The purpose of this book is to erase a wrong notion from our minds that the history of this world was shaped only by tough, unflinching, strong men who were physically active as warriors. On the contrary, this book proves that women influenced events as much as men. They even surpassed all their contemporary males in bravery and intelligence many times. This book also analyses certain occurrences in world history that shook our past. Here, the readers will get the chance of travelling more than 3000 years in time through the lives of these daring women. The chapters would also read like crime thrillers because of much vengeance and bloodshed that happened in our past. To sum up, Goddesses of Fury is a work which narrates our complicated bygone days from around the world.
The book is available over Amazon for purchase. Grab your copies now.
Graciously, as a gifted poetic fellow I often like titles of whatever I write to differ from others. Thus, I hope this title BBR & BRR will not take you on wonderland but a special roller-coaster to ensure that you read deeper to the punch-lines as a means to absorb within the mental faculties of knowledge acquisition in the world of literature. Well, the twist and turns of words by a rapper makes him or her a tongue-twister, but in poetry we often prefer to describe it as ‘Word-Play’, hence every poet or spoken-word figure becomes a ‘Word-Player’ to bring-out a sensible story-line in relation to performance. Any-way, let me not be like ‘Hum-Ani’ beating around the bush or even the adventures of Berganda finding a solution to ensure afforestation.
Lo, BBR is the chosen abbreviation Berganda Book Release and BRR means or refers to Berganda Reading Review as I’ve spent quality day-to-day time to engage in the usual Read Aloud Session – RAS of this educative and informative second (2nd) book of Ghana’s fascinating kids author in the personality, Sir Dennis Mann, founder and president – Wide Reading Among Kids – WRAK.
Philip Marfo and Ike Boat with Berganda Books in Hand
On faithful Friday,3rd December,2021 at 10am Greenwich Mean Time – GMT (Ghana Man Time). It’s commencement of the much anticipated and highly promoted Berganda Book Release ie(Launch),thus took place at the finest air-conditioned event-space dubbed Dreamer’s Hub under the leader-ship as well mentor-ship acknowledgement of Author Raphaelle Antwi in North Legon,Accra – Ghana,West Africa. Such a beautiful divine atmosphere with nicely created wooden bookshelf seen bold R-E-A-D. I meditatively absorbed and creatively came-out with Revise Every Acts Daily based on READ. Thus,such an aura to learn from AURA being Audience Of Ralph Antwi,an anointed and gifted man with ministerial as well mission-inspired speaking engagement both locally and globally. Aside,with over fifty (50) books under his author-ship and mentor-ship of multiple chaps. Factually,prayer points and topics of faith marked the commencement of program order as organized strategically by the author of Berganda book himself,Mr.Dennis Mann.
Incredibly,for me it’s a tip from the Central (Kasoa) ,Estate Top to Capital (Accra),Asylum Down area to kill ‘duo-birds’ with a ‘mono-stone’ in an environment of unfamiliarity, like a forest or village (rural) dweller coming to the city (urban) center with mind of novice about so many suburbs of Greater Accra Region,Ghana. Needless to say,the unfortunate happening of 1st December,2021 became a blow to the mind a bit but faith in God helped me to keep hope alive and focus on our scheduled Berganda Book Release #BBR on Friday,3rd December,2021. Oh,gosh! Airport arrival from Deustchland ie(Germany) as one of our special invited guests turned her home-going due to delay of PCR test results which is paramount for all travelers from all walks of lives. Well,it’s been close to decade since the first trip into Ghana, still Obroni Baa Dagmar Erb couldn’t embrace the triumphant welcome we prepared to offer her at Accra’s Kotoka International Airport. I’ve to state ‘God knows Best & God Knows Why!’
Ike Boat and Author Dennis Mann
Sincerely, your Ike Boat chap as the Anchor and MC of BBR exhibited professional delivery with little infusion of Akan,Fante dialect and high percentage of Anglo-know-how on the microphone coupled with poetic free-style session of Spoken-Word performance as one act I’m popularly known coupled being an awardee. Obviously,salt doesn’t praise its tastiness but the gig of ‘I Live In Amanful’ #ILIA piece was just a nostalgia about conditions and circumstances of where I grew-up in my primary and junior high school days as well as secondary level of academic education. I can say with certainty that the interaction with attendees as audience,WRAK manifesto speech by prime author of the day,Mr.Dennis Mann as well as part of Berganda book reading bring to memory good protocol duty by colleague and bruder (brother),Sir Philip Marfo, a man with hard-working positive spirit and right attitude to works. Special virtual shout-out to all our Bergandalicious team members and participants! Lo and behold,someone nearly cap-sided the float and flow of passionate boat but timely appearance of our special guest Speaker – Author Ralph Antwi really remedied crucial fund-raising moment of Berganda Book Release – BBR than the launch of Mr.Pee Peemaiden book by Mr.Dennis Mann i.e(Author). Suffix it to say,I like the general atmosphere in relation to sights and sounds of BBR in Accra.
