds, writing for me, is one exclusive way of expressing to an extent, the deepest thoughts of the writer (in this case, my humble self.) Can there be a replacement for this marvelous gift of mother nature and her Creator? Absolutely not! At least not anywhere in this planet of ours called Earth. Is it poetry, prose, drama….. you just name it. Just put the right words together and…. boy, you’ve got it! Words indeed may be very short, simple and easy to say or write but their echoes….. truly endless they are. Exploring the world of writing, letting your fancy on the lose and your memory a roam, if you ask moi, is one magical experience

THERE IS MORE SLEEP AFTER DEATH

When both eyes are all droopy
And the cool breeze just wouldn’t cease passing
There shall still linger in ones subconscious, the drowsy thought of sleep
The enticing field day in dreamland you’d love to partake of
There shall still be imaginary builders to help erect for yourself castles in thin air and make your voyage so refreshing
But beware; you cannot be any match to the sleeping beauty of European folktale
For there comes the brute gate man to drive the lazy expatriates out of the pleasing faraway land
It cannot be the intriguing comfort in drowsy land nor the seemingly seconds’ French leave you take from reality that still gallivants in the chambers of the conscious mind
It is the damaging shock load of a weighty knock administered by your Rabbi and the din of a deafening uproar by your wide awake comrades in mockery of you
The saying is sure pet; there is more sleep after death