‘Community Soccer Talents Discovery & Urgent Needs’

It’s a hectic day of indoor script-writing at the residence of Top Hill suburb in Kasoa, Central Region of Ghana. Obviously, there’s subsequent studio voice-over recording session, specifically on such a terrific Thursday evening at 5pm of 13th August 2026. Well, it’s walking as well as watching movies and check on the soccer training of coach Bukari Hamidu, a former professional footballer, according to him having played for clubs such as Volta Warriors FC, Elmina Sharks FC, Vipers FC, Dynamo FC (Benin) just to mention a few.

Upon reaching the sandy pitch where the young team of players between ages 10 to 15 years often trains under leadership of coach Bukari Hamidu. I realised the passion in relation to such incredible talents and skills of these players. Significantly, he’s been able to gather community kids of 50 in number as a team.

But, solemnly, something that struck my attention deeply is the lack of training kits and equipment as resource to ensure the development of their soccer skills. The list of training kits urgently needed includes the following: proper Balls, Bibs, Cones/ Markers, Boots, Goal Poles, Whistles, Jerseys, Shin-Guards, Hose, Goalkeeper Jersey/Gloves. As a sports advocate and ardent soccer fellow, I’m humbly using this blog to appeal as a request to any philanthropist or benevolent individual, organization or company who like to support the bright future of these young talented soccer kids in the community of domicile. Please, anyone who would like to partner and connect with us in giving support to these future stars are welcome onboard. Kindly use the following particulars to support in giving to our ‘Community Soccer Talents Discovery & Skills Developmental Project’.

Isaac Adjei Boateng
        ‘Ike Boat’
Post Office Box WU 736,
Off Nyanyano Road,Kasoa.
Central Region,Ghana.West Africa.

Direct Call/WhatsApp Text Via: +233267117700, +233552477676, +233207880046, +233549491100, +233247115751.

Together with coach Bukari Hamidu,we look forward to welcoming you both on the field of play training session and of the field of play ideas sharing, respectively. Thank you.

Ike Boat @ Top Hill,Kasoa.Central Region,Ghana.(West Africa).

The Eternal Question

Bug bite

or zit?

Adam Fieled/for Synchronized Chaos

From This Charming Lab (reading), Kelly Writers House, West Philadelphia, March 27, 2004

Stoning the Devil

In Baudelaire’s famous prose poem, The Generous Gambler, we follow the narrator, ostensibly Charlie B. himself, as he encounters a mysterious stranger on a Parisian boulevard. The stranger, lo and behold, turns out to be Lucifer himself. Baudelaire depicts him as a man of wealth and taste, who has, indeed, been around for many a long year, and stolen many a man’s soul and faith. Of course, Baudelaire follows him. They get regally smashed, and the Devil reveals to him the secrets of the universe. For Baudelaire, stoning the devil means getting him stoned, wooing him, bringing him into the human fold for a little Dionysian sport. The problem with the Baudelairian method of Satan-handling is that you lose your soul. The Devil corrupts you to the point that right and wrong have no meaning; irony enters the blood and chills it; paradox becomes poison; everybody looks like a leper; and you can’t feel anything. It helps to remember our good old read-it-in-seventh-grade friend Young Goodman Brown. His encounter with Beelzebub leaves him embittered, disenchanted, but at least he still has a soul (or, as much of a soul as a tee-totaling Puritan can have). Young Goodman Brown stones the devil by rejecting him out of hand. Stoning here means throwing stones: even if it be from the glass house of mortal ignorance.

So, somewhere between the Baudelairian and Hawthornian models of Lucifer-human relations, we may find an ideal solution. We can lure the Devil into drunkenness and then bash him over the head with a rock, or we can bash him over the head with a rock and then slip him a joint to ease the pain (mostly our pain, of course). The Devil, the epitome of imperviousness, will go on being the great professional Ironist he is (a bit like Frank Zappa). The reward of this balanced approach for us, as writers, is that we can lure the Devil close to us, just close enough to learn some of his simpler tricks, then send him on his way when he starts demanding blood. Muslims the world over “stone the Devil,” but I fear their ritual lacks a certain subtlety and understanding of Satanic grandeur- how it can be harnessed, refined, made to serve human ends. The Devil, more than any other Being, understands the complexity of existence. I would guess that things are as complicated in Hell as they are here. In the end, what is art but a testament to the complexity of life: manifold levels and layers, perpetually enclosing us in a wide web. One could make the argument that art is essentially ironic, in the sense that it posits unreachable worlds that we long for, but cannot touch. We must face it: art is a Devil’s game. We’re here to play, and we guarantee you it will be more fun than Yahtzee.

