A violent rushing wind crept through my bedroom window,
bringing the Brooklyn air and the smell of fumes.

It's not a good combination at all.
When will I learn that the young Gen Z is more frustrated than us baby boomers?
When we are in bed, they are up all night.
When we are fully awake, they are about to lie down.
When we try to reach out to them,
They get annoyed easily.
Should we fold or unfold to the madness of this so-called new generation?
Fold to the madness of the new generation.

I stood in the old church,
At the back, near the entrance,
I haven't set foot in that church over the years,
It could be over thirty years to be exact
And there I was two times in one year,
Country churches have a warmth to them
Small and yet personal effects on one core
Friendship is rightly defined as a small church
My reason for being there was to say my goodbyes
To my loved ones, my mother and my godmother,
📷
Looking back on the moment, it was so nostalgic
So surreal, and all I was saying to myself, why, take her?
It was so good to see some folks I have not seen in years,
Their aging body fades their look,
I too was not the same, being sixty-seven isn’t easy.
I attended my childhood school year church,
St Matthews, I smile just looking at the old
Church, so many memories,
Father heard the prayer we offered,
But for the ease, that prayer shall be,
But for the strength, prayers give us,
2024 will be the year, that brought my family together
It was so wonderful to see all of them
From the young to the old,
I never got to go to the lovely beach on the Island
I just didn't want to,
Too much of everything all at once isn’t good.
Today my lower waistline is paining,
However, I can compose warm memories of July 2024.

𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒
𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑧𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠
𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐴𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑗𝑎𝑠𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡,
𝐷𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑠;
𝑂 𝐴𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑚!
𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑔;
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙
𝐼𝑠 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔...
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠
𝐼𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑠...
𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑒𝑠?
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑜𝑓
𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤
𝐽𝑢𝑚𝑝𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑘𝑦....
𝐴𝑧𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠...
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙
𝐺𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑠.....

Dreams of My African King

In the quiet hours of night, my African king visits me. His presence, both vivid and elusive, dances across the tapestry of my dreams. We spar—our voices colliding over the phone, tangled in passion and discord. His white t-shirt clings to memory, a canvas for whispered secrets and unspoken truths.

Laundry day becomes sacred—an intimate ritual. He separates his clothing, each fold a promise etched into fabric. I, too, remember the days when I stumbled over his name, syllables tripping like hesitant birds. A thousand rehearsals, yet he corrected me gently, unraveling my mispronunciations with patience.

How much more can I love him? Love, unquantifiable, spills beyond boundaries. It echoes in the cooing of doves—their soft wings carrying messages between realms. To love is to risk—the precipice where self dissolves, and soulmates emerge.

He visits me, not only in dreams but also in waking life. I glimpse him on bustling streets, in the hum of subway cars, and within the ink of my poems. Our souls, celestial magnets, draw close. We need each other—an equation of hearts seeking equilibrium.

I am a believer in God’s design. He weaves our paths, stitches constellations into existence. My king, once stronger, faced battles that scarred his spirit. Yet God’s promises remain—our shared destiny etched in stardust.

Me ma wo akye—may your eyes witness miracles. In the quietude of night, may your African king’s silhouette linger, a beacon across the vast expanse of longing.

Today of all days I am dividing my tears into sections,

With each moment, with each tear drop and snuffle I makes

The paper tissues will always thread,  

crumbling signs some mishaps in life

surely, cannot be mended;



Yesterday was your birthday,  

Today it's my revelation, of life, (my life)

It seems lately, that I have taken a new route,

This road definitely is not paved with gold.



God truly bless heroes; he never fails me yet!

But, for sure I have encountered some obstacles,

Empathy, or just plain stupidity,  

I am an empath, I never thought I was this kind of person

As we grow older, it's so true that we see life in a different setting

the lows, the in-between and the high moments.

My so intensity, emotions, as they rise,  

and as they drop to low frustrations tolerance, I see red

Today, I need my ginger shots: who cares if it is unhealthy?



Today of all days I am dividing my tears into sections,

With each moment, with each tear drop and snuffle I makes

The paper tissues will always thread, crumbling signs of

some mishaps in life that surely cannot be mended.

Does anybody care about the upcoming presidential election this year?

We stare into the ceiling without looking at each other

Slowly you place your hands between my legs of burning desire,

I saw a portrait of your youth, as the silence engulf us:

My guilty pleasure, your disobedient hands,  

In a few hours you will become a man.

