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Best Poems Written by Hakim Fuhad Mansaray

Below are the all-time best Hakim Fuhad Mansaray poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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This Isn'T Poetry

if I could trace back
to that period
before it all started
some hundreds shameful years ago
when, under thatch great men 
with courageous minds were made

Days,
when we aim neither 
for fancy houses
nor folding bridges
true peace was what we preach

Then,
our egos yearn for more
we set to conquer civilization
our brethren we exchanged
for soap, gunpowder and tobacco

After we made them great
on their intelligence they heap praise
that their so-called industrialization
our labour they exploited
what they'll never mention

They fooled us
to believe that
we can catch up with them
invisible ladders they built
which we have to climb
to meet them on the top

Slowly,
we poisoned ourselves
with their westernization
embracing all those illogical concepts
shaky as a kid's first steps

Then,
came our realization
of how foolish 
we had been

Gladly,
they left
knowing they will 
always come back
for they know our minds 
have embraced their every thoughts

Years passed,
radically they came back
this time with new faces
of remorse with impunity
to suck the marrow from those bones

Foolishly again
we allowed them
to confiscate our brains
this time not with chains or canes
but with thoughts of doubt

Now here we are
crippling and dripping
of sweats that would have been theirs
instead of mending holes in our thatches
we fought for their badges

But,
what if we learn to breathe under water?
what if our chiefs can lead better?
what if they need us morethan 
we need them?
where are those ideas of Pan-Africanism?
where are those men
who fought with swords and words?

Let's bring back those days

..............BUT LAMENTATIONS.

Originally posted on: https://hfoday.wordpress.com/2022/04/25/this-isnt-poetry/

https://hfoday.wordpress.com/2022/04/25/this-isnt-poetry/

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Village Nights

In my loneliness, I lie in my bed
hopelessly listening to the chirping of crickets
The consoling breeze blowing from the cracks of my window
whistling tunes that re-echo from my bamboo bed
sending every hanging object to a dancing practice session
thatch reacting to every string in a recession

The intermittent cry of lonely owls
adds base to the consoling rhapsodies
Sounds that also remind villagers 
About the witches taking off
To their fate-deciding kingdoms
Kingdom where grown up and deceased share the same bench
cooking infants' body parts
humming songs of destruction

A sudden cry of a baby
will be hushed by swearing from an angry parents, a witch patent.
At least, they believe
So others are awake, relieved I felt

The breeze blows and steals the light from my kerosene lamp
A precious possession especially 
in wet seasons, when the moon hoards its brightness
Aided by angry clouds that are ready to pour out their pains on the earth
I closed my eyes tighter
Seeing billions of  black and white shadows

When the cock crows
My pains and fears vanish
It is day break I thought
to later realize it is still dark

Stories of the last night cock's crow
Makes the headlines in all
riverside petty talk, adults discussions
Redemption will be sought from liars, the eyes of the gods
With just a few cowries they throw
on dirt-ridden floor mats
They calculate a non mathematical problem with addition, 
A mystery on how they arrive at a result
With confidence, they will say
      'the witch kingdom needs a sacrifice,
     an infant will die suddenly'

The parents of the crying baby 
Will start relating the story
Insults will be aimed at people
Barrens, poor childless older fellows will be the target
Insults will indirected to these people

If by chance the child dies
The eyes of the gods will be exalted
The barrens, poor old fellows will be confronted, disgraced
even sent on exile, to "evil" forests

At dusk
My fear crawls in
Fear of loliness
Fear of sleeplessness
Fear of the dark
Dark village night.

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The Wait

In an old thatched house,
In an inhabitated corner,
Of a ghost village,
Lived an old woman.

Aged not in years, but in struggles and tears,
guised with prematured grey hair,
Empty mouth, wrinkling skin,
And unsupporting nerves.

Every morning she'll place a wooden bench in the front of her home,
Her eyes transfixed on the weed ridden road,
Looking for her only son,
Her first and last born.

A son that had gone to the city for years now,
To acquire knowledge to redeem her.
At least , she had thought
But had long been devoured.
Devoured by the lights of the city

Days turned into weeks,
Weeks into months,
Years into decades,
Still no signs for the homecoming.

With undying hope and patience,
She never missed her daily routine,
News had it that her son had graduated and had a government job,
Her smile that day electrifies he dark cubicle. 

For days her nights were full of delight,
Dreams of living in a house that glows at night,
Dreams she shared not because, someone might think she's insane.

The monsoon breeze of December hit hard,
Her strength gave in,
She could no longer sit outside,
Her ears now her eyes.

She heard sirens,
She saw a Bentley,
A Bugatti,
Oh, it was a Land Cruiser!


The Cruiser stopped halfway to her mansion, as it had turned out to be
My son will rebuild this,
With shinning zincs,
Her weeks' hunger fed her thoughts.

Why haven't him been here yet?
A hand brought her back from her mansion
Is it you Ibrahim? She hugged the hand
But the hesitation in the hand embarrassed her.

