Looking for tomorrow + Video Art

Ambition does not work

where she comes from

It does not buy you

any of the meals

whose army of aromas 

compete with the rebel stench of filth 

for the wings of the air.
It does not get you a ticket

on à rickety bus

through a sea of traffic

to the hills

of shinny seducing lights 

and clean air sweatened 

by the presence of peace
Ambition has no value here

It is a stubborn shrub

growing by the side of a wide gutter

whose leaves are always chewed

by the strolling goats and dozing cattle 

Yet stays alive 

and hopes of flowering 

when the rain comes 
Ambition has no place

in this same place 

where it is hawked shamelessly 

by the finest merchants 

who descend from the hills 
But she buys 

more than she can carry 

in her empty chest 

and waits for the day 

when she will walk past 

the same streets she walks everyday 

and they will

become gardens 

where she too can grow. 
**

This poem like most of my new poetry will be accompanied by a video art installation. Thank you. 

Butterfly eyes 

Her butterfly eyes come flapping into mine. 

They take flight, just as her cheeks 

Rise like the sun creeping from 

The nothingness of night 

To light up all the

Little flowers in their jackets of color 

Her butterfly eyes

With wings shimmering with desire

Slice through the tightening air between us

Like a bullet, graceful but lethal

Till they reach the nervous smile 

Painting itself on my face 

Like a rainbow clearing a stormy sky

Then for that moment when her

Butterfly eyes land on mine

I forget they are eyes

And wish they were 

A raindrop in which we can hide

Till we hit the ground 

Like rolling stone 

And it’s all down hill from here

Jack and Jill rode the hurricane 

Tugged it mane as it twirled it’s skirt

Forgot that it was just passing by

On the way to somewhere quiet 

They lept with it over rolling stones 

They left with it like they had hollow bones 

No their heads are in the skies

The necks begin to feel cold

The ground is a dot all alone 

But the hurricane is on its way 

So it’s all downhill from here

The sky cannot carry you

The ground cannot swallow you

So the strange fruit must hang

By the jaws of a snare

Burning corpse; ready to blow

Even the maggots with no legs are crawling out of this cold flesh that is turning to the subject of dirges  Even the raunchy odor ,born within, is hiding in the pockets of Fresh Air, going to a place where it can breathe

time holds this carcass from imploding.stress giving way to the sweet release of bitter death

The unconcerned sun above fathers no no shade for us

Life left this place before we had time to live

And death will go before we realize that this place is…

 

with hands in hands

 

artwork by Hakeem Adam “With hands in hands” (2016)

In Bloom

Blooming Orchid pink white flowers plants.JPG
We are seeds
Tiny pistols itching to shoot
Waiting to come into the light
And use its rays as vines
To pull ourselves up
We are little bombs
In abandoned fields
Time has forgotten us
But not our power
We yearn for the right steps to
Set us off
And unleash our potential
We are weeds
Or so they say
Finding life without permission
Fighting for whatever space
To breathe,
Cos the air or the soil was not
Made for us
But shadows don’t last forever
And the morning is coming with
It’s golden glow
We are ready to catch it

Befriending a Shadow

Today I was forced to walk in the shadow of a rainbow, as butterflies went flower kissing anointing their noses in the syrup of nectar and song birds taught each other the love songs that step on the tip of your tongue when you miss the electric feel you never really had.
I became one with the shadow like dreams into smoke, as sunlight danced shamelessly on petals, because the darkness in me had finally found a friend. A friend made of sweet medicine, that gave birth to poison after it had left no sickness in me and i kept sucking from the straw in its neck.
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Photo: University of Ghana by Hakeem Adam

Overflow

I should tell you to
Stop the well springing
From the corners of
Your heavy eyes
Running down the museum
Of your existence.

I should tell you
That the salt slipping
Slowly, will not
Sanitize or sweeten
The pinches you feel
On your heart.

But I would rather
You let it all out till
It dries and leaves
Paths for me to
Guide the sunshine
Back into
Your eyes.

So the rainbow
On your face
Shows itself
Again.

How it is

This meta-language
Of compact meaning
Like the wasps nest
In the corner of your room
Is but a landmark
The thorny hedge we
Jumped over to leave
School and find freedom.
It is difficult like
The taste of the fermented herbs we
Used to drink to
Numb our minds from
Feeling the pain of
Our broken hearts.
Indeed it is rich in
Wisdom as if it was
Raised by the light
Of the stars that teach
Sails how to escape the strong seduction
Of the sea and return home
It has brogued my
Hands with the words
I never said,
The emotions I
Never felt, the
Tears I never shed.
So they pour out
Like lava from the earth’s
Running nose anytime
I remember to forget
The shadows I used
To chase
The pale dark bookmarks
Of the pit stops
In my life