~ When I See Death ~ When we cross paths I won't even be scared Rolling up my sleeves And preparing my fist I'll join him into a fight When death comes for me I won't beg on my knees Crying for a chance For a life he didn't give But hit him in the face For the hurt that he caused me Taking my loved ones from me Emptying my house of family Leaving my life lonely And ending all my gravy I'm gonna unleash my anger against him Knowing fully well I will not win But for him to taste small pain That is experienced by mortal beings Before taking me with him
Essay from Ike Boat
Arti-Blog Title: WTS 4th Graduation Ceremony
On 10th March 2022, around 3 pm, we were on a journey to the West as part of in-land missions to my birthplace of Takoradi, where most of my creative skills and abilities started in my teenage years. Unusually, there are close to five stoppages by the commercial mini-buses, which take several hours on the road before reaching the West-Side destination. They didn’t care appropriately about us as passengers, and my traveling bag was not so durable. All other happenings brought about mixed emotions, but in all of that, Thanks To God #TTG, we arrived safely at the destination. By the way, let’s proceed to the subject-matter title as far as this Arti-Blog is concerned.
On Saturday, 19th March 2022, at 10 am, I arrived at the venue of the 4th Graduation Ceremony of the International Christian Worship Centre in West Fijai, Western Region of Ghana, West Africa. I served as an MC there and did Voice-Over work on the Ad-Jingle Wisdom Theological Seminary – WTS program, recorded in Kasoa, Central Region of Ghana. Here’s the program outline in the brochure of the Wisdom Theological Seminary – WTS 4th Graduation Ceremony, which took place on the above date and venue.
- Musical Interlude
- Procession Hymn
- Opening Prayer
- Welcome Address
- Purpose Of Gathering
- Introduction Of Dignitaries
- Chairperson’s Response
- Scripture Reading By Three Graduates
- SRC’s Speech
- Offering
- Song Ministration
- Chancellor’s Speech
- Guest Speaker’s Speech (Rev. John D. Boone – USA)
- Student’s Vows
- Charge To The Students
- Student’s Pledge
- Presentation Of Certificates & Awards
- Prayer For Students
- Special Offering
- Chairperson’s Response
- Vote Of Thanks
- Announcement
The Musical Interlude was made possible by the invited ministers and choir as well as the Procession Hymn, led by one of the music ministers present. The Opening Prayer was led by Pastor Hope Graham, the Welcome Address led by Pastor David Arku, and the Purpose Of Gathering was led by Pastor Maxwell Amo-Ntsiful. Afterwards,the Introduction Of Dignitaries was led by the Founder/Chancellor Rev. Dr. Evans Ankomah. The Chairperson was Honourable Isaac Adjei Mensah, a Christian political figure and a Member of Parliament for the Wassa East Constituency, Western Region of Ghana. Indeed, two of the outstanding moments of the event were when the Guest from the USA, Reverend John D. Boone, was given an Ordination Certificate courtesy Rev. Dr. Evans Ankomah. And, when the Chairperson Honourable Isaac Adjei Mensah requested special prayers as he knelt in front of the altar in absolute humility. The Chancellor Reverend Dr. Evans Ankomah delivered a speech and special guest Reverend John D. Boone (USA) also delivered a sermonlike speech for which dialect translation became somewhat like a hard-nut to crack by yours truly, Ike Boat. Interpretation and translation brought wisdom and understanding to the audience. To God be the glory, Hallelujah!
Student Vows was also led by Reverend Kingsley A. Prempeh, whilst Charge Of Student/Graduates was led by Apostle Dr. Isaac Odenyame. The Student Pledge was led by the Chancellor/Founder Reverend Dr. Evans Ankomah and the Presentation of Certificates & Awards was also done by the church elders and leaders on the podium.
Amongst other things, the new school anthem was also made known to the audience as a means to ensure fund-raising and generous support in order to record it in the studio and make it useful as the official WTS Anthem composed by Ike Boat. There was a total of Sixteen (16) Graduates, viz Four (4) being females and Twelve (12) being males in the 4th Graduation Ceremony of Wisdom Theological Seminary – WTS in the Western Region of Ghana, WA.
Different Addition To The Program Outline
Play of the WTS Ad-Jingle to the audience as a means of publicity and popularity.
Spoken-Word poetry infusion performance by Ike Boat
Aftermath shoot of Time With Ike Boat #TWIB – Guest On Set: Rev. Dr. Evans Ankomah
Please, if you sense the call of God to embark on missions in south-western Ghana, I hereby beseech and recommend you kindly send Email via: pastorevansonline@gmail.com , Direct Call or Whats-App: +233209445627, +233242613081 Also, you can get in touch concerning Ministry Partnership, Sponsorship or Missions Affiliation. Thank You.