She opened her eyes
In the dark, she could see a figure but can't tell if this was her hope
"How could we tell her this?"
Her bright sight heard

Her hungry heart thumped
"What is it?"
The cries of her neighbors she sees as laughter informed her enough.
She gave the ghost before she could see her hope.

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A Filled End

I have a friend
At a place
He only knows, may be I'll in the end
His name is life, just in case

Physical but invisible
Invincible and irreplaceable
Dressd in white, at least I thought
He has a peculiar look, through my dream I know

Being in existence 
Only death knows
A complete stranger
When the clock goes

Measured by breath
Beats he weighs
Indefinite length
Will meet him only if I wait

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Hybrid Eyes

Piles of garbage; sounds of carnage they motion
Blurry images of malnourished children
Struggling for breath and bread
They evince; the struggles as we grow
-of how we ourselves are adversaries to our improvement, a hated compliment;
Of our lust for not the future but the moment

In bold they write 
headlines with demeaning adjectives 
that best describe our tribe - negros
A continent taken as just a nation
With a bunch of foolish souls
With primeval irrationality, flagrant corrupt officials: 
Followers of a God that is partial.

What they will never show
Is the hope and courage dancing 
In those malaria eyes
The trueness in our loose ties
They won't write,
Stories of how our crudeness
Made them their goodness
Of us being their reservoir 
A training ground for their geniuses —
Perfect confirmation of their guises.

Will they ever have those eyes?
Those that see us as civilized humans
Minding our own business.

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This Isn'T a Poem

........but a story of a boy
who chose to live even 
before he was born —
of a boy who chose sweet over emeralds.

for the learned they might find
one or two similar contrariness 
like how he sold (...    .......)
his breath for bread
or as how he chose 
contemporary to tradition 
or how he hates his addiction

Sadly, this isn't poetry.

this is about a boy — if you should know
whose parents — or I will say guardians 
 preferred now for later;
 to eat than to cater

among his peers
(a mocking pair)
he plays from the bench
or in front of the trench
always makes decision after a third regret.

This is a boy
who in his infants days
like bubbles on leaves 
glitters from Sun rays
but a few years later
those bubbles can
 no longer be found on leaves
but on his face
as he live—d day by day to sustain his breath 
— a breath he had since sold for bread.

This piece is far from being a poem
you can say your boy's Will
 — if the chosen word rhymes with bill
or you can say his naming ceremony speech
If he indeed lived that long
Or maybe his eulogy 
If he had friends or loved ones.

Yet his story lives on
Maybe when he grows up
If he will ever grow up
He will tell a different story
Of his days of glory.

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The African Child

THE AFRICAN CHILD
Do they have dreams?
Dreams of riches, connecting bridges
Of healthiness, of wealthiness
Of emotional wellness?!

Do they actually dream?
Of a future beyond their noses
Of fancy cars, of lofty houses
Would they ever wake up, if at all they sleep?

How could they dream?
Under leaking roofs they sleep
Getting less, but from foreign tip
Hard mats, empty stomach they sleep

Do these dreams come easily
When one's sleep is decided
By the silence of a gun
Or the heat from the sun?

I hope not,
Yet they sleep
Hoping that one day, maybe one day
Their resilience will pay.

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When I Say I'M Fine

It doesn't mean
I have the sun rise in my hands
and have it set under my feet;
or that I control the hands of time.

I say it not,
because it's short and sweet
and can comfort my difficult emotions;
or that all my swings are solutions.

I don't say I'm  fine
because I am ashamed
of my circumstance
or afraid of anyone's verdict
for instance.

I grew up in hell 
where I was taught, in my shell
to deal with difficulties
even before I was hatched

I traded happiness for sadness
chose trouble over calmness,
sanity over madness
later for now.

I say I'm fine 
because I know
 this is just the start
for a fulfilling past:
my journey has not come to an end

I'm happier with myself
because the more I live
I know — the more I'll narrow my scope
for I have faith in hope.

I say I'm fine 
because I spend more time 
on things that add value 
not on things I should value.

I say I'm fine
because I believe
I'll be fine.

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HOW CAN I EVER REPAY YOU

Do you recall that old clock?
Rested well above your bed
With the broken pair of hands
The one that struck at my dawn.

It ceased dancing and stopped its chime
Just as you gave up the ghost
As if mourning, those tiring hands stood still
As if your departure is against their will.

How can I repay you
For every cramp, every seizure
For nights of worry, eyes that wept
Dismissed as "too old," yet never slept.

How can I repay the pain you bore
For meals skipped to offer more
For battling illness, tending sores
For nights stretched long and neverending chores

Could any gesture, gift or word,
Match the love your heart has stirred?
The alms to beggars, prayers whispered
Tears that fall at every mention of your name

But in each moment I try
To honor you as days pass by
For all you've given, all you've done
In gratitude, our hearts are one.

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VOICES IN MY HEAD

It says - seize the day
Enticing me to go astray
You only live once, why not live more 
As I dash off to a hasty decision

A gap - as the mind processes
For a common ground
Yet I did, against all odds
Blurted out those words, drawn are swords.

In the rear
Mocking sounds I hear
"I warned you", it sneered
With cruel disdain.

Those little voices
Leads you to bad choices.