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A Place Called Home

We don't fear eternal damnation,
we live here,
hell can't possibly be worse.

On those cold hungry nights
children are kept warm by the infernos of hell
lit by angry mosquitoes
dodging slaps from irritated mothers
who not so silently curse absent fathers.

this land was built from blocks of apathy,
the souls of the poor and downtrodden holds them together
so their death is encouraged,
to keep up appearances,
politicians pretend they are outraged.

This is business,
The misery of the poor and needy,
funded by the rich gluttons of society,
accepted and sanctified, “Blessed are the poor...”,
Penury processed and packaged as humility,
Just keep them poor and blissfully ignorant.

and yet weighed down we find reasons to smile,
dance under the moonlight alone
because we can't afford true love,
Can't wait for help from above,
The only Heaven we know is within.

in the shadows,
a vulture waits patiently
for an emaciated child with an ironically large belly
to drop, dead.

So when Extravagant Preachers
who live, “as it is in Heaven”
come squawking about Fire and Brimstone,
we know it well,

Hell, is a place called Home.

*****October 16, 2013*****

I wrote this after listening to a documentary on CitiFM 97.3 on Hunger and Malnutrition in the 3 Northern Regions of Ghana. The Documentary is attached below.

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Executioner's Business

I have not come here
To put back together
The Guinea fowl egg
That was broken on Her Majesty's sandals.

I am an Executioner.
The why and the how matters not,
It's the Who.

Those who in malice
Destroy good food in fits of pettiness
Then turn to mock the distended bellies
Of hungry children
Shall know no peace.

But today,
It is not scoffing egg breakers that vex me.

It is,
Those who in silence watched
While the dirty deed was done,
Unconcerned about hungry mouths,
Then proceeded to,
on the miscreants
behalf, plead for mercy,
It is they who stir my bile.

So may I not be blamed
When in swinging my blade
I, accidentally, chop off the heads
Of wailers who stand too close to the guilty.

The Executioner's job is urgent business
I have no time for the niceties
Of giving, those who loiter, final warnings.

***** August 3, 2016*****

Bedtime Epiphany of a Pining Heart

I contemplated
On things that were and were not,
On why
Light retracts different, in your eyes,
Like rainbows randomly ricocheting
Off my intangible thoughts,

On why,
Words sound different, on your lips,
How you laugh,
How the sounds take a path,
Across infinite dreams,
Into all my incarnations,
Into all my iterations,
Into all...

I concluded
You are a figment
of my imagination,
You must be...

God is not so cruel
That he made a Heaven like you
Then condemned me
To the Hell of perpetual longing
Wanting, and never belonging...

*****September 14, 2016*****

God is My Barber

The sickness that made the Vulture bald
would have killed the Crow.

It is because
the gods are petty
and would not be questioned
about who they show favor to,
That Crows live to,
Squawk hysterically
At Vultures' misfortune.

We have come to understand, that,
when a petty god is your barber,
Crows, who can't afford a razor,
with their benevolent destinies,
will punctuate our precious peace
with their shameless snickering.

the Vulture
pays any mind
wages a war of words
with mockers and scoffers;
for the cure for baldness
is not found in the laughter of Crows...

*****April 4, 2017*****
My Second poem about Vultures. I really need to stop this...😂😂😂