Guest Speaker and Mentor and Author Ralph Antwi speaks to attendees
Finally, with respect to Berganda Reading Review – BRR, I commenced my usual Read Aloud Session – RAS on Wednesday 5th December,2021 at Room 15 of St.Sam Hotel in Asylum Down,Accra. Aside, I completed the entire 15 Chapters of it Content on Monday,20th December,2021 at the Mount-Zion International Gospel Church – MIGC Mission House premises, Estate Top, Kasoa – Central Region of Ghana,West Africa. Indeed, being an avid reader Berganda – My Forest,My Home is a must-get,grab and read book full of adventures. Believe you me,it has good story-line,subject-matter and central theme, thus can subsequently be turned into epic movie with wonderful characters, like Ahmed friend of the protagonist Berganda has traits compared to Ghana’s historic woman-warrior Yaa Asantewaa,the queen mother of Ejisu with such a spirit of heroism (heroine). Well,as the saying goes ‘Sweetness of the pudding is in it eating’, therefore I urge or beseech you to get in touch with Author Dennis Mann via E-mail Address: authordennismann@gmail.com or WhatsApp: +233247654113 so as to get and grab your copy for reading or bulk purchase for your children of ages 10 years and above. Better-still,it will be a good resource for your library. Of course, such a readable story-line with soft diction too makes your reading easy,lovely and enjoyable. Until then, from virtual to actual – Kindly,grab to read the Berganda book to experience it Bergandaliciousness! Thank You.
Dennis Mann’s newest book Berganda
Ike Boat – Writes in a serene quiet mood atmosphere with soulful gospel songs playing background at the perching place of MIGC temple located at Estate Top, Kasoa – Central Region, Ghana.(West Africa).
Kindly, E-mail: ikeboatofficial@gmail.com or Whats-App: +233267117700 t0 Advertise or Promote on Time With Ike Boat #TWIB Show on Morrash T
Another Whisper & Triumph
today i declare will be glorious:
revel in the morning gold
the light shines on still, even
when clouds sever the sun &
pieces fly to blinding rays.
endless day again; here,
where night has ceased,
will we truly be happy?
it has been this way,
it is this way,
it will be this way. but
sunlights drench me.
then clothing is just a reminder
we are alive & burdened
the day has gone on
too long & my creaking bones
splinter a bit further.
humanity weeps a
tired anger, fierce sorrow.
when night comes again,
we swear a million times
today,
tomorrow,
someday,
will be different.
Ahmad Al-Khatat
Grape Lips
The liquor store said that
They have sold their last bottle of red wine.
I wanted a woman who rises in my apartment,
and on the balcony like the sun back in Baghdad.
The snowstorm will not change my feelings about her
I am comfortable and independent just by thinking about her
The wine melting its fruits on her lips
-elucidates why I taste grape after kissing her.
Some people faces are breathing not peaceful,
It reminds me of the daylight of a hundred men and women who died
I sob for them, and the world took my tears to a particular forest,
Pour my sorrows’ to lifeless plants, leafless trees, and wasteland creeks.
The moon in the midnight whispers in my ears
I want to kiss her apple blossoms on her cheeks lightly
I hope that I can farewell my grief the moment I kiss her neck gently
By then, her warm hands caress my bitter body against her sweet flesh.
12/24/2021
The calligrapher writes the landscape.
The rain's crow quill points ink across pigeongray parchment sky and draft indelibly themselves upon an eager gravid ground
and sins and memories, and hopes and charities, that take root, grafted into the earth, remain ensoiled past the droughts and floods to come.
THE MARE'S BREAKING IN
Wanting the beads and choirs too,
she took the veil and cincture.
But inside the now
she regrets the vow
since accepting the saddle
means all the bits and spurs too.
