Kumasi, the Tree City,
The Kingdom City with a divine eagle
Standing bravely on a mighty stick,
The unquestionable love that embraces
The soul of the arch enemy,
The tradition that swallows
The ancient courage and modern pride,

Kumasi, the Tree City,
The mighty city that lies under
The flying wings of the
Beautiful Okumanin tree,
The golden city of the Western Sudan
Planted by the arm of the Almighty,
You are truly the dwelling
Abode of unity and majesty,

Kumasi, the Tree City,
The echoes of your ancestral spirits
Do not sleep nor slumber
You that provides a comfortable
Seat for the grandson of
The almighty Krobea Asante Kotoko,
The modern pride of the great
Ancient mother of Yaa Asantewaa,

Kumasi, the Tree City,
The great son of the vulture,
Otomfuo Osei Tutu, may not
Appreciate your present
State of modernization,
For you have surrounded
T he Golden Stool with
Carelessness and filth,
Your crime rate has swept
Away the memories of
The great Okomfo Anokye,

Kumasi, the Tree City,
Oh, the inhabitance under the protective
And motherly wings of the great tree,
The Ayoko kingship deserves a clean land,
This great city must regain
Her serene and inviting sweet-scented
Greeny and stable environment,
For mother Ghana has always
Pride herself in your glory and dignity,

Kumasi, the Tree City,
The precious eye of Asanteman,
Never deny your former glory,
Oh, the pride of West Africa
You still have what it takes
To be the Garden City of West Africa,
You are Oseikrom indeed,
Okumaninase, the capital city of Kwaman,
The heart of the Republic of Ghana.


© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: nanaspeaks@gmail.com

who knew that growing up,
feels a lot like growing thin?
who knew my weathered bones
would grow to hardly recognize the skin that they live in?

i’m tired
and when i say that
i mean more than just the sleepiness that seems to reside permanently around my collarbones.

i’m heavy
with the weight of converging adolescence and adulthood
like kissing life-milestone tectonic plates,
they bury us.

we spent the last of summer days soaking up what little sun the mountain range allotted us,
and the last of summer nights gathered closely around the burning ends of our post sunset cigarettes
murmuring that there must be more than this.

striving to make the grade without making ourselves insane.
substantiating our existences with substances and excess.
growing closer to these ragtag companions we’d patch-worked together in a few months time than friends we’d known for years,
this is family.
this is kin.

they say that nothing compares to the first breath of spring but i digress,
the first breath of freedom - that first whisper, no matter how tainted with ash and glitter and the ever-present impending air of responsibility it may be,
is truly incomparable.

but, on the first night you find yourself talking someone down from the dangerous concoction of stimulants and ego,
listening to them scream about how they hate the world, and you, and themselves,
remember your arboreal roots.

remember that there are trees that survive forest fires with their lives but not their branches.

that same night you will see in the mirror how resilient buds can bloom through ice, and concrete, and self-loathing.

you will find solace in persephone.
letting a piece of you die each and every winter seems a fair price for the rebirth of spring.

i cannot say that this will be the last night you find a friend on their bathroom floor,
like a child with matches, trying to strike away the unruly sprouts that have taken root under their skin
i cannot say with confidence that you will never find yourself there either.

there will be more forest fires coming your way
like a child with matches, you may start a few yourself.

but, darling, spring is around the corner
you may be mangled and gnarled and knotted,
but i have seen trees engulf steel, and watched as flora took back abandoned gardens
i have witnessed oceans of grass shoot up from ashes,

there is nothing manmade that the earth cannot take back
the earth will take you back,
there is still green within you.

count the dandelions you find poking their cadmium heads through asphalt,
remember inhabitance is not a matter of comfort but a matter of will.
feel the ripe bud of growth in the soles of your feet.
remember there is nothing wrong with returning to the dirt.

I did not know the men from far.
each holding a clear mask as I was
driven down the now common road.
I knew the habits of souls like these.
impairing the land.
blameless in its lushness, these boys,
I learn now,
were hired to consume.
properly; with all items
& inhabitance spawned in desolation,
there are no mistakes made.
there could never be flared tempers,
or indignant stares, whispers of mutiny
or treason.
& a lack of profits are concepts
hoarded by other lands.

their tasks became habits
& tolerance replaces my strength
as an infection settled.

one
stretching my jaw,
piercing my tongue
& erecting fences inside my skull.
I learned to love the sloth
& loathe my confidence.

quickly beauty sets & confusion fades.
the road held nothing as did the scars,
laid down by special souls ages or seconds ago.