Submission By Yours Truly Ike Boat – Synchronized Chaos International Magazine #SCIM – Regular Contributor & Regional Representative. Email: ikeboatofficial@gmail.com , Phone: +233 267117700, +233 552477676 Thank You.
Poetry from Ivan S. Fiske
Scriptures today, i'm plaiting these words with the hands of affection & rooting it in the palms of love frankly, i miss you from the day you accepted my citizenship in your heart every part of me has always thirsted for you like a baby i'm still learning how to speak for my lips holds the memory of our first kiss every time your presence resides in the chest of mine the glances of your smile fill my heart with joy truth be told, i have painted your smile all over my heart to shimmer my many scars i wish i could clay myself into a wind sail over to you & wrap you in warmness whenever you are far away from me that i may always be nearer to you if loving you becomes a sin i will nail our bond to God's Word clay you like a rib & place you back into me for eternity is our bond
Poetry from Christopher Bernard
Knock Knock: A Poem for Ukraine Knock knock. Who’s there? Ukrainian boy. I have walked from far, Over fields of snow And ice of roads And cities at war. I don’t know you. Are there any with you? My family is gone, I don’t know where. I’m here all alone. May I come in? I have a number On my hand. Can I call? Not on my land! There’s a country Down the road. Try them there. It’s far, and I’m cold. Knock knock. Who’s there? Ukrainian boy. Can I come in? I’m so tired, And the wind is so cold. . . . Why are you here? What is that In your eyes? Is it tears? Is it sadness or fear? No, it is ice, It is melting there. Go down the road. There is nothing for you here. Knock knock. Who’s there? Ukrainian boy. Can you say where I am? I saw ghosts on the road, They looked like my papa, My mama, my sister, My brother at home. Has anything happened to them? Will you please let me in? I’m so tired, I don’t think I can walk any more. I can’t feel my hands. May I come in here? What is that number Written out on your hand? When I call, there is silence At the other end. Come in and rest On my bed. No, it’s snow . . . When you sleep you will never Fear war again. No, no, I must go, How will I get home If now I don’t go? Come in and rest, Come in and rest, Come in and rest Until you must go . . . Knock knock. Who’s there? Who knocked at our door? Show yourself if you’re there! But there was no one there, Only the sound of the wind, And the snow in the air. The Sunken Palace The curlew calls in the sycamore tree. Do you hear it? A boy’s laugh follows. A rustle of gold flickers over the lake. The sky is cold and on fire. Do you see the fair one, the kind one, the holy? She is not to be seen on the tower. There is only a shadow to be seen in the arch And an iron gate as it closes. He is gone now, and she is not here. Their story, our story, is over. The palace of love was a fable. The rain Fell for long on the meadow. At the season when the moon was a song in the snow And the wind was a shout in the mountains, The ghosts of the palace where the ballroom had drowned Danced in a lake of shadows. The Sound of Falling Trees “There’s no such thing as ‘being a poet.’” —T. S. Eliot It used to be an almost embarrassing compliment. If someone called you that, you skipped a heartbeat of secret bliss, as if the most beautiful girl in class had just blown you a kiss. Now it is almost an embarrassment. “Writers in San Francisco,” New York and L.A. smile to each other with a wink and a nudge. “Aren’t they all poets? They can be safely ignored, left to PEN and AWP, unless you go in for the penniest of penny stocks. They can’t even make themselves any money, let alone the likes of you and me; they’re famous only if they die (I know it sounds bold, but it’s so true) by a monumentally gaudy suicide.” It’s not much of a compliment anymore, yet it is still a kind of destiny, a kind of fate: a compulsive need to find new words for old emotions, old and raw, and make them ring like bells in the winter air— clear and true and fading into oblivion— the crash of trees falling deep in the forest even when there is no one to hear. _____ Christopher Bernard’s latest collection of poems, A Socialist’s Garden of Verses, won a 2021 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Literary Award and was named one of Kirkus Reviews’ “Top 100 Indie Books of 2021.”
Poetry from Jerome Berglund
Jerome Berglund graduated from the University of Southern California’s Cinema-Television Production program and spent a picaresque decade in the entertainment industry before returning to the Midwest where he was born and raised. Since then he has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Berglund has exhibited many haiku and senryu online and in print, most recently in Tofu Ink Arts, Vermillion, Hey I'm Alive Magazine, and Fauxmoir. He is furthermore an established, award-winning fine art photographer, whose black and white pictures have been shown in galleries across New York, Minneapolis, and Santa Monica. You can read Jerome’s earlier published works collected in Bindle Bum and Paint Chips, available through Amazon.