Dominique

So many stories are wrapped up in this next poem, some hilarious, some harrowing. It all revolves around a single woman and her phenomenal ability to enthrall men. Her name was, and is, Dominique, and I’ve never met anyone like her. When I met her, I was a high school junior and she was a freshman. She was stunningly beautiful, with a seductive, feline grace that suggested both Lolita and Liv Tyler. This alone wouldn’t qualify her to play such an interesting part in my life and the lives of those around me; there were a lot of beautiful girls at Cheltenham; but Dominique had something more. What do we call that ineffable IT, that compelling magnetism that certain people have? Is it merely beauty, or charisma, or youth? For me, Dominique’s charm lay in all these things, and also in something extra— a certain mischievous glint in her eye, a certain toss of her head, that suggested a sort of supernatural ecstasy, as if she were walking around in a narcotic trance all the time (which, I was later to learn, she was). Dominique was, quite simply, the most compelling female I’d met up to that point. Oddly enough, I didn’t fall hard for her at all. I was able to keep my distance because, to a certain extent, I saw a hollowness beneath the charisma, an unwillingness to dig beneath surfaces and live truly. Dominique for me was a sort of caricature of adolescent sexiness, and I loved her archly condescending smile, but it didn’t pierce me to the bone.

My best friend at the time, however, was absolutely, unbelievably, and pitifully smitten. He hung on her every word as though she was Godhead incarnate, recorded every encounter in an especially prized notebook, and just basically made an idiot of himself whenever she was around. Then, Dominique started dating another one of my friends, simultaneously making me her “Man of the Month,” and things started to get really messy. A fist fight for me outside math class; a death threat; notes for me in the mail inscribed with lipstick, reading “He finds a deep satisfaction in pain; for that pain comes from her”; and other such nonsense. Basically Chris, aka Mr. Smitten, never forgave me for going after Dominique when he was so desperately in love, while Adam, Mr. Better-Attack-Me-Outside-Math-Class, became contrite years later and started randomly showing up at my gigs, camera in hand. 

Having given you this background, you’ll probably understand why running into Dominique on a sultry night in the East Village was such a big deal for me. I was lonely as hell in New York, overwhelmed, numbing myself with huge quantities of pot and speed pills. Dominique, for all her cattiness, rose to the occasion and delivered a knock-out performance as supportive friend with benefits. Unsurprisingly, she supported her academic career at NYU by dealing drugs, and I thought it would be fair game to throw that in, seeing as it was honest. Formally, this piece is me trying my best to write like Keats, sort of the same thing William Carlos Williams was doing in his early twenties. For me, WCW’s Keatsian poems aren’t that good, probably because he didn’t know Dominique. She’s a Muse— a real, honest-to-God morsel of madness. Not that I’ve ever forgotten her implacable selfishness, remorseless narcissism and insufferable insularity; but it pays to remember what’s best in her. 

Adam Fieled is a writer based in Philadelphia. His books include Equations, Beams, Apparition Poems, Opera Bufa, and Cheltenham. Manuscripts-in-progress include Something Solid and Curiosities.  

FANTASTIC MUNDANITIES 

Dawn is the prelude  

to the opera called Sunset,

with movements and motifs between. 

And we audience 

intent upon every set, 

witness the progress of each scene, 

the sky’s chorus, 

clouds of sopranos, 

sun’s tenor, 

Picador piccolos 

incite the arena, 

the crowd, the bull, 

and the matador 

towards the scarletted bull fight 

that will climax the day’s events. 

There will be bravery 

on full display, 

and doomed passions 

of hope and faith and death, 

fate and undying love. 

We believe the dramatic fantasies that we see 

mirror our own realities. 

LOVE’S LOVING PARTS 

I eyed your eye, I smelled your smile, 

and I knew you’d be my New. 

My Former (that former of technique) 

had just passed into the past,

but I recalled what she called “love’s loving parts.” 

Our fingers feel and our feelings expand. 

Our hands in hands handed us the signal, 

fingers on arms rearmed my advance. 

Your skin was like felt as I felt your Every. 

Then we undressed to address our opened desires. 

In the design of the phallus a size fallacy 

is sometimes alleged, but it fits where most fit: 

We prove it as we apply love’s loving parts. 

From these shadows you’ll shadow me some tomorrow 

though absent as the scent of your here-and-there hairs, 

but in this happy present you’re my present  

with love’s loving parts.  

THE LUNAR DIET 

On late nights you’ve seen that Diana chick 

and you’ve heard her weightloss achtick. 

”In one month all your bulk will be gone,” 

But of course it’s all a con. 

Although her so-called Diet of the Moon 

with its traces of selenium and witchesbroom 

will indeed disappear your unwanted shape 

and you’ll vanish all your extra weight, 

but it will all come back again, 

your loss will become your gain 

and all too soon 

you’ll mushroom, you’ll boomerang, you’ll balloon. 

