PRESSING FOR FREEDOM AT EIGHTY-SIX
A POEM FOR VETERAN JOURNALIST JAMES DENNIS
By Togba-Nah Tipoteh
While Liberians work on the ebola fix
The Venerable James Dennis turns eighty-six
But he looks like someone at sixty-eight
Because he does things that keep him fit
Still pressing for press freedom
Working without any form of boredom
He glows in sharing with the Press
Knowledge for the public without guess
Going public with truth based on evidence
For this is the way to gain public confidence
That presses state governance to serve the people
No matter how the people appear weak or feeble
Showing the pen to be mightier than the sword
For the people, especially the youth, to gain from the word
That unless freedom reigns, the people perish
So, let freedom reign for the people to cherish
Their rights and responsibilities under the Law
And cherish them fully without any flaw
Celebrating the Legacy of Journalist James Dennis
Whose Legacy history indeed will certainly not miss
As we say Happy Birthday to Our Father of the Press
Who still presses to free us all from distress
Even at the sun-setting age of eighty-six.
While we are still working on the ebola fix
November 30, 2014
My Sister Beretta
By Lekpele Nyamalon, firstname.lastname@example.org
My sister Beretta
Who are you?
Your venom strikes like a loose cobra
Splashing across your preys
How could you be my sister?
When you split the head of my father
Shattering his brain like an egg
You might be a vampire
Are you my sister that shook our village?
Our own small town?
Sending our brothers on heels?
Turning over our clan like an earthquake?
With dust dancing in the skies?
Oh sister Beretta…ay yah
You are cursed oh sister
Your face is buried in black
With pimples wide like pot-holes
Your hands pierce like thorns
Piercing the hands of your carriers
Slave to your menace
Cowed by your threats
Sister Beretta you’re ruthless
Cold blooded and mad
Your chest is bare, stolen heart
You’re a beast, not my sister!
By Lekpele Nyamalon
Not so small
With your heart huge like a mountain
You were a villain, merciless and brutal
Small soldier, poor soldier
Chained by drugs and powder
Led like a slave to kill and maim
Minds blown away like an ostrich
With calm restored when the smoke dies
Poor soldier, recruited by fate
Scared to death if the trigger you refuse
Stolen innocence, small soldier
Cry for them small soldier
Peaceful mind, packed with crack
Poor child, surrogate killer
Small soldier, I cry for you