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Rattling Music of Guns

These people, they are depraved thugs,
We awaken to the rattling of angry semi-automatics,
We coil and bundle in fearful hugs,
The horror of war created by thundersticks.

In the house of prayer, we find no peace,
The headless bullet-riddled Jesus is still pinned to the cross,
And ominous sign that wanton killing won’t cease,
When we pray how can he hear, he has no ear to hear our loss.

These people have ruined our day,
We created a culture of evil mix with child’s play,
The hate and fear of all that is strange,
Has created this monster that is us,
We kill; we destroy and accuse the devil in all unfairness.

I’ve heard the rattling of guns,
And what did I do?
I struck a chord on my guitar
And hummed a dirge to its rattling tune.

The choir of guns performs in the insurgent’s heaven,
The bass of the bazooka is the rebel leader’s choice,
For the child soldier the alto of the A. K 47
Or perhaps the silenced pistol who lost her voice,
And the soprano of the machine gun sings for the Guerrilla boys.

When the blues are rendered bloody red,
As slowly the sun steals to her secret shed,
Anxious mothers coo their babies with hushes,
And when the last ember is spent and all is ashes,
Bile rises up our throat for fear of raptors that walk the night.

As we pray to the Lord our souls to keep,
Our amen is met by the applause of guns,
And automatics waiting to lull us to sleep,
To refresh us for tomorrow’s horror dance.

The night will be peppered with rattles again,
Causing fevered screeches from startled bats,
And babies in one accord will join the song of pain,
Festering the wounds of our ulcerated hearts.
Far off, somewhere in the dark a mother wails,
For a lost son,
But her wails are drowned on this sinister night,
And all we hear are the painfully sweet musical guns.

******June 28, 2009*****

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Bats at 37

When bats at 37 take to flight, At a quarter past four Or, whatever time Accra heralds the night,

When bats at 37 take to flight, For me, there's not a more beautiful sight Of creatures, imagined or real, That lay claim to these glorious skies.

When bats at 37 take to flight, With fevered screeches that punctuate the night When by sheer numbers they darken the skies And, below, people of a superstitious disposition Can not be bothered, I am reminded that, Given enough time all things cease to be strange.

When bats at 37 take to flight, Devoid of vibrant plumes unlike most things that fly, Rising like Legion and the hordes of hell, In defiance of extermination attempts, Above the Hospital in elusive figurativeness, Haphazardly, in sync, over constipated traffic There is not a doubt who owns the peppered night.

When bats at 37 take to flight;

Finding God

The inexplicable
Is proof there's a God.

This, for me,
Is where doubt began.
For if we know today
More than we did yesterday
Then, God is
a constantly contracting chamber of ignorance.

Now if it is so
And God is the Lord of gaps
Then men of religion
May be forgiven
For their unrelenting battle
Against knowledge;
The God Killer.

But if God is
the beginning of wisdom
And his people perish
For lack of knowledge
And if we know today
More than we did yesterday

Then it stands to reason
That the God to believe in
Is an ever-expanding explosion of knowledge.

I have no faith
In the God of gaps
For God must be Omniscient
And ignorance is not
This, for me, is where doubt ends.

*****April 22, 2017*****