COME THE REVOLUTION
Which among you will bring sandwiches?
And who'll organize the selfies?
Which manifesto would you execute?
"The sky must be purged if the earth is to prevail!"
"The earth must be buried for Heaven to reveal!"
Which Utopia would you provoke?
Which of the pasts should be banned?
But don’t be the freak hot on the runway
or the gangster in church,
don't be the priest caught in the whore house
the banker in the line-up.
OPIATES OF THE MASSES
Crucifiction, Failosophy, Hisstory:
Tomorrow is a myth. And so is yesterday. Now is all.
Physicks, Asstrology, Isometricks:
Yourself, as you are at present, is your only guide.
Medisin, Accupunkture, Sighchiatry:
There is no cure for reality.
Litterature, Statuwary, Musick:
Art is a grand mirage -- and it takes great pride in being so.
Soshellism, Dicktatorship, Demockracy:
All government systems are synonyms for slavery.
Kingdumbs, Militearism, Onerousship:
Allegiance to others is suicide.
Noosepapers, Liebrarie. Educashuns:
"Knowledge" so-called is mere pretense.
Relashunships, Guarantease, Freedumb:
Promises are illusions. But illusions may also be promises.
Ambishun, Suckcess, Sellebrity:
Self-promotion is the greatest deception of all.
Syphillisation:
Truth is what you trust.
THE MYTHIC ARCHAIC CUB, HIS MANDALAS, AND ME
I wait here still for the wise old man
and his chatter of universal traits,
how they shape my acts like hands
on a potter's wheel (but hereditary, innate).
"Archetypes are to psychology
as instincts to biology."
I sit in his psyche, peeling my mandarins,
and wonder, is this a proper asana?
Some tables down someone plays a green mandolin
and my self stifles respondent hosannas.
My me was always confused by the we,
and I was never the one I used to be.
I used to take my tea with cream
but now I prefer lemon.
Why do I have all these dreams
about so many different women?
Decades have passed like clouds over seas
as I searched for any available lee.
The minutes pass like birds in flight
and my shadow cowers in shadows
I interpret as monstrous daytime nights.
Mandolinist fingers dissolve into adders.
Duane Vorhees is an American in Thailand. Hog Press of Ames IA has published three of his poetry collections, HEAVEN, GIFT: GOR RUNS THROUGH ALL THESE ROOMS, and THE MANY LOVES OF DUANE VORHEES.
Lights of Christmas, 2021
For Andrea Molina
It has been a long time since the snow fell from the sky in my life.
Covering me at midnight on Christmas eve forty-three years ago.
A night when lights were colorful as a backdrop to the snow.
It was a quiet night of fear laying on the floor.
Emptiness pressed upon me on that warm December night.
The light faded and my heart stopped and the sounds ended.
Oh, my God dying at twenty-one without anyone.
A flurry of thoughts came from my childhood prayers.
A second when my world stopped.
“God save me!”
He saved me that early Christmas morning.
Forty-three years later watching those lights.
Remembering dancing with the snow with angels.
Michael J. “Midnight Poet” Robinson
12-25-2021
Father
Allow a streak of light
from single bulb hallway
to lay across the floor.
Remind me, in this mild action,
there are heroes in the world,
not every act is based on
the selfish hunger of men.
On nights like this
the rocks of the world
lay heavy on my spine,
pinning me to an earth
I have no desire to inherit.
It is why I am well versed in
the tongue of loneliness.
I am most concrete wrapped
in solitude.
Let me hear the voices
down the hall. The influx
in cadence regardless of meaning,
the occasional laugh.
I am again
five years old asleep in
a stranger’s house feeling
no desire to resume the
party but comforted to know
it continues.
Leave the door cracked,
just enough, so I’ll know
when the house rings silent,
when the hall light finally dims
that I am completely alone.
Reminding
When I met you, I fell in love
with flying, with candle light,
open windows. From the safety
of your late lit bedroom,
I watched rain as it ate the earth,
leaving soft teeth marks
in the dirt of your gardens. I hear
the moths come every seven years,
but sometimes it seems
like they are always here, flittering
against door frame in praise
of porch light. We don’t always
forget the way we are supposed to,
nor do we remember the way
the seasons would like us
to believe. I crawled upon your hand
on fine legs, wing brushing palm,
steadying myself as you peered
through the brown spots on my wings.
