Two poems

An Old House on Main

On the corner of Main Street
stood a house that belonged
to the new arrivals, illegals
the locals called them, whose
delight swallowed a weathered
building reeking with staleness
and the stares of strangers
longing for something more,
but unknown. The soberness
of its quaint doors burned forlornly,
its colors betraying like a passion
of flames refusing to be fanned.

It was not the house you dreamt
of before you left your paradise
in Accra but it welcomed your tired feet
and sheltered you from the rage
of the angry weather. This house
welcomed the dreams you brought
to be born in a new world
that doesn’t see you, hoping
you might find in it a second home
that reminds you of a house
beyond the Atlantic, beyond the
house of history’s angel whose gaze
is in the past, whose music is
to the dance of ruins and empty time.
This house, a pile of debris that
becomes both a storm and a farce,
is progress for those vanquished
by power.

.


Hope

The sapphire
of hope—

that brightens where
Romanesque catacombs

entrap the soul
like a spell—

brings echoes
of a certain paradise,

the Elysian fields
of dreams,

no longer deferred.
No longer buried,

only permitting light
that shines through
the tree of life.

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