"I go to Nature to be soothed and healed and to have my senses put in order".
- John Burroughs


Part I

When the time was right, he does not hesitate to follow the path, “I've been waiting for this moment a very long time" he says.
Just himself, a Sage XP fly rod, a Golden Prince reel and a selection of March Browns and Slate Drakes. Its a special morning, Autumn 60s, overcast skies and lowlights.


The pathway bends past tall Sugar Maples, Old Stone fences, a Groundhog or two, trout lilies and mountain laurel. Its right here, that his fondest memories reside.
He had come at last to transcend the idea of coming back to the river for a greater purpose. A purpose that makes life worth living, a milestone, his own personal mark on this special place.
The sound of the river is in earshot now. A Chipping Sparrow sounds the alarm and all of Neversinks inhabitance are now on notice….human approaching.


As he reaches the river bank he's transported to a memory of his Granddad. The times when they fished this stretch of the river together.
His Grandfather told him about a time when fly fisherman and fly tiers honored Neversink and made it famous.


We always fished until it was dark. Granddad would light the lantern and we’d walk and talk all the way home. I often felt encouraged that just knowing the importance of this place, brought me luck.

Part II

"So by now, you're probably wondering who I am." "My name is Tom, Tom Murphy." "As a child, I came here each summer to spend time with my grandparents in the town of Roscoe, NY. When I graduated high school, I still came here from time to time whenever I had a college break as an Agronomy major at Cornell. I've always loved this place. It's always been near and dear to my heart."


The very next morning, Tom makes his way down the pathway to the river again. A nice steady Breeze was blowing through the trees, and that's when he heard it again. It's almost as if someone was speaking through the trees and wind. There it was again, this time calling out a whispering "tight lines." This was the very same voice that Tom heard as a child when his Grandfather took him to the river from the very first time.


A light rain began to fall, and Tom took cover under a large hemlock tree. Thunder sounded off in the distance, and everything in the forest was dead silent. As Tom peered across the river, he spotted movement in the adjacent Forest. A second later, a figure appeared on the bank of the river. An older man probably in his late sixties dressed in a top hat and coat, a split bamboo fly rod, and a German Shorthair Pointer by his side. Tom called out, " Good morning, sir. How are you?"

Dreams are supposed to be were you feel safe and peace full. Not where you are attacked by the invisible and only the felt. That room is kine, where i sleep - a restful place. Where now i am weary to go and lay my head. i dont know this place my fear comes from. It haunts me and i can't leave it. But I have to be there, for this is my resting place, where thoughts down on paper - my hiding place. I'm afraid I'm  not alone in its inhabitance. Where it comes from I don't know. And how it has power over me, I am not sure. But i do know that i am not okay with its excistance, and i will not stand for it. i will fight whatever it is when the time arises. but whos to say when that will be. i just pray that dear God you will give me the strength to concur this thing, a monster i last felt creep up on me. there is a physical jailment now and i cant not beat it it feels. a haunting feeling is over me when i enter the room, like i have interrupted something and am now being punished for it. but i do not know what it is or who o am interrupting. where can i find it. it feels so far away like i have already missed out on it. so how can i find it and get it back? i dont know but i feel as though this isnt over, and i am anxious to see when next time will be.
                        9/23/10

For when light's elumimation fades in rest, and the divine bodies are revealed in the forsaken sky.
The humbled moon, arises from her slumber. Casting a shared source of light upon the land - like a flame shared between two candles cast upon the wall.

The moon beamed it's light upon the walls of the land.
It's inhabitance like ants, a shadow did cast. For when the Moony Night comes forth, a deep pondering has beseiged the land;
Mysteries decifered, as thoughts become experiments in the cool of the eve.

In the silence of dusk, laughter does erupt;
The ticking of gears within, can be observed - like the song, sung by the crickets.
Oh, how indulging the observer of night can become.
For in the elumination on a Moony Night, one's soul does takes flight.

and this is different.
or not.
****.
you should push me,
grab me, bite me,
break me, pry me
open along the bed,
kiss me, stroke me,
hold me
together,
still. i keep expecting
something, as if the world
should have shattered,
i should have cried,
whether from complication,
fear or embarrassment, i am not sure.
yet this is normal, almost,
for i am still faintly left
with the rocking sensation
of your inhabitance of my body,
the beat of my heart in knowledge
of the act, the churn of my mind
in remembrance.
****.
you should push me,
grab me, bite me,
break me, pry me
open along the bed,
kiss me, stroke me,
hold me
together,
still.
for i do not feel to have lost
myself yet.

The clouds rest upon the high peaks of the land. A shield from the heat of the stars above, but a loving embrace to the inhabitance beneath.

