CRIME TO poEtRY

“An age down memory lane
There was good…there was evil
We chose good evil
Your shrill cry broke her labor
She smiled…He smiled
No one cared how you felt
“He will be a lawyer”
“No, a doctor”
“Wait, an engineer”
“Maybe a pilot!”
“Yes a pilot”
Fly high above the skies

An age down memory lane
You wonder why he broke her hymeneal altar
After the hymnal before the altar
And they did say I do with no trace or sign of you
You didn’t beg to be born; yet you exist
Her breasts become company and you can’t but suck for growth
Growth comes with weaning, then winning on your own
Life has begun

An age down memory lane
You learn to crawl, walk and run
Run to a place far from reach
Call it chasing your dreams
You would rather crawl after those dreams if you knew running after them is how far some of us are meant to go
I’m only talking about the dreams we didn’t picture in the middle of our sleep
Those dreams dreamt by those whose dreams for us end at the point our own dreams begin
The joy behind the birth of some of us isn’t because a new member of the family has arrived like my SOCIAL STUDIES TEXT BOOKS taught me
But an opportunity for the parents
An opportunity to correct their mistakes using you as a refresh button to their lives

An age down memory lane
So dad wanted to be a lawyer but is a teacher
Mum wanted to be a nurse but is a trader
You arrive with them having fond memories of what they could have been
Mum couldn’t be a nurse, she wants you to be the nurse
Dad couldn’t be a lawyer, he wants you to be the lawyer
Your opinion matters only when you cry
They call you; “my lawyer and my nurse” no matter how you try
You strive with Arithmetic, Literature or Science to make the grades
Not you all have that grace
Some cry to live
Others cry to leave
You all have opportunities to be happy
Opportunities mostly out of reach
Some call it fate
Others think it’s luck
Religion calls it grace.
Yes Grace…not the carpenter’s daughter
But attention from above

An age down memory lane
Life and living is as old as the creation story
Like climbing higher for ornaments
Decoration storeys
Not to talk of that tree of good and evil that led us here
To face a charging army and have us thinking it’s all clear
As old as the flow of blood in human veins
Cease the flow of my blood and let me return to where I’m from
Even If it means breaking thousands of hymens and
Fighting with higher men for that diadem

The struggles of man could end at home
After I trust in myself and rise to thrust the gateway to my home
I sweat and vomit and bow my head in shame when I realize returning is mission impossible
Life is a game…on first hearing it sounds nothing but lame
Life’s mystery exceeds our own wits might
But wait a second…
Life could really be a game…not the hunter’s game
Game with only one rule…no rules
If Life is war, put down the guns and burn the arsenals…and say no to life
If Life is a journey…it better be a pilgrimage

Living tomorrow today is like a day without sunshine
You can feed your future without destroying our present
Never say you’re helpless, only believe and expect less
Make that decision your inner man pleases and let no man be your judge
If the voice of the people is the voice of God
Pray God makes you deaf
…death never be the solution to your failures
Mortality is inevitable
Death is the wish for the hopeless.
Hope is the air we breathe; sometimes poisonous
Cease breath for a moment and walk with your head high
Not high enough to make you stumble
Look back awhile, let it not blur your vision
Kill your emotions; you won’t be jailed
Resurrect your wisdom; you might be hailed
You can’t go back in time to edit the script of life
Your abilities end at casting
What is written is written”

After my last sentence, the auditorium was empty but for the bandsmen and chairs. I sure did something wrong. Maybe what I performed wasn’t a poem, maybe I disobeyed all the rules of poetry, maybe people turned up to listen to poems on African Slavery, Unrealistic Love stories , Gold and Ghanaian cultures. Maybe my rhyme scheme and literary devices were not enough to sustain their interest. My first attempt at poetry and it might as well be my last. Judge me poets…Forgive me for breaking all the rules in poetry. I spent the whole night making another mistake…writing another poem. Committing another crime; Crime to Poetry.

@JoewackleGh