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Ghana is no place for Dreams

6:45am:

A hawker
Tiredly taps
On the rolled window
Of a prisoner of traffic.

For sale:
Bootlegged aspirations
Bagged in small sizes
Sold at half price,
or less

On the radio,
There's a man
Talking incoherently.

The glazed-eyed
Traffic inmate
Hears neither the hawker
Now the man.

Ghana is no place for dreams.

*****Sept 19, 2018*****
Ghana is no place for dreams. — jerome (@readJerome) September 18, 2018


A Black Woman's Hair (writer unknown)

Women of other ethnicities,
their hair falls by nature.

It drops, and drapes, and hangs loosely,
But a Black woman’s hair rises by nature
It blossoms against the current of life.At its best, it swirls and spins like the earth,
or the sun –
a supernova of sublimity and strength.


And like any other heavenly body,
a Black woman’s natural hair demands nothing less than orbit:
total praise from every physical thing within her influence,
all revolving around her omnipotence –
instinctively, humbly, and altogether.

Whether dynamically drifting,
or stationary and rooted,
every living thing that finds itself before a Black woman’s natural hair is designed to stare and wonder.

- Writer Unknown




Hero Worship

The air is thin And the landing narrow, Up, on the dizzying heights, Where we set our heroes.
There, gusty winds Neither hold brief Nor relief As they threaten to Humble all things that elevate themselves.
When like prayers We've offered flattery On altars of unrealistic expectations And our heroes, like golden calves, Glisten with pride, Know this, There surely is a reckoning When they come tumbling down.
We were the mob at the foot of the mountain Elevating them in adulation
We are the mob at the foot of the mountain Now shouting CRUCIFY HIM, CRUCIFY HIM, CRUCIFY HIM