In a beautiful introduction, a servant and friend to the afflicted land is revealed. He works through the night, mending the scars from the spears of the stars. Giving life to the gardens and uplifting all the downcasted.

This friendly giant opens his gates, to tend to the beneath. Even the divines come forth, carrying the mists in their wings. A hymn of glee resounds as the void is filled in empty springs.

There is magnificence in this embrace, a kiss some might say. For the water trickles down, excavating every crevice. Exonerating the wounds smitten in trauma;
As the rain kissed mountain now stands with lustrous awe - a now land revived.

Terror has no face
It is pure disgrace
Terror has no religion
It is pathetic
It is sick
Those who don't respect humanity
How can they even claim to be humans?
What is wrong with the world?
Every single day you read the papers
You watch the news...
There is nothing save for depressing stories
Someone gets shot 'coz of the colour of his skin
Someone gets molested
Someone gets murdered
Someone is discriminated against just 'coz of his religion
Some country gets bombed
Then that country retaliaties by counter-bombing
Virtually every single country is intent on increasing it's nuclear power....
In some countries democracy has become a joke....
...The right to freedom of speech and expression is merely present in the constitution
All of this just makes me so so very sad
I sometimes so wish that Mars becomes suitable for human inhabitance
They have found traces of water...
...haven't they?
'Coz frankly speaking i'm totally done with Earth

is not something I can define.
My home is not a physical place of
inhabitance.
When I walk home from school,
the house I live in does not give me
a sense of comfort
The closer I get to its door, the faster my brain
works to think of the next time I can it even
for an hour
That will not feel like home and I live with it
People have said home is where your heart is
and yet my heart has found nothing
It's homeless.
Just hopping around from one place to another
as if it were a couch surfing person in-between jobs
It aches sometimes.
I want to find a home
My heart wants to feel it can love
I want to feel like I can breath again
We both want to know the feeling of the sound of settling
But for now, my heart and I are at the curb,
observing others rush to their adobes whether they are physical
or metaphorical both of us holding up signs with the word "home"
in question marks.

Magic Soldier

Locked up like a criminal

A recluse

A lone straggler

I treat life as an auction. Yes, I’m a Haggler.

I am bankrupt inside

I am a magic man

See me thick skinned

Here is a broken man,,,

Strong enough to make his stand.

Hiding my broken heart with this stubborn pride.

Losing my family

Blamed for other’s financial and heart destruction..

Respect is a luxury

Life is a school. A learning institution

I hardly taste this Caviar

I try and out run my history.

I have traveled with my baggage quite far

A damaged good

Inside and out

Beaten, *****, and emotionally controlled

Another travel to the glamorous neighborhoods.

Those in which I see the inhabitance gawk and

Point in their polished homes.. shocked at this visitor and feeling
“April Fools” Tricked and trolled..

I rose up like the Joker

I’m the crazy man “who just sits there to pout.”

Giving up the future

Half way to an elderly ward

He gets through the thick scenes

In his strength.. spirts used in bouts..

Words cut a man to his bone..

Stitch my heart with sutures

“Make due and mend.”

I am brave and sane

Even though it hurts to see others as one

and I am all alone..

Even when I was stuck in a corner

Drugged in a mental ward.

I look out a window. Tears hitting the pane.

I became the spokesman for strength

Take my words, my hand, and Human value

I refuse to stay

I am far from what these images of my shell appear to you.

Alone without his plan and potential forefilled

Even the Pandemic couldn’t **** me

I manage a miracle and provide some skills

That set my pain free

Even on the wrong chemically induced life path

I dried up and learned

The right ways to be a friend

A rogue soldier

Strength like a tank’s armor..

Dreaming and fighting for the life

In which he has always yearned.

I shall never let myself end this life

Even though moments of hurt cut me like a knife..

without gaining what I deserve

After losing the battle

I’m winning the war

See him stand tall

A tall man matched with challenges

That never to his soul..do they rattle

Steady and viable

Due your worst

As I can fight and dance to this “rock and roll”

Now, see him smile..as his feeling heart

Through his chest..it Starts to burst.

Guns in Sweden

Sweden has problems with too many guns
shoots hole in the night.
Many refugees came to Sweden, who thought
when the refugees discovered a Nordic paradise
they would become Swedes overnight.
The inhabitance of this Eden has a discriminatory heart.
The glance of an eye tells the truth.
There was a clash of culture.
People of the same philosophy likes to live close to each other,
for them, Sweden has a cold heart.
No work no education, guns are easy to buy.
I don´t know the solution
Perhaps the Nordic people, are too regimented
and it will take time to change this attitude.