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Photography & Spoken Word

POETIC LICENCE: Black Rose – Asford Psalms



Doubt in their minds; your kind never exist.

Now in my eyes; your beauty doesn’t resist.


Your rare shape and carefully contoured edges.

Dark body- well bent cleavage.

From the tip of her head to the stalk of her feet.

It’s beauty beyond compare.


In her eyes is a love so wholesome.

On its cheeks, her beauty blossoms.

And the lips craves my kiss- her beauty and my handsome.

Her jaw sits on its neck and her shoulder freely pays the ransom.

From there, my eyes goes nowhere.

Her elegance is much to hold back.

This beauty is in the body of the holder.

And my eyes are held captive by it- I give up.

Her body trimmed- firm and green.

Sits on the extumescence of petals of the same colour- green.

Tilted to the ground, curves upwards to form her standing flare.

And the stalk of her tigh to the tip of her toe on the ground- is belle without compare.


This beauty is in the body of the holder.

Yet my eyes are held captive by it.


Her beauty is handsome.

My heart is willing to pay the diamond ransom.

But first, I bliss to kiss your beauty blossom.



 Credit: Asford Psalms


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Photography & Spoken Word

#ENEWSGHPoeticLicence: Penance for Penitence – Asford Psalm



Like it never happened!

The words; the best foreplay.

The acts; the sensual play of our parts.

The long gaze of my eyes; yours!

The raging pleasure in my veins; your response!


The heat which burns like ice.

Was I right?

For taking advantage of our moods.

Were you true?

The emotions you so revealed.


Our heads played, our hearts responded.

Pumping blood for the motions that are resounding.

But now, we have to pretend.


The was no pain with the pleasure.

And night is come.

It’s over!

A new morning; a new light, bleaching my sight.

The raging pleasure in my veins; your response.

The oblivion we didn’t phantom.

Irrelevant at that point.

But now, our end result.


Reality has walked through the door after the new light loathe the night.

So can we pretend?

Pretend like it never happened?

Then, pleasure came without pain.

But I can’t say same for now.


An upset from food that pleasured my taste buds a while ago.

Everything with a consequence.

Without retort to eating that which I am not accustomed to, I am beginning to abhor without reasoning through.

I am, in fact, pretending like it never happened.

Yet the aftermath, not so much.




Asford Psalms



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Photography & Spoken Word

VIDEO: Chief Moomen talks poetry, theatre & STORYTELLING on CNN African Voices



Renowned Ghanaian poet and playwright Chief Moomen was recently on CNN’s African Voices, discussing his craft and country Ghana.

The feature sees the Wogbɛ Jɛkɛ producer reveal his earliest introductions to the spoken word, citing the great Maya Angelou as being responsible for his “artistic awakening”.

He also comments on the place of the creative arts towards national development.

THEATRE – Of Chief Moomen’s Wogbɛ Jɛkɛ

Currently a teaching assistant at the Theatre Arts Department of the University of Ghana, Moomen has performed on multiple high-profile platforms. He is also author of Village Fresh, a collection of poems.

Watch the video below: 


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Photography & Spoken Word

#ENEWSGHPoeticLicence: Drift – Asford Psalm



Change is constant.

How we did get here might be different.

Yet still, we are brought to this ever-evolving dimension.

I was brought here too, through the common path.

Shortly after my pull into the new world I knew not, I heared voices.

Voices of shouts of success.

Atleast that is what I think.

And the voice of a calming scream.

A scream of pain and of joy.

And tears, only of what a mother would give.

But my tiny brain was immature to determine the myriad of cluttered noise and faces.

However, my soft heart could tell that I have made my first drift.

A drift from a motherly belly to the outer skirts.

A drift from a known old world into an unknown one.

A world of uncertainty

A world of pure light and true darkness.


My transition was complete when I roared my pitchy tunes along with the fresh flow of innocent tears.

No one told me, but I should have carried on with my young cry.

For the world I am welcomed to is the one accustomed to the path of drifting slides.

Either smooth or rough, I am meant to go through.

And there is a combination of both in the changing lines of life’s pages.


From the darkness of my mother’s inner into the light of the world; was only the begining.

From her suckle.

To my crawl.

From my crawl, to my topple; along with my words in mumble.

And from my mumbles and fruitful topples, I stood then later said my first true words; gibberish, maybe.

That was a drift that brought smiles to the faces of those around.

So they say.


My see of the world was colours and pictures.

I was too fascinated to begin asking the repeated questions of, “what’s next?.”

From when I was a babe; taught right and wrong.

Good and bad.

And to when I knew exactly how to cover up the strangest lie with an ‘amour of honesty’.

I continue to grow older and older.

Each second; each minute; everyday; all the months; a year.

And so it goes on.

Every one of those cycles whether in reverse, had stripes of either a joyful drift or a sorrowful one.


As if a fall to the ground each time I attempted to walk wasn’t enough; even as a toddler.

But that always proves my certainty.

Certainty in the drift.

The drift in time on the wait in patience.

How patient I was, laid on the simple fact of growing up into the age of wisdom and the perception of self dependency.

None of these is an easy goal.

But when the going gets stiffer, I evolve.

How youthful I’ve become, drifting from sand-play to pen-write is just a plus.

