In the beginning was the word,

But like a pearl, the word was rare.

Like to an Earl, the need for a sword.

Or his haste to prove to be an heir.

But I wish you could hear

the sound of poetry,

So I can say hark, now, hear my offertory.

For I am here

To stitch up beautiful noise,

With this voice.

So my humming,

All Sewn together at the hemming,

Must Sound like poetry.

And pound without regret but effrontery.

For my page is filled with idioms.

My cage is steeled to bar idiots.

My rage speaks figuratively

So I can age to speak wisely,

Like a Sage preys on alphabets

To sate his sum of years since Alpha’s quest,

To be Omega’s guest.

Just listen to the sound of silence.

Calm down and embrace the bad words of insolence.

Without any choice,

But by this voice,

Which can’t be valued in coins.

Nor weighed by the swing of one’s loins.

For this is about the art of the sound of poetry

When we string words to make hay as part of artistry.

By Kwame Agyemang Berko

@uhurubardman