Poetry December 11, 2014




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

Monrovia, Liberia

My Sister Beretta

By Lekpele Nyamalon,  nyamalon@yahoo.com 

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!

Small Soldier

By Lekpele Nyamalon

Small Soldier

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


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