Roberta Turkson’s career in poetry started in 2011, as a way to drive the pain off her chest, after failing to fulfil the fondest dream of having her own traditional Ghanaian restaurant in Nashville. “With lots of time on my hands and pain in my heart, I took to writing which turned out to be…
The Searching Cheats
Whirl of the wind Sing decades of familiar tunes Encroaching voices of old whispering stories untold Cold the breeze our bodies Freeze The Misplaced Birds they say they wail “We have lost our way” We are to show them their way We? We point They screech “Where?!” We point again And again Then we tell…
A self portrait
This is a portrait of a woman that was born in pain… and is longing for change… A woman with a rough kind of beauty… a one not easy to pick up, hidden behind all the easy common ugly… A rebel kind of woman… so much rebel it got me getting out of heaven doors……
Third Eye Blinded
I see energy third eye blinking placing spirits into their constellations. We are all connected. See lines connecting dots Its umbilical intuition. Walk into realms with my spiritual feet the reality of reality is but a distant memory. I spare walk through corridors I pay no heed to the drum drum drum of monotony. See…
Greet Africa when you return
I greet you AfricaI greet you from Cape to CairoI hug you with arms of my sister from SomaliaShe implored me: Greet Africa when you return. At Southern Theatre we metOn a gray Scandinavian eveningBut the African sun still shone in her eyesThe effusive Nile flowed into our handshakeConnecting us in an…
A Deceptive Devil
You Chase her up hills and down valleys In the name of ‘love’ Easily she gives in Believing in so-called promises And ‘heaven like’ vows Luring her into indecent assaults Thinking she is impressing, She does it heartfelt Later you offer her gifts Penny in addition for ‘up keep’ Pretending to be loving and caring…
A Kind Of Architectural Grief
In the place of slaughter blood stains are not an anomaly. Normally, the stain of love begins with a government’s betrayal, a sacrilegious feast on the battered dreams of migrant workers chimurenga wars and forgotten anthems of freedom. a salary and a salt plea for…
The Man We Married
They say good girls go bad ‘cause bad guys don’t treat them right A good woman is as scarce as a dog’s tears And I remember Marriage was never meant to be a fight but a period to garnish our lives I hate that I once loved but now I detest But please don’t judge…
My younger sister (How these things go)
She is the size of my palm the day I first see herwrithing in white slime, hair slicked backlike wet maize tassels on her head For a few weeks her skin shedsand we joke about how muchthe chunks of dead skinon the soft spot of her head, weigh When she clocks 18 she is a…