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Peter Addo


Greensboro, NC, US

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Peter Addo

He was so cool and very calculated
With a warm embracing tone
And a stunning dexterity
This sax player at the Green door.

Had a brisk tempo to match his play.
Softly but vigorously blowing his sax
To make his audience glad and mellow.
This Sax Player at the Green door.

He had a joyous love for people
One could sense it through his notes
With the colored lights blending with the notes
This Sax player at the Green door.

He could navigate space and timing
With high and low and medium notes
While the Bass went off in a Boom Boom Boom
This Sax Player at the Green door.

Casually strolling to the Piano
There for a drink and to wipe his brow
To say hello to a patron or two
This Sax player at the Green door.

Knowing just when to get back to the beat
He would sachee back to the center on time
To follow the beat one more time
This Sax Player at the Green door.

Such an uncanning precision now in a dialogue with the band
Followed by an applause from the audience
This is Raw and unadulterated Jazz, pure and simple Jazz
As played by the Sax Player at the Green door

Rekindled Memories Of Home


Peter Addo

Maybe itís about not wanting to let go.
These floods of memories
About places and times and such.
And without a delete bottom
They are for ever being rekindled.
Perhaps these tortured memories are an assurance
Of those places and people and times and such
Had indeed existed and not misleading.
These rekindled memories.
But there is no comfort in them
Without the smiles that touch my soul
To welcome me home.

The Place Called Home


Peter Addo

Sometimes my memory corrodes my mind
But there are parts I know it cannot change.
Sometimes I may deny past the hour of dawn
And like a migrating beast they fly away.
Why is it so difficult to forget?
Perhaps these are just partial images passing through.
Where I once lived someone lives there now
But I have to be strong to fight these images
To keep fragments of my childhood place.
So soon so little will be left
And I shall be alone.
But shall I ever find myself alone
Wondering if it had ever been
This place, this life
The memory makes it difficult to forget.
But like a pail of salt water left in the sun
It evaporates and melts away
Only to leave a white powder
That tastes foul to the tongue.
This place, this life, Kukuhill

to the Memory of my mother .Mrs margaret Ellen Dedei Addo.1914-2002

The Guiding Light


Peter Addo

Many of our young seem to be lost,
In a daze and often seem to live in another world.
Some just sit by the edge
Forgetting we are all in the family.
As the World Turns each day
Our children have become
The young and the restless
The bold and beautiful generation.
So in this new millennium
Here is an advise to all the young
Whether on drugs or alcohol or sex.
You have to realize here and now
That you have but One Life to Live
You donít have to spend
The days of your Lives
In the general hospital.
Remembering we have but one life to live
I rather see you in Penn State
Rather than your State Penn.
So what you need to do my friend
Is to find and follow the guiding light back home
Where your father has always been.
After all Father Knows Best.

Killer Fast Food Peter Addo


Peter Addo

Killer Fast Food you say
Only slowly but surely.
Double decker and may be some cheese
And smelling good all the way.
What a whorper, It satifies my hunger .
Without counting the calories