The way I see Liberia

This month is my birth month and to be exact, the 28th of July is my birthday. I have reached the half of a century mark and I am now on borrowed time. Because of my birth month, I will not bore you with the ills and shame of our African leaders; however, I wish to entertain you with a collection of my poetry. This collection of poems were compiled in a little booklet I wrote and called the Mispah which first edition was copyrighted for publication in 1993. These poems were written between the years 1967 to 1976. After 1976, I composed a number of private poems for personal friends that were never published. Our generation was robbed from genuine authority of trust from April 12, 1980 till August 11, 2003 in Liberia. We have now lost our true usefulness and it is time for us to prepare the ones behind us to take up the mantle of enlightenment, trust, service and good work; moreover, to further do the right thing.

The string of mankind is a phrase I coined in 1976 after I was expelled from the Holy Cross Mission High School in Bolahun, Lofa County two months before my High School Graduation. I strongly believed that there is an invisible string that connects each individual on the face of this earth with one another. It is my conviction that this string attaches us, all of humanity, steadfastly together through God's divine plan. I consider this idea as my philosophy of life. I call this string, the string of mankind. We are all one big earthly family of the universe, been housed in this world and equally been protected by the Supreme Being. Man, been man, sinful in nature, tries very hard to break away from this string to no avail; all because, the price was paid for (The string of mankind) long long time ago. We are all our brothers' keepers.

The serenity of joy holds the genuine togetherness of one another with the connected - String of Mankind. Thus, the peaceful surrounding of smiles, creates the peace of mind. The darken path of the moon, a brother of the tears of the ocean, leads the blind to his place of rest, in the shadowy world of his. The thunderous silence of the ocean's tide, speaks to the cold sun of her lost sister, the night, for stealing its beam, the light. Man, master of the universe, hears the barefooted stars, sing with soundless rough voices, of the connected - String of Mankind.

Up on the mountain, there lies the sun, who knows what corner of the earth came it? Shining its brightness on the heads of many, who dares to say it’s no good? For it's the source of our lives.
Up on the mountain, there lies the sun, look east look west, it’s always there. Up on the mountain, it’s there again, no one can tell its destiny, for it's the source of our lives.

Come swiftly show the lord thy gifts, hail to the king the lord of all; be on your guide pray humbly soul, thou lord knows all, thou lord knows all. Kneel before him all wretched kneel, praise the good lord for all he’s done, shout and be strong for he will hear, all thy good saints, all thy good saints. Oh I have fought this dreadful foe, now I have left It all to him; he is the judge and he will judge, all of us all, all of us all. Lay low my soul, lay down and rest, sleep in thy home thy eternal coach; lead me to him, sweet angel lead, thy sinner's myth, thy sinner's myth.

Gazing along the ocean sand, from the height of the mountain land, seeing a maid - long time no see, who can she be - if not for me? Wedlock is not an easy game; so many men might say the same, for it's the time when two are one, when both shall never be alone. Walking through the church's isle, people look at you with great surprise, for when it's time to make their move, they’ll march with the same old groove. Kneeling before the altar is not the game, for better for worse is neither the same, for richer for poorer does not spell the name for it's the genuine love for both that is the theme.

Imagination (of a sick person)

A concentrated mind sits on the back steps of the ocean, in a peaceful conflict with his surviving foes, to find a solution, to his long thought problem. Audaciously storing humanity, he awaits the approval of mortal's gestures; for when the ebb of life shall call his name, he goes, with the rectitude of fear; for the serenity of his challenge is acceptable!

LOVE

I am an enemy of myself, a poor little giver that give, the greatest gift of all. I am the shelter of myself, but the one who shelters my shelter, Is my God. I was born before my age, and no one knows my mother's name. I wear the same size of shoes, that the stars wear, but the sizes of our feet, are not the same. Wherever I go, I am known by all; even before I enter the place. No one knows my name; yet, I am called, by hundreds of names. "The string of mankind" is polished and kept tightly together by me. Rich and poor, seek me for future companion. Though I am considered cruel by some, I have opened the package of joy, in the hearts on many. For the world in which we live, goes around for my sake. Though I am considered blind, I see even clearer, than the eyes of the sun. I am my neighbor’s keeper, and he who gives me to his neighbor, receives THE GRACE. I am the key to all the doors, but cannot open my own. I am the sister of the moon, and the only child of thou father's son. I know all that know me, and all that know me not. On Christmas, I am the friend of all, but on Thanksgiving Day, I am the turkey’s enemy. Who am I? Who am I? I am love! I am love!!

Shh.... listen!