COLLIDOSCOPE

Angry dark air, pinkandoranging outside, banners in on HEADLINES of tragedy-war-genocide.

In Arthur MacArthur’s granite shade (his slow gray empire sword picketed by peacenik pigeons)

old plaid men playchessplaychessplaychessplaychess for their lives. Stability checks liberty bleeding,

Justice dies en passant.

And HEADLINE’s black arts wrestle my gentled soul to earth. But then enter golden wonder sun’s Blue Commandos, infiltrating the park even as new mozzarella tourists wander cluelessly in. 

And teeter-totter boombox juniors skitter zigzag

across old decorums, untutored yet in the

long division between war games and their play (these innocent! Alien alike to criticism and discipline).

And improvised ivory and emerald and ruby

and amethyst and sapphire devices

explode explode along the green, and  

HEADLINE, distracted, loses its hold. O, inconsolable

Morning: captured by its own good looks.

LOCKS & BOXES

Accords between meek aand might are accordions

compressed and stretched, stung and tortured between locks and boxes:

to manufacture the din sequence,

bands stumble past breaks and lost jams.

Women are not alone in reading the omen,

watching World serally unfold as locks and boxes.

And so it goes with the Innocent,

who humbly pray, “Break the logjam.” 

…

MOTHERLAND

MY MOTHERLAND IS UZBEKISTAN

THE PEOPLE ARE FRIENDLY

I CAN WRITE POEMS  

ABOUT MY COUNTRY

O MY DEAR COUNTRY

I SING FOR YOU 

FOREVER KIND 

FOREVER TRUE

SEASONS

THERE ARE FOUR SEASONS IN A YEAR

SPRING SUMMER AUTUMN AND WINTER

THERE ARE DIFFERENT WEATHER 

WARM    HOT   COOL  AND  COLD

IN THE WINTER THE RIVERS ARE FREEZED

 IN AUTUMN OFTEN RAINS

 BUT SUMMER IS SUNNY AND

SPRING IS VERY NICE.

RAIN

PITTER PATTER LITTLE RAIN

FILLED OUR HEARTS WITH  ENJOY AGAIN

SUMMER RAIN OUR CHEERFUL FRIEND

CAME SO FAST THEN REACHED ITS END 

ON A HOT AND SUNNY DAYS

COOL FRESH AIR CHASED HEAT AWAY

DARK CLOUDS GATHERED IN THE SKY

BRINGING SMILES TO EVERY EYE.

Ravshanova Shahina Rustamovna was born on January 28, 2016 in a family of entrepreneurs. From the age of 4 to 5, she has started easily read books in Creole and Latin. She has read more than 30 epics, short stories, novels and favourite work is the novel “The land of sweet melons” by Khudoyberdi Tokhtaboyev. Jonathan Swift’s  “Gulliver’s Adventures”. She finished reading four epics while she was in kindergarten. Her interest in poetry began at the age of seven. In the first grade, her poems began to be published in the newspapers “Haqiqat “of the Khojaabad district. Her first book of poetry is a book of poetry called “Khakim buvamga salom”. The regional governor, taking into account her wishes, presented Shahina with a library at a meeting of regional governors and talented young readers. In addition, she showed great dedication in publishing her poetry book. She also presented a computer.

For an 8 years old girl, such confidence opened the way to great opportunities. More than 100 students are improving their knowledge in the library, Shahina was able to gather her friends. Articles were written about Shahina. She was shown as an example to many. All this was a reward for her bookishness and her sense of responsibility. At the age of 9, Nur founded the Nur Charity Foundation. Together with her friends. Currently, she is sharing love and affection with children and the elderly from the charity foundation. At the age of 10, she was one of the first to be accepted into the youth club of the Republican Library Foundation and began working as the youngest volunteer. In March of this year, at a meeting with the Minister of Education, she managed to share her knowledge with everyone and gave them a tablet and collection of books to Alisher Sadullayev, and , expressing her gratitude, helped Shahina open a club called “ Avlodlar dovoni”.

Currently, together with 30 club members, she is organizing sherkhanlik evenings and reading books evening. At a meeting with the presidential advisor, she was appointed a member of the Writers’ Union of Uzbekistan. Currently, she is a member of the Writers’ Union of Uzbekistan. She is doing a lot of work as a youth spiritual promoter. She attends the English language club at the Arizone educational center in the district. She continues her creativity in English as well. She has started her work titled Kadam, which will be presented in March next year, in order to try her hand at writing. She was recently awarded the badge of the New Creators of Uzbekistan.

Solace

The sun is dappling my skin

It hastened and the stream flowed

My dreamscape a new reverie

Reverse all the wrongdoing

The earth needs more solace

My happenings are coded

Angels are with my beloved

My forever symphonic silence

A dilemma is known to the world

It harbours a new silence

The fate is singing to me.