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Apathy

AdultApathyDeathInspirationalLovePoetry

UNCLAIMED LOVE by AL Latif Kambo-Naa

The nectar that flinks on me
And never goes away
Crossing path was the only thing needed
At that winding staircase of uncertainty
With an eye glued to the blue skies
Mapping out glory days of hope

The nectar that flinks on me
And never goes away
To honeysuckle rim days
Bearing holes of comfort
And ceasing to blaze in their own tide
Yet snoozing through gloomy hours of sleep.

The nectar that flinks on me
And never goes away
On the light shone through the skiing cloud
In Days of scrawling garage
of high mounds of love,
Rooting, roaring and rising
above sinking ship of sadness.

The nectar that flinks on me
And never goes away
By tongue breaker who appears insight
No amount of therapy could restore a dented heart,
thoroughly bred in your own imagination

The nectar that flinks on me
And never goes away
Where love treks through the ranks of understanding,
But never settled in any moment of time,
shaking the very foundation of affection.

The nectar that flinks on me
And never goes away
To a bountiful heart in a greener garden
Searching Seacoast for smiles
Languishing in the wrong worded lips
Of a bee that painfully stinks the mind
Like its honeysuckle.

By: AL Latif Kambo-Naa

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AdultApathyHopeInspirationalPoetry

TALE OF UNITY by Al-Latif Kambo-Naa

We walked through a glass street door
Poised to be back in saloon room
Shake by wagging tale of unity where
Leaves fell from the bulging tree.

Tugged into clean muddy waters
Of a family yawning off hunger
In a land of abundant fruits
Carrying a huge cross of regret.

Took a three-sixty day of reflection
Dying in self-pity of the past
Hooked by words of ancient tree and
Roots sprout in covered soft layers.

In a place where friend fielded
In for a for in an ambush for glory.
An elite league of African legends
substituted in agony for the norm.

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AdultApathyDeathDrawings And PaintingsLifePoetry

Old Age! A Crime?

So much has happened around us
Serious maiming of ourselves
As if we will not grow old one day

Powerful hands that once nurtured us
Bathed us in their own basins without killing us
And fed our hungry bellies to grow

Legs that once carried us through difficult ways
Walked miles unmeasured to safeguard us
Their bodies as our grass to step to grace

Eyes that once taught us silent speeches
Trailed our vulnerable steps to wisdom
Witnessed ungrateful generations uncharted

Ears that once listened to our wrath
Carried us on their falling backs without complaint
Our weight bending their waist to lynching mobs

Sons and daughters of her herd
Has sorted her old life out in disgrace
Tagged as witch overnight

Our vulnerable aged in society
Who has no wealthy pillars to lean on
Condemned to witchery at will

Breathe! Breathe! Youth and Adults of today
Who points fingers at the aged
They may be abstract, you are the whole chapter

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AdultApathyDeathPainPoetry

WHEN THE WORLD DIED FOR A BRUTE

Torn Between Brotherhood,
Power and Wealth-
A Sinful Macabre.
Africa will never forget
Buyelekhaya (go back home)”

Dear Mama,

Once there was a cigarette puff,
A certain feeling filled cape of good-hope,
This harrowing scent of a smoky air,
Resulted.
And I wasn’t going to write you anytime soon;
Yet a sealed sill culled through a peaceful piece,

Though I thought I was on brakes, until
I saw the scribbled breaks
“where nothing is, everything is a deal”
written boldly on the back of a shirt
Hanged on a tattered body;
bodies flushed as WC excreta.

It filtered through the thronging brawls,
an unpleasant mix of loud noise
Permeating the sliding walls of the south,
Ejecting your skin color;
Some say it was xenophobia
and others Afrophobia.
But whichever phobia it was, it was a bad phobia.

I know you aren’t searching for understanding
It’s a matter of delicate horror,
What am I talking about?
Answers for the north or the West
Could not fill the vacuum;
but for the benefit of minds
who isn’t aware let me recount?

Once upon a time, in South Africa,
it was ‘do or die’
which befuddled a multicolored great nation;
Sons and daughters of Shaka Zulu,
Shabala Nkulu, Mandela Nelson,
Desmond Tutu, and Steve Biko,

Dehumanized by Sons of Victoria,
Enslaved by daughters of Catherine of Aragon,
Subdued by Beatrix of the Netherlands
And apartheid by the Elizabethan Monarchy.

Roads bifurcated into black and white;
carting black blood
into gloomy rooms called colored, native, and the rest.
Educated, Semi-educated, and manpower,
What Marechera Dambudzo’s tagged, “aesthetic distancing.”

The whole of Africa poured down their blood,
Flesh, Bones, words, fury, tears, and future
Just for the relief of a Sister–South Africa.
We cried, wailed and moaned;
Painful mourning in the dawn of apartheid.

Turned into a tune-up knight in the nights,
Where sons and daughters vanished into calm air.

A city of Saints and Sinners
where they posit as angels,
Commanded an era of good souls
both devoted and undevoted Africans.

