Herein lies the tale of an old man’s venture onto the path of a poet

The journey of an old poet as told by himself.

In L-A-R-G-E letters I write, in letters bold yet pale.

With words not spoken I tell a tale

Of a path not taken which yet I took,

And sought to roam its every nook.

To some it may be captivating.

To others perhaps irritating.

Still, it’s a tale pretty old,

And somehow has to be told.

In the distance it looked bleak, this path of mine,

A million ideas crossing my mind.

A thousand thousand pictures I sought to create,

With words which I tried spitting out but which I ate.

I dared to venture the path of a poet,

A path I ain’t done walking just yet.

Words both grim and gay,

In my head would spin and play.

They would put up such a race

That my brain couldn’t keep the pace

Out the gates of my mouth though, they wouldn’t come.

So I would lend them the tip of my pen.

In my book they’d make themselves a home,

Where they would show up every now and then.

Beautiful pictures that could cheer,

And sometimes grim ones you couldn’t bear,

Were what my words did compose,

Bringing to mind a delightful prose.

Now I sit alone in my little shed,

Having tried my best many lives to enliven.

Broken hearts I tried hard to mend.

Some lessons I have learnt some I have given.

It was worth walking this path of mine,

Though at first I was afraid to try.

Then my pen scribbles these words,

As I reminisce those days in my head.

For indeed this tale I tell

Would also turn out to be my…

L-A-S-T W-O-R-D-S….

Your Last Poem

The Color of my Edgar Allan Quill

Words Monsters Me

Have you ever had fun with a dead poet? I hope he’s smiling… as he turns over in his grave. ☺

Peace out Mr. Poe;-) 🖤

Be still my quill for I cannot write
When you insist I relive your past life
I still remember the day we met
At the annual Farmer’s Peacock Fest
Your oculus was quite hypnotic
Since that date my sins demonic
Stop fluttering you wicked feather
Why did I ever name you Edgar?
You look so innocent to naked eyes
But all your colors are just a disguise
As my hand trembles I return to Eden
With you the snake you wild heathen~
Just a tiny bite won’t hurt you dear…”
Now all I create comes laced with fear
I used to write of love and laughter
Of flowers and life happily ever after
And then I brought you home with me
What a…

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I have a horse called Time

Oh so precious is he

He cost me a fortune, not a dime

But he doesn’t belong to only me.

Always moving, never waiting,

Always as spirited as can be.

Never permanently residing,

As the horse of one man’s stable,

There he goes round galloping,

Rolling dices and turning tables

Use him well, use him wisely

And he will get things done real quickly.

For Time he is, but time he doesn’t have

Once he runs out, he is gone for good

And turning back is a mere impossible wish.

The discerning one puts him to good use,

And does things mighty and great.

But the lazy one abuses and misuses,

And that he won’t tolerate.

One enemy though, he does have

A horse thief known as Procrastination,

Who hates him with his very might,

And can’t bear to have him in sight.

He arms himself with Drowsiness

And accompanies himself with Idleness.

He creeps in silently, walks in stealthily

And steals the horse called Time

Indeed a terrible crime.

I have a horse called Time.

A miracle horse is he.

He heals all wounds.

He sees to the doing of the important things first.

The idle ones, the ones unwise,

And the ones who don’t see value in his worth,

Never seem to have enough of Time.

But he is available and plentiful

To those sensible enough to use him right.


Take it or leave it,

You don’t have to believe it.

The truth’s sometimes curt…

And it does hurt

When you find yourself in the lime of its light,

You think it’s not right

And you begin to fight

Take it or leave it

You don’t have to believe it

The truth makes right

But it does have a plight

It is no respecter of time

With time it doesn’t rhyme

And often shows up late to set matters right

Take it or leave it

You don’t have to believe it

The truth upheld…

Strengthens the weak,

enlightens the blind and bleak,

brings peace and rest to those who seek…

But the speaker of truth has no friends



Okyere Ransford is my name. My friends call me, ‘Rans‘, ‘Ranzy‘, ‘Trekinson‘. Whichever one works for u does for me too. I love words and the wonderful creations they make when put into good use. I believe words to be the bridge between my thoughts and the outside world, the very train that takes me on a jolly ride through the world of my imaginations – a world where words grow on trees – Dictionopolis.

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