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#ENEWSGHPoetic Licence: Sesquipedalian – ASFORD PSALMS

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Shush up already- can you?

Please, can you?

 

I have been silent enough.

But you whisper in echoes into my ears- that’s too much!

Please! Just be quiet and don’t be tough.

 

I hear you but it’s enough.

Be silent and don’t act tough.

I hear you babbling out your countless master plans.

It’s just enough- I can think on my own to choose a stance.

You can’t see beneath my skin.

So you can’t see me puff.

 

I hear you but it’s enough.

Be silent and don’t act tough.

I hear you rattling out your endless master speeches.

It’s just enough- I can think on my own not to choose the keech.

You can’t feel in between my teeth.

So you set them on edge.

You make them rough.

 

I hear you but it’s enough.

Be silent and don’t act tough.

I hear you wattling out your seemingness master journeys.

It’s just enough- I can think on my own to choose sceneries which suits my monies.

I know you can’t see within my brains.

So you addle my thinking.

You make it opposite to smug.

 

I hear you but it’s enough.

Be silent and don’t act tough.

I hear you nettling out your craftless master puns.

It’s just enough- I can think on my own to choose with spruce.

 

Shush up already- can you?

Please, can you?

I hear you but it’s enough.

Be silent and don’t act tough.

You speak too much with long words.

I just hope you don’t think less.

 

I hear you but there’s a perfect plan in my heart and in my head.

So I will be fine; my thinking comes first.

 

 

 

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Photography & Spoken Word

#ENEWSGHPoeticLicense: Coffin’s Flies – Cobby The Lexy Poet

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We have taken many down,

Like bullets to the pits.

Great and small we took ’em

Into the hole all bodies fit.

 

To God, and free we did it.

Without taking a token.

Granting them sweet eternal rest,

Where none ever have awoken

 

Fervently we delivered them;

Old babies to her womb.

And prayed the last, to wish them luck,

And out before they locked the tomb.

 

You too were such a soldier.

A major badged with honour.

From times their warmth grew colder,

Till ICED you stayed in their corner.

 

So just as you did for them,

We shall reciprocate; brother.

And do it even grander

For payments, don’t you bother.

 

We shall hum sweet tunes;

Ringtones of death’s calling.

Then pat your back into transition;

See you land, whether rough or smooth; from the highest falling.

 

Then jazz, afro and funk:

Your final parlour shan’t be quiet.

Genres of all kinds,

Acapella, poems black and white.

 

Then finally we’ll lift you.

Oh no, they will. As we lead the solemn journey.

The same way you led the lot from salt;

You go to join the many.

 

Try your best to rest in a piece;

As we go back home.

Farewell to you comrade;

And enjoy your latest foam.

 

 

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Photography & Spoken Word

#ENEWSGHPoeticLicence: “ASAMANDO Nkratoɔ” (Tribute to Ebony) – RHYMESONNY

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Rhymesonny, one of Ghana’s most outstanding poet and creative entrepreneur has added his voice to the frail. His incredible artistry and creativity on this poem he calls “ASAMANDO Nkratoɔ”.

“ASAMANDO Nkratoɔ” meaning Letter from the grave is a masterpiece. You can clearly see that this poet has mastered his craft and is on the rise.

The poem is full of wits and wisdom and addresses all Ghanaian to take heart and give the departed a befitting burial, his dexterity and wordplay, his command over the Twi language is unmatched.

Rhymesonny in recent times has taken Ghanaian poetry to another level with his poems, GOAT, Letter To My Unsung Music Heroes, Sun & Son, NERD, etc has really heightened the love for Poetry and Spoken word.

 

Listen to the piece below:

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Photography & Spoken Word

BURNING DESIRE WITH ZYNNEL! Photographer Ben Bond invokes raw sauce in new project – SEE IMAGES!

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Photographer Ben Bond’s latest work, done in honour of Valentine’s Day, portrays raw sauce like you have never seen.

Christened “Burning Desire with Zynnel”, the arresting experience, curated via red roses, seductive candlelight, and classic African curvature, is why we proclaim with raised hands: “Glory Glory Hallelujah!”

See the images below:

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Photography & Spoken Word

#ENEWSGHPoeticLicence: Corpus – Asford PSALMS

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From glory came the earth;

And from the earth, sand.

From sand came forth man;

And man brought forth sin.

For the reasons and reasoning, I care not.

But for the redemption plan god had for man, He sent down, in essence, His son to live with, for, and amongst men.

 

It appointed for man to live and then to die.

From dirt came man and into it we shall unwind.

Though born out of flesh the Spirit cometh from above.

