Oduro Bright Amoh

Oduro Bright Amoh Poems

Whenever I pick my pen
To let my muddled thoughts flow,
Words fly helter skelter from my brain
Like a flock of sheep pursued by a lion.

'Repent, old man, and be born again'
So the clergyman said to Grandpa.
Grandpa with a frown on his wrinkly face replied.
'Well, my son, I will be born too many times,

The painful dreams of bitter realities.
High waves, low tide.
Yesterday's beauty, today's beast.
She sits in where her ilk are standing out

There are holes in my pocket because I patched yours
I gave youmy songs when you lost your voice
If love is a star I brought down the sky
I gave all my love, guess you wanted more.

I have received the keys; you gave them to me.
My heart was as you wanted it,
You could open and go as you pleased.
But now I have the keys. I had trouble opening the door

Weary lover with heavy eyes, call it a night.
Your sleepy smiles fade on your sleepy cheeks.
Close your eyes and open your dreams.
A silent slumber awakens the imagination with its noise.

To be there is to steal the beats of beautiful women's drums and find nowhere to play it.
To be there is to watch the sea lick the dimming sun to a sad finish.
To be there is to stand in the worn out shoes
Of dead men and cry the end of their lives.

The very first step of life
Essentially determines the strength of the last.
Though we plod with tears and sweat our way forward,
We ought not neglect our backs.

Not at first sight my views I show,

Neither is it with experience that these words flow;

Alone, a lonely night with dull light from the  moon shining,
I, when all cares had been cared for, was upon my bed reclining,
My feet  were weak from walking
My lips were shut from talking

Oh that I had a mermaid's tear,
Two silver chalices of life and death
Then would I gallantly without fear
Journey with blade fixed in sheath

Nights like this produces charms
Of your grace in my heart;
For night after night have I been in your arms
But the light of morn tears you and me apart

Sweetheart, though our love be separated by distance
Though geography tries its uncanny tricks to put us apart
Never wonder if I will in some instance
Lose the affection that swells in my heart.

I took a picture of you with my eyes 
Which I would've given to you as a surprise.
To the photo-lab of my head it went. 
There it was processed and sent 

If to embitter your smiling heart
And flow the tears on paths
Where there should be blushes,
If to steal from your approving eyes

When with sad eyes and sunken hearts
we mime the end of speech,
And then with poker faces
Declare words obsolete.

Myriads: the poems carefully written,
And myriads too those penned without care.
That everything be remembered is the desire
Running through the author's brain.

In the deep bosom of my broken heart
A certain darkness was planted
As the tear drops of misery and pain fell upon its place,
A certain melancholy seed breathed its last in the soil of despair.

Did you see the old man?
The one who just passed there?
I thought he wore a grimace as
The other old men we know.

The Best Poem Of Oduro Bright Amoh

That's Why I Write

Whenever I pick my pen
To let my muddled thoughts flow,
Words fly helter skelter from my brain
Like a flock of sheep pursued by a lion.
I write to watch grief float away into oblivion
Like dandelion seeds ruffled by a mischievous wind.
Like the smirk lurking on Cupid's cheeks as he scurries away
After the  crime of love is perpetrated,
I write to carry out the mischief of pricking  with laughter.
And as I watch millilitre by millilitre my ink spin art upon wood,
I smile darkly with an air of one
Whose nefarious plans have come to fruition.
I write so that the reality of imperfection
May only remain in dreams.
That the lame may walk upon the paths of righteousness,
That the blind may see the glitter of their golden hearts,
That the deaf may hear what sweet melody is playing in their souls.
I write that the poor may find abundance of wealth
Hidden in the treasure chests of their virtue,
That the puny, suffering and vulnerable
May find Samsonite strength in the very cause of their weakness.
That they may raise heads and beat chests
When they should be sulking in self pity.
I write so that those bound by the shackles of this world's anxieties
May find relief in simplicity
And experience the freedom of the untamed mind.
That those bound by barnacles of bilious badness
May heave a heavy sigh of hope in a higher height.
I write for the weeping and wailing.
I write for the tired and weary.
I write for the soul smitten with many cares.
I write the reasons they shall wipe away their painful tears,
The reasons why poker faces shall have in their stead blushing cheeks.
Cheeks that blush from the relief of worry.
I write to unburden minds and put to peaceful sleep
The insomnia that hangs in the stormy brain
In serpentine caution, sharing fear
In the road trod by gallantry.
That's why I write.

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