DEAD HARMONIES

Death knocked on their door

Countless times this year

but nobody answered.

In his luring voice

 He began to sing.

Soprano, alto, tenor, bass,

 In key.

 But none of their voices matched his,

 So they kept mute

To avoid disrupt in harmony.

 They waited for some units of time,

Hoping that

 Death will the same way to the end.

 But fear anchored

Their voiced down that

 They could not stomach it anymore.

 So one after the other,

 Starting from a youngest folk,

They started giving birth to sounds

Through vocal chords

 But they were just dead harmonies. 

---Evans Owusu Kissi & Fampah Coyish---

PROFIT AND LOSS

From outside comes sounds

Of cutlass cutting into a tree's skin..

Chaa... Chaa... Chaa...

For God knows how long.

Little timbers falling With mighty unheard sounds.

Creeping little things Run for dear lives.

Cha... Cha... Chaa.

 God knows where to.

 Is the tree's name a stranger to this man?

 Does it matter?

 Does he know the harm caused to other living beings?

 Does he care?

 No, no matter.

 Once he feels not their pain,

 No allowance of care

Could sneak into his untamed heart.

Oh life....

 Look how unfair you could be.

 While one gains here

Another loses there.

 Oh dear!

Why are you this cruel?

 Until when shall your bosom blossom with mercy?

 When?

 ---Fampah Coyish & Abotreh---

Evans Owusu Kissi is a Ghanaian poet with pen name Abotreh which means patience in Twi-one of the Ghanaian dialects.

We have done some collaborations together , and this is our second work done together.

I COULDN’T WRITE YOU A SONG

The days of toil

on this soil

Gradually passing as clouds

and age is only become,

Something of great interest to men-

something to be celebrated.

I wish I could write or even sing you a song

to complete this celebration

So I write you a lullaby

in your youthful days

As my alibi

for I couldn’t write you a song;

May your troubles and problems, fall to sleep

as this lullaby is heard

And your love grow,

like the old Adansonia digitata in the Savannah

May your joyous songs be full

and in days where there aren’t any left,

In your heart,

May your mind be full of songs

and your heart turgid of prayer

I would write you a

if I could,

But I couldn’t

I would paint you with words,

if I have the brush of numerous vocabularies;

But I couldn’t know how best to

but, a lullaby I leave you with,

To alibi you in your sleepless times.

---Fampah Coyish---

THE MOUNTAIN

1

Oh beautiful sculpture
Standing proud above the hamlet,
Above the hills and valleys,
Above whole rivers and rivulets

Oh Gods creative masterpiece
Drawing up grasslands and forests
Painting greens and greys together
Viewing fine pasture and hot deserts

Oh great traditional edifice
The guardian of our little hamlet,
Protector of our flora and fauna
And providing us with food and meat

2

Many are  that wish to

Climb you up from afar

Bend themselves over to take off

their shoes or even put them on

For they have not met a kind like you

Afadja; thick, tall, beautiful!

Let your beauty be heard in far lands

That they may wish to come applaud your elegance

O mountain Afadja!

---Oke Iroegbu, Fampah Coyish---

This is my  second collaboration with Oke Iroegbu, a poet from Nigeria. This time, we wrote a piece on Nature, and about a Beautiful Mountain called "Afadja" found in the Volta Region in Ghana.

SILVER SPOON

Many are, that were born with gold spoons in mouth

And some in old nest

And when they cried gold fell

That their voices were clouded,

and not even heard

we, we were not that favoured

so we, when we cried

 they shoved big rusty spoons in our hands

we were warned to hold them glued

for with time, they will grow into gold

or the nearest to it-silver

to feel we rocked shoulders

for blood will drain both, when cut;

this was to give credibility for their doing

but when cut, we knew one thing they knew we knew

blood will surely drain one to the graves

we were stretched to believe

we all have rights, and a reason to be happy,

amidst all odds

schooled to think, and feel, we are all equal

but whom should we rain blame on?

For we all never chose this life

We were just placed here

We grew, but when we grew,

our rusty spoons never changed to silver or gold

so we polished it with gold dust

to keep our pride without blemish

but they were only telling us

we shall take pride in the trade

in which we have been born.

---Fampah Coyish---

TIPSY DIRGES

This is not a song
cooked from the core of hearts

Not a tale told from
wild tortured thoughts.

This is a dirge,
of bravery.
A eulogy
of drowned aspirations.

A comfort for the
broken, sunken soul.

---Fampah Coyish---

DECEMBER TIDES

1

Tasty for the spoils of the dry month, we are

Dry air, dry waterhole, dry lips, dry paper

Moisture lost to the heat of the traveling sun

But our feet has got many options, wait or run

And today the breeze drives the wind to us

We savor, we enjoy, to you emissary we trust

You have come with the mighty Harmattan 

Your dry airs and heat has become our tan

2

Trees sway

With blur visions on sight

As a bonus for being alive

At the point of the year

Air so dry, with hot sun rays

You only bring us dry tidings 

Cracked foot, that hurt

But we the people of this land still loves you.

---Oke Iroegbu, Fampah Coyish---

I wrote this piece with Oke Iroegbu, a poet from Nigeria. The both countries of ours Ghana and Nigeria fall in West Africa, and enjoy the same weather and climate. We have written about December and her tide. Oke Iroegbu, wrote the first stanza and I have got the second.

December, Harmattan, Nigeria, Nigerian poet, Ghana, Ghanaian poet.

OCEAN'S BEAUTY

Oceans too crave for beauty,

The colour of the sky they envy

 deep within their bosom,

 they selfishly devour.

 If I ask you to bring to me a blue seawater,

 You'll see oceans never had a colour

Of their own.

A life of pretense they exude.

At the white shore,

What they are is truly displayed;

At the feet what they hide they show.

 A life so fraudulent, they live.

---Fampah Coyish---