by Adjei  Agyei-Baah




A goddess who struts in rocking beads

Ah! So do you think the lizard prostrates for nothing?

My Nubian queen of cinnamon delight, fleshy as a baobab

Face of a harvest moon, dispersing stars to an early sleep

Grace of the gazelle, floating kapok in the Harmattan Winds!

Pansiwaa, with her lips of zebra stripes, inviting like the froth

of African palm wine

Pansiwaa, her eyes are of the panther’s, pushing darkness

into a broad daylight

But for your warmth

I have missed in this wilderness of lashing coldness

Run my fingers through your fronds of jet black dreads

And have my sorrows melted in the grove of your shrine

I’ve sailed the seven seas, and felt its turbulent waves against my skin

This blackness which you nourished with your tender hands of shea-butter

Are now tough like the rhino’s

That only your Congo could dissolve

So long my soul has been tramped, muddied in the waters

of lords who never knew me a Negus

A Prince, who once surveyed my Savannahs of anthills and darting impalas,

Of crouching leopards who felt the sharpness of the hunter’s spear

But into thy coastal arms I return, through Elmina’s ”gate of yes return”

Thy radiant smile, my bearing found

Thy coconut water my thirst quenched

And in thy gentle breeze a moment restored!

Adjei  Agyei-Baah  is a co-founder at Poetry Foundation Ghana.







A Dip in the Pool

          by Ginna Wilkerson
by Ginna Wilkerson

July is the hilt of the knife –
August is the razor’s edge.

Sheets and cigarettes mask
the glare of day
stealing through the blinds.

Where is it that you go?
Sleep is the cusp of sex and love
in the twenty-first century.

Cigarette smoke swirls above the bed
as a wisp of black hair is tucked
behind one ear.

The buttoning of her shirt is framed
in violet silhouette.

Ginna Wilkerson is the author of Odd Remains .


Growing The Grey

by   Allison Grayhurst


Credit : Google images.

Splendor is stolen.
I call high but I am dammed

to the form of a lesser magic.

In captivity it is harder to communicate

the truth, to find the altar of happiness.

All things have I are stolen.

From a ship dismounted, I landed

and stole. I am always stealing and losing

God, cracking the cup of my direction.

Bodies exist to understand the brutality of loneliness,

to yield first to breath, then to sex and then to death.

When I was a candle I had the courage of a candle.

Planets I once walked upon are dead. Could I have been a child

and now I am not? How is it possible to give up the solidity of imagination?

Take me back through the ice-cross in the skylight, into the glow,

sniffing cool blue-green spores – smells purer than spin.

Caves and stars, coloured covered canvases

melting into unison. Alchemy as I walked, dissolving

into the flesh of constant spring, as I walked,

sprouting the nuclei of many mountains.


Allison Grayhurst  is a full member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 290 poems published in more than 170 international journals, magazines, and anthologies.Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then she has published ten other books of poetry and four collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream, and four chapbooks published by The Plowman.

            Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was recently published by Ottawa publisher above/ground press December 2012.

            She lives in Toronto with family. She also sculpts, working with clay.

In My Time

By Oyin Oludipe

Walls are thicker in my time

I fear the birth of twitching veins

To dare the severing sublime

Of heart from body to lone wings

In my time the air is gone

In place of blood to course the stench

That plows the senile mind than none

As rock-bred singers storm the drench

Here has learnt to bribe the heart

Guilt is wearied in crucible

Of time’s trampling seconds and that

Scourge of memories they cripple

Skies stare alone in my time

Squirming to reincarnate death

To the calling cold-hearted clime

Vultures roost, herald to the dearth

In my time mind crawls the vault

Where limbs scale the girth to partake

Of ballets foul, motions of spite

That shall plumb the soul deep to break

Yet, these seeds are reined of dusts

I fear the earth is choked on filth

The years reform their plaguing wraiths

Beneath the grime, that time so stealth