Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

I am guilty

‘Coz within my 20 and so journey of life’s Math’s

I’ve impregnated about 50,001 women

Whom I never sung the choruses

To spike their bodily temple

Yeah…I am guilty

For aborting fifty thousand and one image of a soul

Within my naked thought,

cankerworm mind and idolized eyes

that exposed my emotions to the curvy contours

and hips don’t lie of their wavering “bakuna”

I say I am guilty

Though no god of a man can judge me

Coz I speak in a language of riddles and proverbs

Of which men of the Babel tower

Cannot interpret to the senses of the ordinary mind


I am guilty

Guilty of masturbating behind the corridors

of a crippled age

where sin draws clouds

of masked shadows on my crooked path

Yeah.. I’ve betrayed God

by being a Judas of this earth

and a Jezebel who couldn’t condomize her libido

‘coz my eyes were the sight to their smeared breast at day

and “otofista” exposee of their turner beads

My eyes have sinned

to a sight my body neither fondled

nor my magnetic hands caressed

Yeah… my thought have led me prodigal

in an arrayed erotic foreplay, in my mind…

in my mind…  

in my mind

as I think of you.


Copyright © 15-09-2013

Michael Kwaku Kesse Somuah


‘Tis this day

I lay my head upon your shoulder

I plead a cause of my bolder

And call the shades of my past to light


To this hour

I grieve no sour

For I was once prodigal

Lost in love and milky breast

For I acted naught

Whilst the mirror stamped reflexes

to the souls of the living


and today,

I have found joy in the currency of forgiveness

By the hearts that I cursed

And entwined in a hope

of an arm that bonds delight

and fond memories of a mother

whom I call home


Copyright © 18-08-2013

Michael Kwaku Kesse Somuah


For whence my DNA is prosperity

and birthright a yoke of honey

who shouldest curse thy pot


For whence my wealth is dew

and sinew pillar is renewed

who shouldest cast the dark shadow


For whence my life is green

and on this meadow

the god of oblivion is no ally

who shouldest fight the rains


For whence I am weak and bleak

and lost in the soul of time,

who shouldest proclaim my sleep in the sight of God


This guest had no tastier snuff

to offer me hand to reach the high shelf

and as a humble sheep,

with no guided light of the shepherd,

I have learnt to bleat my own bleat

and chew the cud in my own discrete pent


So ask not of me to fetch you hope

from the gourd of which your hands could not enter.


I shall rise in your time

I shall rise in your reign

For the winds to echo my name in distant glories


Copyright © 11-06-2013

Michael Kwaku Kesse Somuah


Sikaman has always been my name
it was my birthright
which was passed on from my ancestors
to my grandfather, who sowed the seeds
on fertile lands and allowed not the rains pour
to germinate that which had been planted
Sikaman…. Agya Sikaman, had a gourd
filled to the brim with water
and would sprinkle them on these pallets
so the gods would match his hard work
with fruits and wealth of his labor

Sikaman has always been my name
My grandfather planted this yoke
and before his death,
fastened its walking stick
into a distant galaxy
and opined to my father, “bear Sikaman as a tattoo
of our household name, for there lies thy glory”.
Sikaman… Agya Sikaman, I recalled had a calabash
always full of fermented palm sap
and would look to the skies
as his Kente wax, scares the eyes of the cursed
by pouring libation to the gods of our ancestors

Sikaman has always been my name
the wit of my father
and tensile strength
which bears jewelries of gold and cola
for thy sons and daughters behold says,
“little by little fills up the bowl”.

Copyright © 15-07-2013
Michael Kwaku Kesse Somuah


Posted: January 12, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

I have won a sweepstake,

An armory of arms.

And I can make a billion bucks

By emptying them on the streets

Through crooks and hooks


For posterity sake and you,

I leave you to the peace of Eden

By burning the unjust fortune

Of pain, and mourning tunes


Copyright © 2012

Michael Kwaku Kesse Somuah (Ghana)

Published in Virtue and Vices Anthology, Forward Poetry and used at UK Libraries

World Poetry Cafe-El Mundo Poesie Interview of Michael Kwaku Kesse Somuah

You dawn my eyes with tears

And blot my thoughts with sighs

You roll my days into seasons

And arrest my ego like the clocking prick

You horn my emotions with pleasures

And jerk my wheel with happiness

You tease my days with the Bamba drums

And arouse my path to jazzing peace

You are Poetry

You are Awinsem,

Proverbial ambience of traditional aura

I am a Poet



You custom my beliefs with ink

And pot them under beds of bamboo

You image my shades and lost letters,

With the pen that drips and dip history

You awaken the early sun,

And flare on the local cock to crow,

K)k)k)k)k) kokrokooo.

You mount sensation onto Ama Obrapa,

By lumbering her ‘will’ and dozing eyes

through the slink and lush forest,

Just to fetch the still water of the lying rivers,

to wash the night away.

You are Poetry

You are Awinsem

Proverbial heritage of customary bonds

I am a Poet


You impregnate the foam of the palm tree

Into calabashes of herbal treat,

By stealing my ego into empty space.


You cause merry to my broken bones

And leave me drunk of wine,

and tales of our ancestors

‘till the dawn of splendor and dew,

Awaken my sleep, with vocal tenderness

You are Poetry

You are Awinsem

Proverbial Incantations of traditions and gods

I am a Poet


You map my face with lavender

And synchronize my image as the full moon

You brew my lips with clay

And cloth my artistry with Kente of Bonwire

You send Maame calling…

Paapa probing…

And portrait my undeniable deeds

To the whacking palms of Agya Pa

You are Poetry

You are Awinsem

Proverbial thoughts of manners and perceived reflection

I am a Poem


That Poem pride itself in Ahenema

Subject its ethics by calling the elderly Efo

That poem offers his seat to the grey

That poem is not Eve or Jezebel

That poem awaits the initiation of Bragoro or Dipo

And wears the crown, of O ye virtuous woman

That poem has values,

That poem has rhythms of Kpanlogo,

Music of kete, symbols of Gye nyame,

Talking drums of dondo,

and orators of stools.

That poem,

And just this poem is the bush, in which you hide,

that has eyes.

This poem has Religion,

Of Salvation.

So call me, the Poet


Copyright © 12-05-2012

Michael Kwaku Kesse Somuah