On Her Making

They poured a quart of moonlight milk
And added ruby, pearl and jade
They wrapped it up in softest silk
And so my lady’s face was made

They sprinkled drops of Angel Tears
And sang sweet songs from heaven’s fold
They mixed perfumes for seven years
And there’s her little heart of gold

They flicked a flare of fairy dust
And caught a film of silver cloud
They laced her blood with lickerish lust
See how she walks so light and proud

They baked cookies from her wondrous dreams
And flavoured them with racy wine
They filled them sweet with all my favourite creams
That’s why the lady’s heart is mine

Untitled

If I walked through your eyes
To where the moon flies
And I kissed you on the lips
Till when the sun dips
If I swore upon a rose
Until my voice froze
Would you believe that I love you?
Would you say you love me too?

Period of Love

No Reason like this Love Season to make me go back to long ago, when I so believed that Love really made the world go round. The poetry that follows from today is poetry from my late teen to early adult days.

The Apple and the Dagger

An Apple in my heart
A Dagger in my mind
Each for one of two people
I just can't decide which.

Looking for Docile Dollar Dispensers

The first floor at Frankie’s at Osu in the City of Accra is a terrific place to sit and eat or have a drink, while playing your eyes on the people pouring in and out, or ogling the Oxford Street down below. So, I was doing some or all of the above peccadillos , last night, when four fruity females oozed indoors, in frisky, frilly frocks, and sat down to order something. I got the impression that they were man-hunting. My snoopy suspicion was cruelly confirmed when barely two minutes after their commanding orders, they got up and cheesecaked hurriedly out of the room. The drinks arrived not one minute after. The egg-faced waiter stood at the table he’d left them at, totally perplexed. I signalled to him that the girls had beaten it. In the intervening double minute, they’d professionally recced the room and found no Docile Dollar Dispenser – and they didn’t come there for drinks!

Academic Licence to Kill

One misty, moisty morning, in the early 2000s, at the University of Ghana, Legon, a professor beat his student black and blue in his office. Now, lecturer-student battering was so common in those days, that this bludgeoning almost went unnoticed. Ok, that is not quite true. Because it was so hideously shocking, people started to ferret for information. Why would a distinguished professor lay aside his dignity and take his bare knuckles to the junior jawbone of a student? The answer arrived quick and thick with scandal. The martyred undergrad had taken two things from the cruel Sensei.

The dandy don was besotted beside himself with a girl in his African Studies class. Being all brawn, but not very ballsy, he found a boy in his class to deliver daily presents and notes of love to the Legon Lovely. Between the dispatch and handover time, confusion must have settled on his roguish mind, for the double-dealing Boy Student presented himself as the Giver-of-Gifts and the Lost-in-Love. So, Girl Student falls for Boy Student in the praying (or is it preying) Professor’s stead. Professor finds out, and gives Boy Student a first-degree demolition.

Foreskin Alert!

Spending a pleasant penny in the men’s room in our office building. Scary-looking dude clicks his hard soles into the room. Though there’s plenty of pee room beside me, dude is just standing behind me twiddling with his fly. I do a half-turn and fix a stern eye. Dude heads to the toilet-cubicles. I hear the jet of pee hit the bowl. Then, it all comes to me. Dude is hiding the fact that he still possesses a hermit prepuce!