Enough Of What Literature Can Tell Poem by Oduro Bright Amoh

Enough of what literature can tell
And revered choirs sing.
The common must give room to the extraordinary.
The minuscule, like a seed neglected,
Cast upon no man's land,
Must learn to die so it may survive,
So it may become a thousand.
The uncommon, with hope in soul and courage at heart,
Strength in foot and determination at hand,
Must forge on.
Along to the promise of birds soaring above the blue grey sky.
On to the delight of waves without worry,
Tossing, turning and throwing their tides about.
Write the near love and near kisses,
The great hope and true wishes.
Space out the love lost, and blown away treaties,
The shed tears and false mirth,
The heartbreaks and foolish talks.
Write the mystery, not of misery,
But of the promise of love not yet tasted;
Of lips not yet blessed with dewy kisses.
Write the wind of endearment,
As it blows its cucumber breeze along,
As its meeting with perseverance becomes a whirlwind;
A whirlwind of pleasures bought with pain,
Of roses in the blood filled hands of the plucker.
Of the joy that erstwhile was measured with tears.
Write! Write not the broken hearts and the straight faces,
The wet eyes and the dry minds.
Write not their acerbity and lacklustre.
Shun their frozen airs and flowing grief.
Write words of the sun, piercing through every gloom.
Write words of the stars as they blend Beautifully before the beseechers best.
Enough of what literature has told
And revered choirs have sung.
The extraordinary must show its face.