Do you hear what I hear? Do you hear nature pass by? Do you hear the stormy wind, whistling through the air? Do you hear the rough tides of the sea, dangling its waters on the sands of time? Do you hear the cry of a newborn baby? Pleading and scrambling, for his dear mother's warm and tender touch? Do you hear the melodious songs, of the early morning birds, through the air, Singing "...the day is dawn?" Do you hear the unending voices of the people, crying for peace, but there is no peace? Do you hear the bitter cry of hungry children, pleading, that they need food? Do you hear the sound of drums, welcoming you to their care and protection? Do you hear the bells of the churches, ringing and warning everyone, to worship, his Supreme Being - God? Do you hear the noise of the people's tramping feet, marching with banners in hands, shouting and singing, "We shall overcome?" Do you hear the sound of horns, warning that there is danger ahead? Do you hear the massive movement of soldiers, marching to the battlefront? Do you hear the sound of cannons, been fired, and killing, God’s creation - mankind? Do you hear yourself breathing, all because of fear? Shh… listen, listen, listen

Save a little touch, for me, my Jo. Though love is shaky, and love is stale, reach out your lips, but throw a kiss, and I'll receive with mine. Oh sweet, yet sour, this kiss, I’ve kissed, this love, I’ve longed, can nay atone. Fight on, my boy, I told myself,yes fight, till love, glows blissful again. A leach - your love encroach me, a thrall - the shattering pang, of your love,has clothed me, that I - yes, that I, howl all day, and shed, blithesome tears, of a fallen Jo. That I - yea - that I, ask for naught, but to sup, the nectar, of Aphrodite’s fangs.

Spilling my drops of tears on the surface of the earth, washing away our fertile soil, in commune with human behavior, I give myself. A friend and brother of the clouds, an open roof of the living mountains, a guarding enemy of Sahara’s heat, the father, of the earthly water’s children, I give myself. Consider me as a plague and foe, give me not to the devils to consume; because of me survival knocks on your door; not to portray a living skeleton, I give myself. When I fall, I fall, just to prick through the roofs of your dungeons, to dampen the roots of your chapped lips, to show the kind thought of the sun, I give myself. Oh man, oh man, despise me not, for I am the tears of your gods; though I pour day and night on the heads of many, I am a neighbor of your father, I give myself.

Men of constant sorrow, men of constant joy, with loud applauding praises, sing with joyful hearts. Men of constant sorrow, men of constant joy, sing with joyful voices, to the God of Grace. Men of constant sorrow, men of constant joy, sing with horns and trumpets, make a joyful noise. Men of constant sorrow, men of constant joy, sing this day, oh! Sing this day, to God - The Three in One.

A voice, a lonely voice, cries out into the skies, in search of an answer, to his long asked question. My native land, what do I owe you? I want to know, my native land, what I owe you? The unspeakable, and loving mother Africa, speaks through its waters, trees, mountains, valleys, and oracles, saying: You owe me naught my child, for it's I who owe you! The unsatisfied, yet undefeated voice, cries out bitterly than ever before, saying: My native land, there must be something of kilimanjaro's height, that I owe you. The dark, yet bright mother Africa, speaks again through its calm seas and setting sun, saying: My child, you only owe me love, yes, loyalty, yes, the guidance and protection of my beautiful face, dressed with the richest soil, the peaceful rivers, the loving falls, the crystal mountains, and most of all, the protection of your beautiful skin, from the jackals, who have made my feet, a slaughter house. All this, and many more scenes, yet to be seen and heard of, and those unending stories, that were handed down, to you and your brothers, by your fore-fathers, to be told to your children and their children, yes, that's what you owe me. My native land, in spite of your kindness, and your children's kindness, have you had any loss? The unspeakable black face of Africa speaks for the third time, through the blusterous cry, of its rough seas and winds saying: Losses? Losses? Losses? I have had them all. My child, I have had great losses that history herself can neither tell nor deny. Right now, there are losses being incurred at my feet. From my knees down to my toes, are on the verge of amputation, by the surgeons of apartheid, which of course, shall never, no never be! Beware my child, for there is bound to be losses, and even more losses, in the tomorrow yet to come, that generation yet unborn shall taste of. Again, the half - satisfied, yet pain bearing child of Africa, asked the question once more: My native land, what do I owe you? The child, expecting an answer, through the sinking skies, the tattooed thunder, the laughing lightning, the fasting forests, and the mournful rivers, could not hear the voice, of mother Africa’s blessings. His longed asked questions had been answered. Birds in the deep blue skies, echoed the lonely voice's question, till it was heard no more ... my native land, what do I owe you? My native land, what do I owe you?