Twenty-Five to Life


He woke up to the rumbling of his phone.

He pinched it out from under the covers.

It was jammed from the flurry of missed calls and generic well-wishes.

Oh yeah,

He remembered.

It was his birthday.


He dressed up and hurried for work.

It always took him 30 minutes to get to work,

So he liked to take his time.

Waiting at the bus stop for what seemed like an eternity.

He bundled in,

Lost in his thoughts.


Work was a drag as usual.

It’s hard enough working for a boss who was a bit of a jerk.

He had shifty eyes.

He didn’t trust his boss,

He never knew if he would go all asshole on him again.

He wasn’t particularly close to anyone at work

And that was fine.

The phone rang occasionally.

“that’s nice” he thought.

They wished him,

Of course they would.

It’s his birthday.


She called.

The ex that is.

He always loved to hear from her.

He missed her on occasion,

Even though she was a nutcase.

Still it was nice she thought of him sometimes,

Even if it was just to wish happy birthday.


He couldn’t wait to get home.

He only wanted to talk to her.

The her.

“The love of his life” he believed,

It sucked enough that she was faraway.

Today was his birthday so he had to make room,

For anyone who would call.


He would text her.

She who made him light up.

She was hopelessly naïve,

But she was attuned to him,

Like two extradimensional beings.

She was scared of him sometimes,

He knew.

But she’ll come around.


Their world was still nascent.


He bought him something nice,

His brother.

It was nice of him.

Unexpected but still,


They were so distant sometimes he hardly believed they were kin sometimes.


They were so similar in their isolation.

He was fire,

That was how he thought of his brother,

While he was air.

Will and indifference.

They made a heck of a team.

The perfect roommate.

Someday they’ll own dogs and go out for walks without anyone interfering in their moments.




He wasn’t always this popular.

Years ago he was an eccentricity,

Even his “best” friend would rather hang out with other people.

He stayed in his cradle of thoughts,

Hoping not to be a nuisance to anyone,

Yet hoping someone might touch him within the bars of his cage.


She did.

She really did.

She wasn’t like him.

She had friends,

She was smarter than he could ever hope to match.


Here she was,

Purring over the intricate darkness of his mind.

He liked her,

But she was not the one.

No matter how he wished or wrote,

Even when they flung together,

She was never going to be his.


He loved his football club.

It was an entity which while a bit oblivious to him was one of the joys (and disappointments) of his life.

He followed games and players earnestly.

His heart bled red.

He would definitely go see a game at the Theatre of Dreams one of these days.

He had his jerseys all lined up.

His only footballing love,

Manchester United Football Club


They said he was not spiritual enough

Didn’t pray enough

Didn’t share the Word enough.

Would rather talk about ephemeral things on this earth.


Made by people who could just not grow some balls to say what they really thought.

They were afraid of him.

He was a different kind of spiritual,

Unencumbered by the selfishness of breakthrough

And simply concerned with growing better

And progressing.

Not a hedonist

But one who believed that desire and gratification are made pure

By love.

If you are spiritual,

You will get it.


He loved her from the first day he saw her,

He was speechless,

She was the light in the room.

She made him weep.

He could never understand,


She did not feel same for him.

He died many times over.

He learned to let her loose,

Even as she flew into a trap,

Her wings pinned,

Her pride desecrated.

He stood and watched,

Without lifting a finger.

He was no longer there,

But he was here.



School was hard,

He struggled to fit in.

His friends did not care though,

They believed him,

And loved him the way he was.


He belonged.


He did not care much for self-serving people,

He did not do what they did,

He did what he does best,

He was very good at it.

He knew,

He had invested his blood and sweat into it.

He did not need their stamp of approval

For them to tell him

He was decent.

He was

The One.




He was a liar.

He knew it.

That was why he struggled to hide things,

He would rather hide them in stories

Artfully painted,

Crafted by his clumsy mind,

As complex as an eyrie,

Or a simple marble carving.


The kind that people gushed over.

Blithe honesty,

Truly just half truths

From the mouth of the liar.


Family is everything.


It flew through the air at twenty-five miles per hour

Catching him in the solar plexus,

His muscles stiffened at the sudden agony,

Gag reflex

He spewed effluvium.

Another blow caught him in the second and third ribs,

Precisely over his pulsing heart

There was a distinct pop

As they cracked.

