On Your Absence

I dream of your pink, soft smile
Radiating in the night
And on a wish, I touch and dial
To hear you, sweet and light

I shut my eyes and sail the sea
To some romantic lands
Where winds of musk and lemon tea
Smell like you in my hands

I lie awake at mildest morn
I can’t drift off to sleep
The wait is long; my heart is worn
How does forever keep!

There was an eve you held me close
The stars shone high above
And shady flows of shadows rose
Wondering if we spoke of love

White winds will bring my queen some day
All sweet and smiles again
With happy hearts we’ll kiss and play
While heaven hails her rain.

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.