My Poetry

Cinderella Revisited

As she stands still, she travels quickly—
the wheels of the bus gliding swiftly,
becoming the rubber hooves of her metal chariot,
will she arrive before the clock strikes 9?
This day, she left home on time, but traffic teases a delay.
As all movement on 7th street stands almost pin-drop still
the light turns green, as if tickled by fate.
Today, she won’t be late.

Seeds of the Middle Passage (Pt. 2)

Trapped in the wobbly full belly of a ship prison
Brimming with misery
My great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother chose to breathe
Forgiving God, she clung to living—inhaling, exhaling
Imprinting DNA with remembrance,
Blood cell memory instructed to carry on
Trauma imprints don’t fade
Even after the brain decides to forget
Wrestling with living demons
She chose to live

Strong Root

I grew up in dirt, poor and non-rich where weeds thrived
and rosebushes barely survived, most times.
But, sun favored me and I danced freely in the rain
Until I did not feel rocks in the desolate soil.
My feet pattered happily on safe terrain.
And, I blossomed, able to bloom and readily help plant the seeds for tomorrow.
But, my attempt to sow and plant are often thwarted.
In deaf ears my entreaties disappear, as if swallowed.
My root, apparently, did not produce the flower they wanted cultivated.
My help is not wanted.
My help is not taken.

magnitude (for haiti)

my voice is lost within my throat
scrambling for direction
ever lost in tears as
gurgles blanket words swimming and drowning
my voice battles death
revived slowly by growing anger
that rises like burning vomit
erupting from a sickened belly
“Where is the justice?”
it longs to call out to the heavens
but, stilll silenced, it grasps loosely
creating empty echoes that no one can hear


Safe warm wraps like silk
’round my shoulders bare
Lulling me to sleep, dream visions
Of island sun beating down
in steel drum rhythms,
I taste Banana rum on my tongue.
Opening my eyes, gray peeks
from kitchen curtains, oven heat blazing
in jest

Ode to Jamia &her wicked sense of self

Ode to Jamia &her wicked sense of self
I pencil in black lines to form edges where there are none
Some say edgy is a good thing, so I’m gon go head &draw me some
Tilt my linear to form sharp circles that peak& point &sometimes bend
Creating something that is no longer a circle, unique from center to the very end
If I could fake what is considered normal &for a little while experience quiet
I would trade in a bit of this which bubbles in queer regions &put myself on a strict diet
–> but only for a second; cause the straight & narrow ain’t always clear
Purple stains blot locked hearts& brains when they refuse to feel &hear
As I smudge the edge a bit, I add the color and it begins to blend
until no longer there is a boundary between where there is end and I begin

Manic Ride

Manic Ride
Purple wings flap melodies
Wind calling out to me
Wearing trophies round its neck
None he earned, I suspect
Of all my whimsy dreams
I think he steals them, so it seems
Creeps into my private dwell
Spinning flirts I know all too well
He calls me lady so I stay
Carried on his wings, I fly away
I am on a channel ride
Take it all in manic stride
Trading colors with the sun
Man, this pace has just begun
Circle streams of consciousness
Permeate but I feel less
Than streams of light that pierce my skin
Its like I’m born again and again
Of ether energy, I know I’m made
Never gone, can’t incinerate
Seeps into my here and then
I begin, I have no end
You call me truth and so I stay
Come fly with me, we own today


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