You did not crush me or push me
away. Details blur and the edges
of film burn through so all one sees
are big moments, not days shifted
in between. My wings against
your open hand; you let me stay
as long as I needed, did not protest
when I took again to the air.
I don’t remember exact words,
but I have not forgotten your face.
I can’t remember why I loved you
but I can’t forget that I did.
It’s been over twenty years
since you made me feel loved
just by the meeting my gaze.
It has been six years since
you died, but I swear I have seen
the moths more than once since then.
They flutter on the window beside
my late-night lingering, reminding me
of the early hours we shared
before the sun approached. We had
closure; nothing left unsaid or undone.
That was the last season of the moths,
Reminded me that you were once
a light I could not resist.
Prayers
You say you have some prayers to teach me.
Prayers that could sooth you to sleep
or shake you awake.
Prayers that can raise the dead or let them lie.
Prayers that will keep your hands out of your pockets.
I don’t know those prayers.
But I pray scars that poach underarm
bleach and shallow when given time to heal.
I pray lungs take one year to shed
the black they spent seven years collecting.
You know prayers like crickets,
prayers that spark rainbows in the desert,
prayers for sex with strangers
and wide-eyed staring dolls whose marble eyes
gleam across dark bedrooms.
Prayers that will keep you from calling out the wrong name
across the dining room table,
in the bedroom,
when he asks for a towel.
Prayers for wild horses
who don’t know when to stop their chase.
Prayers for scarecrows and splintered straw.
I pray skin toughens under desert sun;
the sand in my chest scrubs me clean,
scours the ill, the wicked,
the ugly I held tightly,
until it shines.
You know prayers that cast black magic,
that knock out front teeth
and rebuild shattered mirrors.
I pray my body is in a state of redemption.
I pray to resist the temptation
of a Thursday night in the back
of your car and one drink too many.
Do not allow me to regress into sickness.
Lead me not to deteriorate to the
fragile I once was.
Unable to move I crouch low and hold tight
to wooden beads that coddle the back of my throat
cutting off the circulation to hands
grasped tight in prayers for daylight,
prayers for the flutter of wings,
prayers for morning song.
Remember
Remember the way the light soaks
into the wet streets on a Tuesday morning.
Remember the way words are shared,
are smeared, are cut up and divided out.
Remember how clumsy your smile
caught me and how fingers and
shadows make excellent shows
against cave wall.
Remember the cave,
the loneliness of it
and the isolation,
the cruelty.
Don’t abandon my memory
upon the rocks and leave
it for the dogs to dig up.
Remember.
It is the only way
to find your way back.
It is the only way to learn better,
to see better, to love better,
to be better.
I watch the rain
and remember once believing
birds couldn’t fly when wet.
I know better now.
Seventeen Years
In my dream you were alive.
I saw you:
a broken man with
crooked smile telling me
it’s been seventeen years.
You’ve been looking for me for
seventeen years. You’ve been
in love with me for seventeen
years.
It’s been seventeen years since
your spine cracked upon impact.
It was just one of those things
that happen, an accident.
No one’s fault; No one
to shoulder the blame.
In my dream, I look for the book
you gave me, the only thing
you ever gave me, hungry for a signature
scrawled on the first page. Your j’s look
like g’s in fast black ink.
It has been seventeen years since we
raced the halls together. A good kid
who smiled too much. A chip of broken tile
and notes passed by girls. You never should
have become a name smeared to highway.
Never should have been anything more than
a fond memory, a high school crush, a missed
connection.
Now, you survive in the pit of my stomach,
and despite a promise of pleasant reminiscence,
the dream shifts to the crack of skeleton,
the shattering of front tooth. I can’t trade this image
for a kinder one. It haunts me.
It haunts me still.
More than anything in the world, I
want to find you, to call you,
to write you a message in my
sloppy script assuring you
some things never die. But
you are already lost to me.
This is how I wake, chasing
rabbits and following sparrows. At
a loss for what I cannot quite
reach. You were always the illusive
one. So I lay here and I endure and
it is as sweet as the Sunday morning
we never shared.
Katrina Kaye is a writer and educator living in Albuquerque, NM. She is seeking an audience for her ever-growing surplus of poetic meanderings. She hoards her published writing on her website: ironandsulfur.com. She is grateful to anyone who reads her work and in awe of those willing to share it. Twitter: @PoetKatrinaKaye Facebook: Iron & Sulfur
