The Deep ( a monologue)

Sometimes I go off into the yonder,
In the shower,
Rivulets sluicing down,
Savannas and thick jungles,
Relieving the dirty storm clouds,
Of their effluvia.
Sponge stopped in mid-swing over my back.
“Why are we raised to live to die?”
Soap suds cling to the tiles,
Their gecko toes adhesive.
“Do you ever imagine giving the best years of your life to someone who will be the death of you?”
At a beautiful woman,
But I see nothing.
“What is happiness?”
I’m an adventurer,
Manning a ship sailing to nowhere and everywhere.
I am no Magellan or Hudson.
No straits will be named after me.
And the very people I inspire loathe me.
“What are rules? You can’t break something you don’t understand.”
There are rules,
So many of them.
Does a motored boat still need sails?
The water swirls,
The calm doldrums,
Or stormy waves.
But I’m pretty comfy.
My plan is that I have no plan.
I don’t profess to be a godly man,
So I break only what is mine to break.
“Death is frightening, but not anymore than life. If I cease to exist, how would I feel?”
The absence of all colour,
A never-ending desert.
The presence of colour.
So easily sullied.
“Have you ever stopped to marvel at your body?”
They say we are fearfully and wonderfully made,
But the best part of us is that we have reasoning,
So we kill the beautiful things that don’t reason.
The curse of a blessing.
“Can you take care of something which isn’t yours?”
The din grows louder.
I hear a growl.
“Charle what?”
Thank God for rain.

© Sena Kodjokuma 2015



Is five foot two,
Crazy about shoes,
And photographs too.

Loves cooking,
The cleaning,
And the killing that comes with it.

Is a creature of intimate places,
You will find her,
Where the mistletoe creeps.

Is perfect,
Like a marble statue,
But much more alive.

Is here tonight,
And moon will not set,
While she rises.

Loves me,
Even when I strike her,
The craven that I am.

Is mine,
Back off!

© Sena Kodjokuma 2015

Someday I’ll Forget

Someday I’ll forget,
That your favourite colour is blue,
That you like fish and seafood,
The scent of the fresh rain.

Someday I’ll forget,
That you hate goat meat,
You dislike getting out of bed,
For the simple reason of bathing.

Someday I’ll forget,
I was just an option,
The fall guy,
The brother from another mother.

Someday I’ll forget,
The smell of your hair,
The glow of your skin in the moonlight,
The warmth in your eyes.

Someday I’ll forget,
Your two left feet,
That crazy tinkering you call laughter,
And your frostbitten anger.

Someday I’ll forget,
But I will never forget,
The way you made me feel.

© Sena Kodjokuma 2015

My Heart Bleeds Red

Forged in industry,
Striving for glory.
Words of a band of railway workers sharing a common passion.
A quarter century of unparalleled success,
A painted knight founding an empire vast,
The fabled Alexander.
Forged in industry,
Striving for glory,
Embroidered into the hearts of fledglings,
For though they fly away hard and fast,
Their parentage is never in dispute.
Glory is only an end to itself,
The pleasure is in the grit of hard work,
Which trumps talent,
If talent doesn’t work hard.
And though there is a big storm coming,
There will be shoots green,
Pointed like the pitchfork on the emblem,
The never ending cycle of success.
We are,
Forged in industry,
Striving for glory.
Never mind the pretenders,
For to them all they see is rubble.
In this ungainly sea of chaos,
The diamonds of excellence are made,
Industry is the lifeblood of our success,
And if it makes us devils to them,
So be it!
For the love of you,
My heart bleeds red.

© Sena Kodjokuma 2015

The Poet I Never Was

Scrabbling down neat rows,
The ink glistens,
Always sapphire.

Descending into nought,
The deep seated cravings lower me,
Into the pools of thought.
Always alone.

In the fleeting sunlight,
Golden joy dancing on my skin,
But at night?
Gloom takes hold,
Always fright.

Sapphire ink,
Jotting down yellow sunlight and black fright.
Dyes draining down the sink.
Coagulating thoughts of might,
Let down with the delicate reality of a dink.

Then you came,
And I dipped myself in paint,
While you were content to hold me up; my own frame,
Sitting on an easel,

No more cravings,
Or thoughts tumbling,
Arranged in rows of sapphire ink.
I always thought myself the poet I never was.

© Sena Kodjokuma 2015

The Upside of Downhill

Simply flawless

Poesy plus Polemics

(Originally posted here April 2013)

Image from Image from

utter freedom

time is mine

I own it

clock, stock and barrel

time to use or abuse

to ponder or squander

however I damn well please

shackles of schedules

restraints of routines

unlocked and cast off

so they can be passed off

to babies of boomers

while I take to tapping

my resource for napping



my eyelids encourage it

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La Semaine

French is a romantic and poetic language I appreciate. While my French is rudimentary the power of the translator cannot be understated. Please enjoy.

Je suis Kosi,
Je m’appelle sage et doux,
Le serviteur des anciens.

Je m’appelle Adzo,
Je suis entraînee et zéléé,
La bête noire des femmes paresseuse.

Ils m’appellent Komla,
La vie du festival,
Assistant du conteur.

Mon nom est Aku,
Amoureux de la bonne nourriture,
Et l’écouteur des ragots de bonne.

Yaa est mon nom,
Le secret des dieux,
Servante de la terre.

Je m’appelle Kofi,
Tous les cultivateurs me connaissant,
Et leurs poules ne sont pas sûrs de mon pot.

Je suis Ami,
Timide et la fierté de la terre,
Le chef a lex yeux car moi seul.

Nous sommes les fils du soleil,
Les filles de la lune,
Et dan nos coeurs et nous esprits se trouve le berceaude la pensée,
L’element vital de la culture.

© Sena Kodjokuma 2015