Poetry from Michael Robinson
Whispers of the Wind Trees standing tall reaching to the sky. When the wind dances between trees, Leaving a trace of mist on the ground. Leaves blow from one place to another. A sound of a leaf brushing one another. Clam finds a place among the breeze. Serenity accompanies the whispering. As the wind leaves a trail of freshness, Clarity leaves me with a quiet soul. Cemented Freedom In the inner-city among the cemented sidewalks, Buildings of cement reaching towards the sky. Cemented bricks and cemented hearts that cry. Among the cemented world lives freedom. Freedom comes as flowers grow free. Cardinals sing among the trees at dawn. God’s freedom among the cemented city. Freedom as the wings of the cardinal’s flight. Among the flowers there is a life of beauty. The Garden of Friendship For Mary Kirsch The sunshine, rain, and snow flowers grew. As did our love for one another in hardship, Flowers grow in the cracks of the sidewalk, And through our fears and doubts of life, Quietly as the candles burned on the altar. We sat together with our hearts open. In the garden love still grows, Flowers grow through the cracks. While we see the petals of the heart. Summer Beauty Her skin was the color of caramel And her eyes the color of cream, With a smile that warmed my heart. She spoke like the wind in summer. Seeing how gracefully she walked. Reminding me of the beauty of life. She sat by the window looking at me. A moment of eye contact between us. Remembering that glance in my prayers.
Poetry from John Grey
JOE UP LATE IN A SEAPORT Downtown seaport. one in the morning, bar closes, Joe hears the shouts of the drinkers as they stumble out into the street. New moon makes nothing clear, gray clouds haunt the night sky, boats rock, docks creak, and, for human sounds, it’s Joe’s cold breath against the alcoholic choir. The men slowly struggle up the hill to their homes, their sleeping families. Joe stands by the memorial statue for all fishermen who died at sea. The drinkers look elsewhere. They don’t like to be reminded what a storm on the waters can do. Joe imagines it’s just like this, with men, once the street lights lose track of them, vanishing in darkness. Until it’s just him. And a marble sailor gripping the wheel. And that whiff of liquor, tinged with salt, intoxicating. A DRUNK IN HELL Stars are Basin Street at midnight. hung like rosary beads, like the glow of cigarettes in the mouth of the snickering moon. I prefer it when the clouds roll in, white and puffy as used condoms, heavy as mud on a coffin lid, the dark dogs of weather snarling through the grill of a sudden rain shower. Clouds gather like mourners at the nuptials of death and booze, of the sax solo boiling away from a nearby club and the passing taxi pissing water down my pants' legs. I'm heading home in the wrong direction, crashing through Saturday night's demented party, a parade of one, liquored up, beaten down, a float that stinks of a hooker's breath - you'd think life would know better than to let me inhabit it. Maybe I'll just crash now. Maybe I'll drop where I am and if no one finds me, so much the better for them. But there's always a cop, always the cry of "Move on, buddy." So I move on like the clouds, so the stars can reappear. They're not light, they're fire. It's their job to burn a hole in me. FLOOD VICTIMS Anna's rolling in the mud. Husband Dave scoops up large lumps of sludge in his hands, watches it slowly drip through the cracks between fingers. This is what you do when the flood retreats and the land's a sea of slush. No dimples in a baby's chin. No soft pink squeeze of flesh. Nothing clean as a fresh white towel or a pressed Sunday suit or a bread roll and a pad of bright yellow butter. Some people armed with shovels try to dig the town out from under this deep brown muck. Why fight it, says Anna. I battled the disillusionment of marriage, the burden of children, the grind of two jobs, and the river still overflowed its banks, washed away all homes and cars and life before it. Others pick through the dark caked graves of furniture, food and family heirlooms. Dave had nothing worth having, now he owns a house of silt. The arguments are buried. The disappointments can't breathe. So what if the town smells like rot, mildew, decaying corpses. Anna can live with the stench. Dave can live with Anna. READING A BOOK GETS ME HOT kind of reading, love-in-book form, feel urged to utterance, plunge my waterbody into your fish-tank – sex, notwithstanding deaths, the critical mass of human endeavor, on the countertop, in the aisles, a lovely dove inside a man’s hands as his face imitates the one who killed it – sex, this American sex, I’d step way out of line to have it, devour everything in its path, thrash like a drowning man if it was air – in human terms, the liquid violence, as a young boy, stranger than Chinatown, even in diminishment, the loudest noise a guy can make -. nerve and pulse reach into the dark places, a body far from home, a blunt butcher carving his way into the interior of a pink palace – and it’s this book that does it, sears my hands, steams my head – who wrote it? I did – when was it written? after I’m done - DANCE NIGHT Having started in thought, I ended with dancing. Not as embodiment but because thinking wasn’t getting me anywhere. I hadn’t the patience for old lovers. Nor the mind for wondering what went wrong. And my limbs were crying out, “Why not us!” The results of the mental process were as meager as hummingbird feathers. And nowhere near as fetching as the woman I was with. Music was playing. We stepped out on the floor. My legs mule-kicked, My arms flailed. I shook my body like interrogating a suspect. And, all this time, my head was bobbing. But just for identification purposes.