Village boy Impressions

1.      A person who abuses others is hardly ever asked to stop. We don't want to stand up to the person doing wrong. Rather, we ask the victim(s) to tolerate the abuse. And if the victim refuses to accept our advice, we conclude that he/she is a bad person - not the abusive person. People who abuse others are like 'small gods' to be complained about but not stood up to. They are treated like victims to be understood and pitied and their victims are to be advised and praised for tolerating abuse. 2.       Praying in tongues is a shouting competition. A test of endurance. At the first Pentecost, we are told that the tongues (languages) of the apostles were understood by a multitude of devout men from 'every nation under heaven' (Acts 2: 1 - 8). In our time, no human being can understand the tongues we speak; an endless stream of discordant sounds emitted by people in seeming agony and disarray.  3.      We swat a fly wit...

Blessed are those who can laugh at themselves: They will live long and enjoy life. Blessed are those who can tell a mountain from a molehill: They will be saved a lot of anxiety. Blessed are those who do not make excuses: They will sooner achieve their dreams. Happy are you if you can appreciate a smile and forget a frown: You will walk on the sunny side of the street. Happy are you if you can be kind in understanding the attitudes of others: You may be taken for a fool, but this is the price of charity. Happy are you if you know when to hold your tongue and just smile: You have opened your heart to the light of the Gospel. Blessed are they who think before acting and pray before thinking: They will avoid many blunders and much trouble. BUT ABOVE ALL, Blessed are those who recognize the Lord in all whom they meet: The light of truth shines in their lives. THEY, HAVE FOUND TRUE WISDOM!! (Anonymous  Author )

Today I glanced through my window  Silent and absentmindedly. All looked dull and familiar There, the verdurous crowns of many trees Here, the multi-coloured roofs of many homes And white idle clouds hanging lazily. So it was yesterday and the day before I have seen it all before. But did I? I queried. Blinking at the unsettling thought For I have never really looked At the sylvan glade outside my window Though I see it every day. Read:  Village Boy Impressions - The Seasons at Home So then, I stood to stare; At the deep, verdant green of the trees All lusty and still in the smokeless air. And yet, and yet, some are in flower! A thousand red and yellow blossoms On three trees just outside my window, Glittering in the early bright sunlight. At this profound beauty, I gazed and gazed! In awe of their contentment and flourish. A warm glow stole over my heavy heart And the weight of the coming day Was made lighter and ea...

Photo credit:  NewsGhana I walk my beat in cities, markets– under a perspiring sun. From Tamale to Kejetia , Techiman to Takoradi– Accra my home base: Nima, Mallam Atta, Agbogbloshie , Makola – I am there. Head pan in hand, I tread markets and bus stations. From six to six–rain or shine– I carry other people’s loads. They walk behind me, watching, anxious, while I shout and nudge through the crowds, lest I be lost with their goods. And when I arrive– they begrudge me my wage. — Foxes have holes. Birds have nests. But I– a daughter, a mother– have none. I sleep in borrowed spaces, where weary pillows give no rest, and sleep escapes me. I am prey to mosquitoes and other blood-sucking creatures. Unscrupulous men lurk in the dark to plunder both my purse and womanhood, and leave me a mother with double load. — Shop-owners scowl at me. Drivers curse. Shoppers call me what they please– until they need my head to carry what they will...

With light nervous steps, he trod in  As one aroused from an upshot of gin  And stood abashed, a shadow ill-prepared,  His sealed quivering lips unassured  Whether it be fractions or tractions  Change of subject or m eaningless expressions  Pondering where and how to begin  Whilst they continued their din  Not heeding the unsettled guest  Framed in the doorway aghast  Clutching a heavy textbook  With a finger locked in the nook.  Read: Village Boy Impressions - Why God Does not have a Ph.D. A well-pressed shirt that daintily sat  And shoes black as night pat  Were all they could admire of him.  For he could neither add nor multiply  Save by that book he held to comply.  And he stammered badly enough  To send them reeling to the north.  He was thrust upon them without a session  And they could instruct him with fair revision....

I took a walk down the village path And read the tales on its face. The morning after a rainy night. A thousand-tales told and retold In the marks of those gone before. Some full, some half trodden down Some giantish, some dwarfish Some clear, some blur, vanishing. All equally lie, telling their tale For who cares to read. Tales of hope, tales of fear Some of terrors and tragedies And many unhurried paces of romance. Read:  Village Boy Impressions - The Days of Bliss Long I stood reading the silent tales As far as the eye could see For many were the words on that path Speaking in varied pitches of voice Some speak in the center of the path; And leave deep tales in the dust Those are fast trodden under and lost. Others speak gruffly on the edges Brushings thorns and stubs and weeds And hardly leave an impression But the dying weeds tell their tale. By their effort the path grows.  Many prints diverge To the right an...

I do my crying in the rain Shrieking with the thunder Howling with the wind So that my tears are washed away My sorrow is laid to rest awhile And peace returns to my heart But when the clouds are spent I wear a smile and walk around No one sees the tears in my eyes No one hears the pain in my voice No one marks the grief on my face No one knows the pain in my heart For I weep with the clouds And my healing is in the rain That washes and dries my tears With a million wet kisses I do my crying in the rain Not because I am strong But because I am alone Many weep on my shoulder I find no shoulder to weep on So I feign strength And wait for cloudy skies To pour out my grief in full He is strong, he is solid He can take it all, they say And know not that I am weak And poor and frail even as they But maybe not for I do not cry No, not open bitter tears as they Yet I too do cry I do my crying in the rain.