Life is a trick and none of its tricks gets old.

I was tricked into laughter when I was a suckling.

Now, I’m young and I have to play tricks in life to make me laugh.

But later, in the future, others will play tricks on me; hoping we will share a mutual laugh.


Growing old is as easy as waiting for the next  year.

And in a year, every single event of change carries a huge weight.

The weight of drift in ignorance and into intelligence.

Fading myself away from certain life rules into the ones I make, is just a shade of the entire picture.

Even though I have learned to grow myself from being a baby, the drift of time between then and my youth; nothing came easy.


I am to be successful.

And I ask myself, “how?”

But after I succeed, I will ask again, “what’s next?”

That’s when a gorgeous life request rears its head.

Soon, I ‘ll be coupled.

But that is just a plus too.

Willingly, soon after, we will multiply.

And that will be a major drift.

What’s next after this is a bit easy.

I start to play tricks on them and they; on me

Till I can’t take it no more, especially with a stick in hand.

Yet again, I ask the inevitable question of, “what’s next?”.

And the answer is as easy as raising your head to the son.

But after my final drift.

After that drift where my spirit and soul are far from my feeble body, I’ll still have one last question unanswered yet.

What’s next??



Asford psalms

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Photography & Spoken Word

#ENEWSGHPoeticLicence: Grey Area – Asford Psalms



The foreign winter sips into the new year.

The African harmattan sleeps but wakes and creeps into the month of the same year.

Grey is the colour I see.

The eve of the new year is the three hundred and more days lived again.

A new checklist is written again.

The old one, indifferent all the same.


This eve, I bear new leaves.

Of the same old stock.

My green will remain for the month.

But don’t blame me if I change.

If I do, it’s the season.

Probably ‘coz I was frozen in winter’s brief or I was shivering under harmattan’s breeze.


When winter passes and the man blowing the harmattan wind collapses, I may dry out.

Then you see me- the old branch of the same old trunk.

I can’t make a tree on my own, so I’m not alone.

There are many of us, feel free to join.

Be the new sprout.

Soon, you will be bundled with us in count.


Grey is what I see.

It’s you and me.

Bearing fruits this coming year’s eve and a few in the new year’s June.

Our green is new but the seasons are the same as the past.

We circle in the same old cycle.


Grey is what I see.

We are new this eve and the new month to come, I believe.

And as winter passes and harmattan dances, we won’t be new anymore- so who do we fool?


If you ask me, grey is what I see.

Old branches bearing new leaves, soon it becomes the same old tale.

Green leaves or dry leaves; dry leaves or green leaves.

Do we become grey or we already are?

This grey area is real.

Can you deal with it?



Asford Psalms.

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Events & Places

2017 Rapperholic Concert – The SADIQ MORE images you must SEE!



Here are beguiling Sadiq More -made images from the just-ended 2017 Rapperholic Concert headlined by ace Ghanaian act Sarkodie.

The fifth year running, the show came off at the Accra International Conference Centre Monday, December 25, and witnessed groundbreaking performances from the likes of  Kwesi Arthur, Article Wan, Jayso, Worlasi, King Promise, A.I, Captain Planet, Obrafour, ENO, Feli Nuna, Freda Rhymes, Efya, Becca, Korede Bello, Samini, Epixode, Joey B, Kurl Songx, Kwaw Kese, Magnom, B4bonah, R2Bees, Akwaboah Jnr., Teephlow, Adina, Strongman, and Yung L.

Compered by friend and dancehall singer Charles Nii Armah Mensah (Shatta Wale), the event was graced by industry colleagues and celebrity friends including EIB Network CEO Bola Ray, ZYLOFON boss Nana Appiah Mensah, Black Stars’ skipper Asamoah Gyan, global viral sensation Michael Dapaah (Big Shaq) among others.

See the images below:

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Photography & Spoken Word

#ENEWSGHPoeticLicence: Harm at hand -Asford Psalms




These days are new.

Nevertheless, the weather has its own view.

There’s harm at hand, you know?

The harmattan man has returned from his journey of oblivion into our west.

Here, we already knows what he brings, we’ve seen his worst.

I think he enjoys it.

Afterall, he has returned to the home of his brother where he knows his wife brews the best ginger beer; his favorite.

Sharing his travel experience with his younger brother and sipping on some fine, freshly brewed ginger beer, what else could he ask for?


But for us, we ask for less reminiscence.

For the more he does such, he laughs.

And with a ginger beer breath, the air he spouts out of his dry lungs with hysterical wits;

Dries our skin and land.

Fogs our sight.

Crack our lips and foot;

And edifies flames.


This harm is though less than a greater one at large.

The land is thirsty.

And I can tell because when the harmattan man is in around, the land has always been thirsty.

But I can’t tell if its the harmattan man’s fault or not.


He may have as well dried our pockets since we are in a hurry in search of something.


I do not know.

And with our fogged sight, cracked lips and paddling our cracked feet on the dry land in a search to edify our pocket of needs, we make our own harm at hand.


Harmattan man is in town.

The land is dry and thirsty.

It searches for anything to drink.

Water, bear or blood.

I plead not the latter.

And I pray I always remember that in search for better, beard can always be eating without butter.


via Asford Psalms



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