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Hondred Percent

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Yeah
Allow me to give you a grand tour
Of my mind if you don't mind

Welcome to my 37 station of imagination
Where thoughts gossip and somersault
At the birth of an idea
Summer is laughter
Conversations capture "korkornsa"
And try to give him to a pastor
Ahead of me automobiles blow their trumpets like rapture
Hawkers follow suit by calling customers faster
As for me
Yes, I'm writing a chapter
Of poetry lurking around the city of fractures
The bus stops
The bus blocks
Chale wote goes flip flop
My thoughts hip-hop to tip top melodies
Going tick-tock
My thoughts tiptoe to poetry vehicles going crisscross
My words ziploc, to keep em' fresh and not wish-wash
Which watch, creates words and forms cubicles?
With ideas and verbs to create spoken word unusual
This poem is strange but at the same time it's beautiful
Chaos making trends and also writing a musical
My poems are trotro minibuses with enthusiasm and flair
My poems "kror kror" drivers who flaunt the rules and don't care
Like a poem parked by the corner about Abeku
A drivers mate whose only dream, is to stay cool
Be the hype man for the next superstar so stay tuned
As he rehearses for his future role like a cartoon
Oho!
He screams like the wayside preacher
Grabbing everyone's attention
Like Ghana must go
I've got poems at the station about
People who show
Who sew kaftans and dresses about people too known
There are unfinished poems about girls and their beauty
The kind that radiates and have men asking, "who is she?"
Who are these emotions pivoting on a better tomorrow?
A man or pleasure?
Their poems are long and short like letters
I am still trying to understand the makings of the weather
Like the unfinished poem of Fatima, the pear seller
Whose footsteps massage the ears of the butcher Dela
Causing his jaw to drop and reminisce about Fela, Fela
His eyes are transfixed to her backside
Her back provides, danger like a land slide
But he is stuck like a tracker to a GPS signal
Stuck like a tracker to a GPS signal
He is stuck like a tracker to a GPS signal
He He
Sane eba!
There is also the poem of Tata
The kaayaye street porter
Whose curves got lovers and spouses resetting their culture
Her curves and tight-fitting clothes are like a chisel to a potter
Not letting go of money
And admiring Ghana's daughters
There are visible poems of karma, juju, and love
Poems of Hausa Kooko, and kelewele at night
Poems of sweat, disease, humility, pleasure
Hmmmm wait a minute also leisure
In my 37 station of imagination
There are more poems than my eyes can see
Many are drunk on palm wine by the sea
Brewed by disappointment stung by bees
I thus bask in the chaos and confusion of the people
Watching lines being created and mistakes being made
By life driving its fingers in the sands as slaves
Completing and beginning another anthology of waves
Starting one vehicle
Parking another
Beginning a journey
And ending another
And that's how the poems in this station roll
Each is a journey with a story untold
My imagination is a treasure of gold
Filled with many more trips for many more roads
For now its late and the station must close
The money you paid will get you home
Maybe tomorrow, I will drive you slow
Taking you places where poetry glows
Maybe tomorrow, I will drive you slow
Taking you places where poetry goes
Bus Stop!

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