Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I went down to Lloyd center
Looking for you
But a mouth full of anger
Blocked my view
He took your hand
There in the skating rink
God will give him blood to drink

Saw the two of you leaving
I didn't want to follow behind
But I could see the rest of your evening
Burning in my mind
Sky's black
The moon's pink
God will give him blood to drink

I looked over the railing
The ice was white
On the north-east side
Where I saw you and your boyfriend
On a Friday night
I went mining for gold
I struck pure, fresh zinc
God, God will give him blood to drink
Another one from 1994, off a tape called "Taking the Dative". Later re-released on the Ghana compilation in 1999.
JakeY Apr 8
I stood there in the rain,
Alot running through this brain.
I let her go again.
Friend zoned without bargain.
Now out of my domain,
Is it time to refrain?
Or should I try again?
JakeY Sep 14
As she walks down the road,
She must be every man's dream.
They all want a taste of her.
Am I greedy to want the whole meal?

The contours her body showed,
Every curve and edge in a perfect seam.
Not forgetting the locks in her curled hair.
Am I greedy to want the whole meal?

From her lips melodies flowed,
Guarded by perfectly interlocked teeth that gleam.
Her little brown eyes luring me to her lair
Am I greedy to want the whole meal?
Originally written when she was my world yet not in my world. She still isn't.
I pen this powerful piece of prominent prominence in praise of my passion
I power these powerful words
To empower your purpose
Your presence, presents
And presentations presented to us a privilege to profit from your priceless
And precious prizes

Weak people prefer power
But powerful people prefer to empower weak people
I am pleased and proud
And promise to provide partnership to your projects

Precisely, I picked and puzzled these powerful words
So particular people can see and pluck from this precious plant
The plain plan of the poem is to paint pretty pictures in pixel

This piece is not a prequel
Though I see the “pre” in the “quel”, I’m trying to recall
The purpose of this prequel
Only for my parents to tell me Patrick, Pause and play this piece in a sequel.
“P”  represent the alphabet “P” and “peeeeeee” translates from Ghanaian Ashanti Twi as “a lot”.
This is a poem full of Alliterations and basically like the tile a lot of P’s.
Samuel Adafia Nov 2017
The sun blazed and caused a significant amount of precipitation to ooze out of my skin. The woman who sat next to me filled  space enough for two but paid for one. Me, the unfortunate one who sat close to her was praying that no one else boards this atrocity of a  public transport vehicle. The sweat on our skins made our contact uncomfortably more intimate than it was required for two strangers. It made my skin curl with disgust.
The little old lady stood at the bus stop with a silver wash basin half filled with her catch, fish. She signalled and the trotro staggered to a stop.
Gaius Normanyo Jun 2016
My parents left our homeland for me
More than five thousand, five hundred miles
To travel to a land ripe with opportunity

But at times the ripest fruit tended to spoil
However, they always counted God's blessings and moved on
My parents have endlessly toiled

With their younger son on the way
And four years of American experience
They strived at greater lengths each and every day

It is difficult to set aside one's own will
To tend to a family
To pay an immigration agency's bills

Yet they have done it, tried and true
Citizenship, I pray
Is coming soon

One day, I will properly honor them
This country will learn to accept others, but only with Him as its precious gem
I decided to revisit an previous poem of mine, “Sacrifice", after remembering William Blake's approach to former works in his collection “Songs of Innocence and of Experience"... Definitely not as polished.
This is no poem.
They are my thoughts and views.

Nobody wants to give service but everybody wants to enjoy service.
Politicians would misuse national assets and wealth, deny citizens of the deserved services but chase them for taxes.

Citizens lazy around their work, avoid tax, act irresponsibly when using national assets but are first to cry out for what they deserve from the nation.

Certain pastors would not spend time to prepare a good sermon but would be expecting all church members to be all punctual and giving off their best in might and wealth for the church.
There also are church members who would go to church late, sit, sing and leave early but still complain bitterly about how things are not going right in the church. They easily see how unkept the church premises is and would do nothing about it but seriously expect something to be done about it.

Husbands want to be loved but are the last to show love to wives. The same it is with certain wives as well.
Fathers want respect from children but act all irresponsibly and shirk their responsibilities.
Children want care, love, protection and provision from parents but would not respect and obey parents.

So everyone wants something but wants to give nothing.

When we **** that selfish attitude in our views of life, relationships would at least improve a bit and peace would find feet.
please this is in no wise a poem by my standards
Oktoberbarn Jan 2015
I am with facebook 24/7, my grandma a day or two a month.
I get likes on facebook, while she gives me love.
I get to know what my friends are doing all the time, while my grandma tells me about het 80 years on this planet.
Facebook lets me travel through the world, from Ghana to Paris. My grandmother takes me to her kitchen for a nice cup of coffee.

*I wish I could spend time with her everyday instead of facebook
Oswald Okaitei Oct 2014
On the strings
Binding mortals together, you lay your dagger
And set apart,
The centre that holds us together…

You set
Our household in despair
And unending
Tears and sorrows, you fill our souls and hearts with...

You are...
Yes, a silent murderer, surely, you are:
You invade the joy that fills
The household of mortality and leave endless mourning songs on our tongues...

In your presence,
Where is the refuge of mortality?
In your eyes,
What is the value of mortality’s breath on this earth?

From nowhere
You have stepped your feet in our territory
Draining breaths
And raiding souls...alas, you plant the seed of fear in our hearts...

You fill
Our thoughts with forts of weary
And crush
Our hearts with dagger of fatality…

You set
Deafening quake and pains in our souls
And wane the survival
Of mankind on this shore with your arrival…

You, innocent faced murderer
Who has found
A niche in the home of strong-but-weak mortals...

Many you have set on that Voyage Of No Return¬¬—
Their wails, alas,
We hear in the silent night as their bloods smell on your arms…

You are
A scare to our existence
For life is death
And death is life with the arrival of your presence…

You’re but, a thief of souls...
Ebola, O’ yes, you are a silent ******—

You are
The silent murderer reaping our souls and setting down our household—
You are the murderer
Yet, feared to be approached by even the 'mighties'…

You are
An unseen beast; you’re a barbaric stranger...
You are but,
A silent murderer in our home...

We wholly
Hate you from the depth of our souls—
Dark or white,
Ebola, yes, we truly all hate you!

Oswald Okaitei
(World Poetry Theatre Ambassador from Ghana Project)

(C) 2014
This is a piece developed for a video recording geared at campaigning against the Ebola pandemic in the world

— The End —