Freedom appeared from luckless blood,
An unwanted diagnosis popped up,
They rode on the wheels of it
Cutlass their defenders to death,
Burned their brothers and Sisters
Closed their businesses
All in the name of “foreign”
Angels of yesteryear
have turned devils of today

And if not in Africa, I never knew
or heard of it before.
Probably it happened somewhere else too
And the world came to a stop
For the birth of a brute.

 

Al-Latif Kambon-Naa

Picture Credit: Unknown

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AdultApathyFamilyLifePoetry

PUNCTURED CORD

A lake formed from the black voltas
Bowl lying at the Upper tip
In a crossroad, called Wa(come),
Owning a spreadsheet of Land,
Sissala to the North, Lobi to South,
And Flooded by cordless blood.

A windy air blew up calluses of kinship
in a morning tide,
Carrying all the juicy portions of culture,
And roughages of fertile ties
Into a galavanting wind;

Bandwagoning Dagara to the West.

Why would it become empty?
But to create cracks of crates,
Grouping Kwabenas (sons) here,
Abenas (daughters) there,
furrowing pleasant eyebrows.

She looked with an open eye,
Cloven closer to its dry banks
Like Mighty Janjan Pond in harmattan,
Yet so apart like Tibanga Tuo
When crisis beckons.

What’s a cultural bond to a WhatsApper?
A once illustriously illuminating kinship
Peaked in a big Tower of Tendaalung,
An offshoot of a broader Baking Clan,

Lighting corners of Upper West,
Binding Suuri(s) and Puohu(s) together;
A placental fiber,
Stronger than ligature rope.

No! She isn’t a love poet, nor a flower bed,
Yet she connected hearts,
Stitching souls,
And conjoined bodies into a single
family bowl.

Here, in this bowl;
A brother shared a brother’s glory,
Painted a whole community’s mood,
Celebrated a brother’s daughter’s name.

Here, in this bowl;
A brother’s toil is shared,
A cry, a sister’s shoulder ready to bear,
A community’s firmament of mourns.

Here, in this bowl;
An uncle unveiled his merriment to
An orphan’s perching hive,
A cousin’s achievement eulogized
in a crowd’s corner,

Here, in this bowl,
A morsel of history
Sewn-in the hearts of trees,
Remembered by generational leaves.

Here, in this bowl;
Formed an epicenter of Tradition,
Where cords of folklore crisscrossed
Like a vertical sliced Orange.

Now, the bowl has broken,
Facebooker calls it OLDEN;
ARCHAIC swelled up
In an Instagramer’s finger;
Yet Widaana never died.

Now, inside the broken bowl,
PRIMITIVE coiled in a Westerner’s lips;
ANCIENT pegged on modernity’s tongue,
LOCAL occupied technology’s mind
And yet Suuri clamped in nativity.

Houses lost their common bond to fenced yards,
Societies separated by boundaries
Of Religion’s concrete walls.
Cooling wattle and Daubs,
Squashed into molten Iron hubs,
Rising into unknown heavens.

Our curated modern towns of nothingness
Trudged by imaginary time-lines,
religion took it toll, punching societal mores,

A nation’s muffling glory;
A dimming history subdued into
Neighing colonial dialects.

Oh! What a lost HOME?
A COMMUNITY, full of pure values,
Culled into festivals, music
And dance
Lost its course to a pejorative time
of Modernity.

 

Img: Medium

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AdultApathyDeathPoetry

Cold

COLD, COLD HEART

Cold disposition, black of heart,
I had your measure from the start

Did you really believe it was true?

That I was in love with you?

You are gullible and a fool,

You broke my unspoken golden rule

You are mine now and you will see

Nobody hurts my family…..

You made my sister love you so

She married you, she couldn’t know

Before she’d disgusted the wedding feast

You made it clear that you were beast.

She hid it well, in the early days

As she suffered your vicious violent ways

You never bruised her pretty face,

You punched and bit every other place

You thought that she would never tell

Now I’m sending you to hell

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ApathyPainSpoken Word

The Big Wave

No fun for the broken heart sometimes, obviously there’s no fan for the ‘Adeɛyie’ when he’s mending tattered sweat pants, very suffocating.
Calling me ‘sweetheart’ is just like sugarcoating my heart with words, not knowing that part of your plan to fracture it into cookies and clear them as well as the cache of promises.
Devil in disguise! A devil in this guy’s body is frightened by the touch of “this angel”, a touch much bitter much than death.
I remember the day I looked through the windows, I read your lips. You told me;
“You are the apple of my eye”, oh no no no!
You were eyeing that bitten apple behind that tablet bought by your “guy friend”, forgetting what you inscribed on the tablet of my heart.
I guess it was one of your other courses you’ve planned to “chew and pour, pass and forget”. Well, you’ve had your distinction!
Hello Apathy! I just sent you a friend request. They said I’m experiencing heart break, of course! I’ve got no heart left to break because my heart is taking a break so haters please pump your brakes!
That day, I gave a big wave. The sound, the air and the sea couldn’t stand mine so they rallied behind me and gave their waves. I know I’m not perfect but I was pushed to the wall to say goodbye!

 

THE TRAGEDY OF SOCIETY

Cold

Ageless Friend

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