And whether being a cross or a stake, He spilt His blood onto the ground for the Love sake

 

So what did He leave behind?

Love in all state;

A torn curtain in the inner of the temple so we can all partake with faith.

But as it is now, the faith is a counterfeit.

We believe in ourselves and curse in pennies and pounds.

There is too much ego in the church.

The place of respite is now a home to despise.

 

The head has forgotten its purpose and thinks it sits above the rest of the body, without it, the rest won’t live to tell its story.

The eye watches yet it sees blindly.

The nose breathes but holds himself to be the lifeline.

The mouth sings but not songs anymore; cursing the others not working well.

 

There’s too much ego in the church!

For the backbone knows that without him the entire body is crippled without a doubt.

Yet, he forgets he will not always stand.

Speaking of standing, the feet does that well; it can stand, walk and run.

It has learnt to run out of the sight of the sun.

Not forgetting the hand, he casts and kills; beats and steals.

And the remaining parts left to carve its own parts of what reality should feel.

 

What is wrong with the church is ego.

Pride in the works of thyself.

Head belittling the feet.

Eyes bewitching everything.

Hands bedeviling the heart.

Mouth; cussing the entire band.

And the bone believing without him, the rest is weak.

Oh! How quickly I forgot the brain; thinking highly of himself and silently talking in silence behind the back of the rest of the body.

 

The parts of the body in Christ;

The church He left behind and the scriptures we keep on to rewrite has been ridden with only word;

Ego!

 

There’s too much ego in the church.

 

Asford Psalms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Photography & Spoken Word

#ENEWSGHPoeticLicence: Truce with the Gods – Renee S. Akosua

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By Renee S. Akosua

I stood up above Afadja, questioning my inner self how I got so high up, I could see uncleared paths down below, broken clay pots and confused ants who missed their path as though they found my mere presence repugnant.

Oh Afadja was beautiful up above, clean air and cold winds. I could smell tainted roses. How did I get here, I whispered to noisy toads in far off distances, pretending to croak but eyeing my every thought?

I was here attempting to flee the ghosts that tip toed by noon and fled by night. I was here because those ghosts were no white phantoms in white bleached sheets no no no, those ghosts were in my head, under my skin. I almost led my self to the slaughter.

Maybe I came so we could call a truce, shake hands with the ghosts in my thoughts and show to them the beauty that lay far beyond Afadja. The beauty that lay within. For where weeds grow and die, do roses grow too.

I was here because the gods wouldn’t hear me. They turned their backs on me on harmattan nights. I shouted out, to their backs because they had turned on me but in reality all I had was them. I questioned them, because talking to them was like talking to a brick wall, even then, walls did echo.

I was overdosing on my own tears; I had become afraid of me.

But the gods, they had the answer or so I thought, think me not insane yet I whispered to my thoughts. Think me not insane.

Maybe if I could find the gods, maybe if I could get the gods to smile, maybe if they would let me run my finger across their existence, maybe they would fall in love with me …maybe.

And so here above Afadja, maybe they will hear me clearer, maybe my screams would rise up above the smoke the beans seller created behind my house.

Here then, maybe a reflection of my own self against the fog the gods created at dawn would entice them to answer me.

Answers I seek that my soul maybe set free, don’t eye your Bible yet. For finding the Genesis in the Revelation or vice versa I had not found my answers. As I stand here, watching, eyeing every moving cloud, I hoped that the gods would drop a hint at least, that for once or so…I’d been heard.

 

 

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Photography & Spoken Word

#ENEWSGHPoeticLicence: Instauration – Asford PSALMS

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The suspiration of a being signals either of two extremes;

A heartsome man or one in worrisome.

The watershed from cheer to worry is easier than its reverse.

An essence to revert from one’s brokenness is the reason for life itself.

 

A tile no matter how broken it is, if painstakingly mended back together, looks beautiful with no pride in its afterglow.

When life gives you lemons it asks you to make out of it lemonade, where the ‘ade’ do come from, don’t believe in fate in that instance.

Because moira only guarantees one thing; death!

And that’s the only surety in life.

To every life, death!

 

Man!

Make thyself approved.

Not by a lazy hand or by an ill-heart.

Make your heart cheer.

But for a man down, there’s only one place to go; up!

Nevertheless, don’t be fooled.

You cannot speak to a mountain to move into the seas or be leveled into a valley.

That’s horsefeathers!

 

Mountains were not made to be cast into the seas.

Neither were they made smoothly slanted.

They were created rocky so you should not mock Thee.

The rockier, the better it makes for featly climbing.

So at least, you will have something to hold on to.

Start Climbing!

 

Asford Psalms

 

 

 

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