To the peaceful me

Pensive Young Woman
Pensive Young Woman — Image by © Joson/Corbis

Dear Peaceful me,

I… I buried my hands in my thighs afterwards

I didn’t have a pick axe or shovel to make a burial hole yet I shoved them hands in a hole

That act covered my mamma and area of tinkle –  a bit cloaked but greater the part undraped

Wonder what I was covering when my biography had been written by his pen!

You see peaceful me, that mortal.  He frantically rode my balls race as though his balls were in a race with my ovaries

Up and down he swung his balance on me

I bore the anguish of the tattoos he stamped on the whole of me till I became a Borehole.

Twas on my desert he lapped his dessert though there was nothing to be eaten there.  You can imagine how he sucked when nothing was showing up!

My screams did nothing but strengthen and energize his third leg –  a step deeper in my mine with each.

My aggressiveness and bites were like the “You can do better” statement written on our terminal report cards.

Even when my breath became low key, he still strung his needle.  What insanity!

He kicked me out, half dressed and flung some notes at me as though I were a ho. Impudence!

Dear Peaceful me,  you got no troubles but I got more than just a handful.

I wish I were like you but tradition asserts it’s wrong to be like another.

I’m sure you can sense pain in my written voice.

I still have my hands in my thighs

I still have tears on my face

I still got them tattoos on my body.

I’m sorry I can’t be you, peaceful me and I’m ashamed of this me now.

This shameful me inside me has grown mean. Watch out!

© *Poetezz Nana Ama*



Sarcastic Affection

*Sarcastic affection*
This guy…
He’s been holding this rope called love towards this girl
Praying that his hopes will be met.
His arms are outstretched and even sore
He pays no attention to it but only waits to hold his prey with his paw.
He’s more than a contestant of Tv3’s Ghana’s strongest
For he is the one who looks up into the heavens the longest.
He doesn’t care about the solar eclipse displayed on his face
Waits day and night for the girl of his dreams to fall into his arms.

The girl too, cares not even one
“Lemme play too and have some fun”.
She never had for him any feeling
Yet pretence drives her to tap on the rope and bring him healing.
She has seen him inside out and have admired his calm nature
“Good but he’s too sacrosanct to fit my feature”
What will become of the rope they hold on to called love?
Will it be able to stand the test of time?


I’ll gaze right into the face of the sun
Won’t blink lest I miss a chance
I’ll strangle strongly through the fight
Till I place all things in their places right.

I’ll gather wings deserted
Heal their wounds till perfected
I’ll strap them on my sides like a satchel
And soar up above as a baby bird on hatching.

And when the fight is over, I’ll create a relic of myself
A monument, a memorial for unknown times
To rise above even with no one’s pedestal
Till the days and times acknowledge my strife.
©Poetezz Nana Ama


If the smile of tomorrow never is seen
And the chirping of the birds never are heard
If the footprints of our strides decide to flee from the face of the earth
And all memories of us engraved in hearts are cleared
What will become of us?

If the sun up in the skies creases
The rays vomited from its mouth vanish
If the revolution of the great members filling the solar system ceases
Their arduous and boisterous natures perish.
What will become of us?

If the hands clutching onto time in a clock does no more movement
The tick tock shudders of each second and minute keeps mum
If idle times become the only available moments
And we act as though we’ve been intoxicated on rum,
What will become of us?

If the alarm of our hearts decide to soothe life of mankind by refusing to hoot its horn
The tunnels and channels through whom the rouge liquid ascends and descends get worn out, gives up on working, leaves life without a tooth, and life’s toes growing corn,
If the organs of the human body played by the supernatural hands and fingers of nature have their sounds cloaked in fog
And man’s physical temple lies flat to the ground as a log,
What will become of us?

If life becomes a meaningless maze with no way of escape
The beautiful picture drawn by the most high discolored
If the feet of the world strolls to and never from its tour of the landscape
And the beautiful physique of the universe is disfigured,
What will become of us?


I am a poet
I weave words as beautiful as the rainbow illuminating across the skies
Giving light to all lands under the heavens.
I spew out characters intertwined as fire from the dragon’s bosom
Quenching watery places in life.

I am a poet
I prepare delicious meals of lyrics which descends the gullets in the minds of readers to fill the bellies of their understanding.
I bind words with adhesives to form sentences and statements ferrying thoughts across the ocean of comprehension.

I am a poet
I sing lullabies of interwoven literary devices to lull nocturnal souls and put them to bed.
I pollinate plants of confusion with my pollen grains of clarity to bear satisfaction.
I sweeten the sour parts of the taste buds of all who read with my soothing, refreshing and heartwarming words.
I am a poet
I speak life into carcasses at the thunderous sound of my words and calm the tumult roaring as a lion.

Next time you see me, see not me but words
For I am a POET.


We had for long not sighted each other
Distance tried sweeping away all of the memories our hearts held together.
We were separated by a wholesome abduction on one side
And an unpleasant freedom for the other ride.
A fortnight alone seemed like eternity
For the organs that kept us alive craved for the other party.
Loneliness tried hard to breach our contract
It placed a boulder to destroy our contact.
Wish I could sue him for damages
To get back the time I lost to the holy kidnap as salvage.
How time flies! Soon the sentence will be over
Smiles will be our faces’ cover.
Soon, we’ll stand at the doors of the doors of each other and present our application letters
When we have broken our heart’s fetters.
We will be called to an interview
To answer questions pertaining to our emotion’s review.
We will have an intertwined interview in our arms
To the outside world we’ll throw our harms.
We will hear the beautiful, kept words on our cheeks
Together we’ll be love’s geeks.
Once again in our arms, there shall be an interview

And on our screens will be shown a mega view.


She balances her chores with skill, one at a time,
Her body she divides like a watermelon into different parts ,
Entangled in her “choreweb”, a spider moving up to the roof her work to gather,
She scurries about house like a babe crawling to his mother.
Dressed in filthy apparels, her face made up black like charcoal,
Aggressive as a keeper guiding a goal post to prevent unexpected goals.
She’s the broom that neatly speaks cleanliness in a quest to prove that cleanliness is next to godliness,
The light that sparkles on the walls and shiny places of the glassy house, in her all she exhibited correctness,
She’s the banner directing the unclean to receive a bathe and a touch of the sanctimonious wash,
Dipping them one after another in holy baptism for all.
She’s the full house wife
The cleaner in her prime!

Up and down the stairs her haughty steps go,
Imprinting neatness in her magical blow,
She knows no fear; glued to her work,
Her best she does to correct the murk.
She’s got a perfect belt – the laces of her apron,
Buckled hard around her like a weapon,
Her head wore a whitish crown worn by chefs and great cooks,
Yet nothing she does but clean the house’s looks,
Clashing pots as cymbals, ladles as iron bars, shaking as tambourines plates,
Harmonically drawing the tempo of her unadulterated beats, humming to the tunes the occasion to grace.
She’s the full house wife,
The cleaner in her prime!!

She’s the writing in the wall,
Guiding all rightly to soar,
Children fear her thunderous voice and echoing steps,
Shooting through their feeble ears.
The earth quakes at the sound of her voice,
Hard core men suddenly go moist.
She knows in her dictionary no dormancy,
In her eyes that is an atrocity,
Hard work her hallmark
Never behind would she lag.
She’s the full house wife
The cleaner in her prime!!!