The surgical precision of the strikes numbed him.

His vision clouded,

There was a sharp pain and a loud crack as his jaw was violently twisted sideways.

He saw stars,

Then nothing.


They used to get to him,

The pains of the human condition.

But he grew.

There was a thing called due process,


No matter the umbrage in his heart

He learned to let it go.

If life ever made sense

There would be no sense of time,

He would be locked in the eternity

Of his mental constructs,

The only religion he ever truly acknowledged.




It bubbled beneath the surface

Seeping through fault lines

It surged and writhed

An angry living thing


Swishing around the atrium of the caldera

Hollowed by past eruptions

The madness within

Ran parallel to his sanity

He knew all too well what would happen if they ever converged at vanishing point


Justice is blind,

Mercy tips

The scales always seeking retribution.




Twenty-five to life,

No possibility of parole,

He looked at the striped light

He saw the dust swirling

Catching different wavelengths,


And felt the cool concrete through the thin clothes on his back.

It was heavy and gray.

He heard the chatter from down the hallway,

The tap going drip-drip,

Plonking away musically.

He could taste the bile in his mouth,


Full of regret

At the cold meal left untouched on the scoured floor.

He saw occasional flashes of red,

Then black,

As he read the sensory input relayed to him.

Life gives him a rough deal.

Life was kin with death.

They were not kind to anyone,


They were never


The blood welled in the meninges of his brain,

Biochemical reactions diffused through capillaries networked

Moving at terrifyingly fast speeds.

He pondered,

It was all he could do.



© Sena Frost 2k16


BM’s SePOETember Feature – Ghana’s Sena Alexander Kodjokuma

So I got profiled by an international blog (laughs nervously)
Kindly check it out. Hehe


Sena is a self-sufficient poet  considering he told me he doesn’t ‘particularly follow or have favourite poets’ which I find surprising but then again everyone is different, right?

He doesn’t have a favourite colour but is very partial to blue. Absolutely adores mangoes.

Outside literature he admires science a lot. He’s not much of a traveler considering he has never been outside Ghana before (Let’s hope Ake Festival brings you out, eh?). His relationship with poetry can best be described as complicated. Football, relationships and knowledge are his greatest passions. Languages intrigue him and is working on learning French and Spanish. And loves swimming. And laughter and humour especially where sarcasm is involved.

He hasn’t heard of Juliane Okot p’Bitek or her work but believes that reality like art is subjective and her reality as projected through her 100 Days poem collection is enough to shed light on the true…

View original post 200 more words

Untitled #4

image courtesy

He smiled ruefully

Even as the wind wrestled the paper bag in his hand

He let it go bashfully

And the bag billowed away over the land.

He stood on the cusp

Swallowed by his thoughts

The silence broken only by tinny sounds from the earpieces nestled in his ears’ clasp.

The music urging his soul to draw lots

There was no reverie


Not a single melody

Just a lifeless lake with ebb and flow.

It was the edge of the world

The never ending bustle of rush hour

The time of day for the traffic word,

Sights and sounds consistently rising like the yeast in flour,

As drivers jostled below him.

He climbed the railing,

And smiling

He spread his arms and fell.


© Sena Frost 2k16


The Sea and The Wind 

image courtesy Google Images 

Turbulent seas

Under winds whipping

Storms passionate
Ships wreak

Between tides

Drowns intimately
Fishes warble

In the sailor’s silent screams 

As he is dragged into Davy Jones’ locker

Oyster pearls marble 

In the mermaid’s dreams 

In the darkness the ocean is mucker
The sea

The Fisher’s net

Caught us pure

In the Bermuda. 

Glistening sand

Beneath the wavy waters

Draws in it

The thing we so wonder
Seabirds bring good tidings 

And I look through my spyglass 

Land; you

The sextant parallel with your beautiful breasts,

Right where the wave crests

Your hair lush

Adorned with the smile of tropical flowers 

None broader than the grin of your lips
He that was moulded from pure beach sand. 

Prefect but flawed. 

Says his lover is the sea. 

Feast your eyes

On the hollow between my temples

Let me tease you

With the smile you so adore
She that was moulded from salt and sea spray

Says her lover is the land

Kiss me so gently 

In the hollow of my neck

Let me tease you with the smile you so adore.
©Sena Frost & Beebe Brako

20:11 GMT, 02-09-2016