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  • Tower blocks

    Well, I’d fight, too,

    Boxed inside a block of flats

    Brocken down and ignored

    In Clapham, South London.

     

    I’ve seen it all

    Narrated Grandma Bernie who lived

    Two doors down, bound to her armchair

    Until the next visit from her caregiver.

     

    Innocent children

    Will grow here to know

    Struggle without a hand to help

    And yelp without an ear to hear.

     

    Ghosts will make their bedding in the pissy stairways.

    These children wielded by weaponry;

    Shielded by whom?

    Left to die.

     

    The flats will never change

    Passers-by will gander –

    Never to speak of what they’ve seen.

    Because it is easier to live in silence.

     

     

    * * *

    Thoughts of Freedom

     

    One in every three moons, will you tango

    with the thought of freedom, speak aloud

    to the flesh that perpetrates you that this

    body had known scars from before, forgive your

    impotent hands for carving towards a kind

    of release, testify your liberty

    as spirit or soul: a slave

    manumitted all by oneself. You will bite your

    abuser’s hand, his sweat, his eyes bright

    like the flames of a flare. Your abuser’s

    touch you know so well, which is like breath,

    hardest on the easy days – suffocating on the

    hardest of days. Your fear will dwindle, clasping

    the hands of the thought of freedom

    is what the unblemished do, that even they

    retreat as the roots of fear resurface.

     

     

    * * *

     


    Untitled Document

    Evergreen pastures

    In her stomach the baby would kick

    to keep the beating of her heart.

    There was no pill to flush him out.

     

    The stomach, above her waist was filled,

    with flesh to the brim and spirit anew.

    They together are one.

     

    What kindred spirits feel flesh can’t conceive –

    this now I know.

    Does he share with you a dream?

     

    Prophetic is the blank canvas, open

    to the picture of the evergreen pastures.

    Still it beats, still he breathes, with such ease –

     

    resting unassured of tomorrow,

    habituate in the sanctum of the womb.

    And you carry on…

     

    Back heavy with burden,

    hands worn from the toil of deceit;

    yet not once a second thought.

     

    Still I follow, blind,

    in the shadow of your stride; your chest up,

    face painted like a reflection of the happiness we knew,

     

    bold, stronger than yesterday;

    prepared for tomorrow,

    welcome to the task that is to come.

     

    About The Author

    Caleb Ebenezer Akakpo

    Caleb Ebenezer Akakpo is an accomplished writer with published works in and around London (UK) and the United States.