I didn’t cause this silence; our hearts were entwining (:)



My guilty pleasure, the portrait of your youth

A mother’s warmth, or just a cougar fantasy

Who made all the rules, society or us



The hearts asked for pleasure first,  

Then comes the sacrament of confession.  

my African prince of Lloren, Kwara, my vision



I will not accept that one and one should be two

A double plantain so jointly attached is still one

Love is not a substance, but at times comes off as one.

Therefore, from this day forward

I will treat love like a commodity  

Basis facts my guilty pleasure, your disobedient hands

Manly as ever, one day you will be my man. (:)  

As we walk the sandy beaches of Togo:

Just remember, one plus one doesn't add to two:

She gracefully walked into the ocean
Her dress flowing behind her
Welcoming the waves,
It seemed,
As an old friend.
She looked to the horizon-
Smiling,
As she dipped below the surface.

When she disappeared,
Some questioned whether she had drowned,
But no,
The Selkie had simply
Returned to her home
In the depths of the sea.

Have you ever danced
By yourself
Under a moonlit sky?
Completely out of your mind-
But the wind and birds and bugs
Create a background song
To life.
The grass under your feet
Makes you feel
Complete with nature.
And you dance-
You dance for the trees-
The stars-
Nature-
And for yourself.

It truly is an experience.

LORD THANK YOU FOR LOOKING OUT FOR ME ONCE MORE
THE DEVIL CAME TO MY DOOR, I LET HIM IN
I ALMOST SIN, AND NOW HE LEFT HIS MARK BEHIND
THAT TOO WILL FADE IN TIME: Duration
I AM INNOCENT IN THIS MATTER
I TOO FEED UPON THE KINDNESS, AND Vulnerability OF OTHERS
WHO WAS TRYING TO DEFRAUD ME,
SO, I WILL THINK OF IT AS THE PLAYER GOT PLAYED
MY IMAGE, AND WORDS WILL BE ****,
BUT MY SOUL WILL STAY NUPTIALS
Lord, forgive me if my need
Sometimes shapes a human creed.
BEEN HIDING WAY, WAY TO LONG
I WAS PRESENTED  with A CHALLENGE
TO GO OUTSIDE AND PRETEND
THAT I WAS SEEING EVERYTHING FOR THE FIRST TIME
AND RENAME EACH AND EVERYTHING THAT I SAW
CAN I ERASE MONTHS OF MEMORIES, AND DO THE SAME?
TO EASE THE PRESSURE OF GOING INSANE?
THE WORD LOVE STICKS IN MY WIND PIPE,
AND SILENCE MY SMILE AND MY ****** IMPRESSION
SOFTLY, I WILL FORGIVE MYSELF AND CALL IT
MOMENTS OF STUPIDITY, ANOTHER PAGE FOR
MY BOOK ABOUT SUFFERING IN MY LIFE;
deficits...?Am I aging with sense, or weakening with relationships deficits...
Instead of being ******* myself I should adopted this way of thinking

“Instead of putting our elders out to pasture, we might learn to harness the experience, affection, and time they have to offer.”

Yesterday my name was Babe
Tomorrow I will be called ******
But at this hour it will be Nalda
The one who escapes from the jaw of the lappers
Annie We Can Do It..

My Wednesday Ranting .. Therapy
In deep darkness on a cold night
I listen to his heavy breathing,
He seemed like a tired person last night
Today, I am tired of broken love,
Tired of not being able to fully trust
This thing called love,
Love is supposed to be kind,
Love is supposed to be patient
He wants to cuddle, I just want to sleep
I never know when a poem will come to me
Throughout the simplest ordeal.
I love his smile; I love the feel of
his prickly unshaven ****** hair against my cheeks
As I write, I create myself again and again---Joy Harjo--
As I write, I remember bad times, bad things,
Of infidelity, --- Annie Lander
It wasn’t cheating, it was the image of my thing
Doing things to others, making them scream!!!
My wicked unsettled mind keeps asking me questions
That I cannot answer, however, I had asked God
To protect me and my sanity.
Let my fears compose a poem
And allowed me to understand, why the most painful thing
On earth is to love a man?
“Sometimes, giving all of your love isn't much so save a good soul, it demands soul for a soul as fair payment.”
― Gurusharan Singhs