"typicality" poems
The beloved country Africana can boast of is Ghana. The manana of Africana black star is Ghana A nation rich in culture and natural pasture.
Its nature reflects the creatures’ caricature
We are black reflecting our true beauty.
And we are packed with captivating ability. The typicality of our nationality brings unity. Who knows whether our safety lies in our variety?
This unity amidst our diversity is our reportage. About twenty-four million are surviving in our age. Over sixty ethnic groups and fifty-two major languages. There are hundreds of dialects which are to our advantages.
In W/A, Ghana records the highest percentage of Christianity… Yet the modernity of our sanity portrays minds of malignity. But the fraternity of our humanity builds our community. The variety of our morality and privity builds our society
Who said Ghana cannot be capaciously superfluous? We have the very illustrious and exuberant resources. The elites and the voracity are harnessing the recourses. The destitute remains poor and the gentry linger the forces
Our democratic government is an African paradigm. Our peaceful political regime is of no pantomime. Who of course would help us measure corruption? The whole nation would have tensed up to eruption.
If not the gargantuan wayomelogy of the wayometer. Who knows whether the next tool would be attameter? Who wouldn’t love to be a proud Ghanaian to enjoy our hilarious fila and jargons tongue can employ
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
I never saw it coming,
but once we had our start,
I knew it wouldn't be long
before you had my heart.
You made me laugh & smile;
the way you showed you cared,
& then I went and ****** things up
for what? 'Cause I was scared?
You never could deserve
such pitiful treatment,
and now my tasteless soul
you will sooner resent
than I could have imagined,
or anyone could write.
I wish that I could change it;
go back and make it right,
but I don't have that power
and sadly no one can
revert to times before,
back to when we began.
When all was new & blooming;
when all was innocent,
before it all went sour
repent, repent, repent!
I promise that I'll fix this
& everything will be
back to typicality.
Back to you and me.
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 4:18 PM UTC
25 years into life on this planet. A quarter of a ******* century. I've attended more friend's funerals than weddings, a sad typicality of the generation I arose in beautiful concert with.
This strange fact reminds me of the opening lines from Allen Ginsberg's Howl:
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the ***** streets at dawn looking for an angry fix."
I too sought this same angry fix, but removed myself from the clutter once death stalked the corners of my own addled streets. I too was destroyed by this madness, but given the gift of a second chance upon which to reform... and the guilt that stretches its legs so cavalierly, so callously, across the resting stool of my mind reminds me of this every day I do not practice sobriety as a dogma (just as I simultaneously recognize I should never accept it--or anything else--as dogma).
It's been two strange years since Anton passed, and he still haunts me as the interpersonal ghost of the relationship we had together which, with his death, has become embodied as said ghost sans the need for either of our particular presence. Perhaps this felt phantom of our collective essence will continue to waft throughout our globular strangeness we call the Earth until all observation becomes impossible for lack of any remaining observers. I loved you once, and I will love you always, and thus will always love you until "always" becomes as relative as "once upon a time."
"Early 17th century: from Greek exēgēsis, from exēgeisthai ‘interpret’, from ex- ‘out of’ + hēgeisthai ‘to guide, lead’."
I read myself and "it's" or "him's" reality like others read scripture itself.
I am neither hetero nor homosexual. I am bisexual, and many (even within the tight 'gay' community) do not understand this when I give an attempt towards a definition of a monogamous relationship, despite it's polyamorous-ness in its long-term oprative-ness, ability, and identity.
A monogo(mish) identity. Something which proves it's loyalty and is only taken in as an operative contingent of oneself thereof. Couldn't be more favor in their flavor, so this is simply a translation of my multiplicity of romances in my monetary destitution (not that anyone has to pay me for anything lol).
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 12:41 AM UTC
With so much negativity in this universe,
Being featured by media for cash motives,
Human minds are exposed to cynicism.
Watching sinners circulating hate every day,
Viewing drama that adds thrills to typicality,
We examine conflicts of barbarism with desire.
Persistent suffering is fueled by hostilities,
A ravaged flame which no person should feel,
The fire erupts into misery that inflicts torment.
While observing pessimism aired by the press,
Unethical blazes are injuring treaties of peace,
Forming disputes that lead to catastrophe.
If unity through acceptance is rectified,
Anguish will change into inspiring stability,
Designing humanity with civilized conditions.
Remember that your ancestors fought for liberty,
Dueling arson that vowed to eradicate civil rights,
We must realize concepts of war without immorality.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
The sun glints on my mirror again,
and I wake up, make a cup of coffee,
wash myself, and eventually, I’d
wake up.
The door is locked again, and the key
is lost somewhere in the pockets of my
***** jeans in the laundry. Just a typical
Sunday morning. Today,
I am finding the center of my soul, but right
now, I’m in all the typicality of
myself.
Just typical to sit in the dining area,
arrange the set of knives on the table,
rearrange the plates, and clean
the table, erase the smudges of
the dried up spittle (or whatever
that liquid is) from last night. Look,
rise, go to the cupboard, and search
for things you don’t normally touch—
not like before—there’s the bottle of
pills, the framed pictures of your
beloveds, numbered them, dated them,
like arranged tombstones on a stifled cemetery.
Smile, gorge, bask on the images, memories
unfolding high and low; how they’d always
say you’re a sick person. Low and sick. Like the way
everything goes.
Now, look for the center of your soul,
find the sharpest knife on the set, and
prepare
dinner.
It’s a miracle again, to sleep
tonight.
Not another one of
this.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
our love was not made for movie screens.
our love was made for slow-burn tv dramas;
for the two schoolkids in the street's high school
barely grazing adolescence
who - fumbling - find a graceful love amidst
the corner shop and cobbled streets
and throw it all away for a second chance at a life
torn apart by carefully orchestrated constructs
of one lover's written word.
our love was not cultured by typicality.
our love was created through inside jokes;
nights of fireflies rocketing around in my chest - of you
warming me up from within
through all manner of crooked smiles and worries and
hands in my hair and
fingers linked with mine, lying on top
of my scrawled poetry i'll never admit is written
to you.
our love was made through careful planning;
through the nurturing of a friendship that turned into something more;
through a whispered confession followed by a laugh
followed by a written word saying just the same -
yes.
our love is yours.
please do not give it away.
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC