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On his wedding night,
He was called to fight.
His bride was pretty,
Yet it felt just right.
"A call by your nation,
To serve a generation".

He grabbed his weapon heading to battle.
She stood at bay, to say goodbye.
"Come soon soldier, a warrior grows in me." She cried.
It's too late now, his ears denied.

He left a soldier,
But came a hero.
He left a man,
But came a father.

9:20 am, a knock was heard.
She raced the door and saw a bird.
"Your husband was gallant, but fell to rest."
She hugged her warrior, so tight to her breast.
The misery of death is to fight someone's war.
War *****!
Drops round and run down low
Mud forms and creates tiny valleys within.
Red roads drop and rises ,
As insults flashes like thunder bolts.
Horns deafen ears,
As blood blinds eyes .

Rollercoaster highways,

Or more like riding a bull,
Feel the aches in the waist.
Infact the mechanical horses were older 
than earth herself.
You could see holes and rust 
in the metals.
The government stood by the red road idle,accepting fines and kinds.
If only they had listened to their cries,
Blood would still remain in veins.
Most road accidents in my home country are due to bad roads, old rickety trucks and careless drivers. Some blame the government, others blame the traffic police (they believe it's their job to check these things yet their corrupt ways make it impossible!....  The citizens call them "aban" which means "government".)
When the nights came, we painted the skies
With stars and lit the moon bright.
While the world slept, we danced to the breeze
With grace and haughtiness.
When no one was watching,we tried to run away
Too bad I was pegged to a drying line
The love between the wind and my linen on my dry line. (a dry line is used to dry laundry after it has been washed)
the preacher's wife
being tempted by a new dress she was trying on.
The Devil said, "Buy it, honey, buy it!"
And the preacher's wife said,
"Get thee behind me, Satan!"
And the Devil did, then he said,
"Mm. Looks good on you from here too…"
Written by a friend. Kweku Asante.
High up the skies above,
Lives a boy who nestles the sun
in his feeble chest,
He sings a song; a lullaby
to put the sun to sleep.

High up the skies above,
Lives a girl who grates an ice
She grates and grates till summer
came, till it fell as snow, as rain.

High up the skies above,
Lives a servant boy to a lazy queen
She is always warm thus needs to cool,
So he blows and blows till the trees
can't dance to tune.

High up the skies above,
Lives a peasant maid with the purest soap
She makes a bubble, a trillion bubble that
connects to form a foam.
With every fall from her laundry bowl,
they fall to form the clouds.
Sun, rain, snow, wind, clouds.
  May 8 Nana Yaw Ofori
Blckstr
Love is not a piece of writing
that comes from a heart;
It is not a flowerful verse;
It is a flowerless vase
that holds no decoration,
no rhythmical motion,
no verbose potion;
Love is not a poem.
It does not bear a stanza
full of melodic metaphors
that attract the cores
of one’s eyes and ears,
because love has no rhymes
that make two heartbeats
sound as one.
It is an offbeat
kind of sound
like two metals
clanking with a hard,
earsplitting clang.
Love is not a poem.
It bears no hyperbolic
kind of feelings.
It is a catastrophic
kind of rain.
It bears no onomatopoeia
like a thump-thump–
beat of a heart.
It is just a thunder
with a destructive art.
Love is a storm.
Love is not a poem.
It has no alliteration
in a tiny tinkling tone.
It is not a poetic notion
in a simile or an oxymoron.
It is not a set of written words
which provide a colorful world.
Love is not a poem.
.
.
These were the things
I used to say before…
But then, you happened…
.
.
Love became a poem.
It turned into a free verse –
no patterned rhyme
no regular rhythm.
It just flowed
through a beautiful heartbeat
with an ineffable heartbeat.
Love turned to be the skeleton
of my poetry.
Love became the pedestal
of my words,
creating a series
of lines and stanzas
with touch
of fragrant language.
Love became a poem
because my poetry
turned to be you…
You are
my poem –
my love…
Love
is
a
Poem.
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