Whispers of the Heart

To fall for someone, a forbidden dance—
A waltz with shadows, a silent trance.
Accept the unacceptable, bury those feelings,
In the quiet chambers where desire conceals.
Filter photos, snapshots of dreams,
Reflections of what you imagine, it seems.
A mirror held up to the (perfect) you,
A sexier version, a fantasy come true.
As poets, we see things differently,
Through kaleidoscope eyes, we set them free.
The mundane, the ordinary, they transform,
Just like scented perfume, our senses swarm.
Reacting to life’s chemistry, we compose—
Ink bleeding emotions, secrets it knows.
So tired, so tired, my heart’s weary plea,
Echoing Elizabeth Browning’s symphony.
She, too, composed her inner feeling,
A sonnet of longing, a soul’s revealing.
Can you trust yourself to fall for fools?
Convincingly, they dance on love’s slippery rules.
A slippery love of devotion, dangerously sweet—
A precipice where hearts and reason meet.
And so we write, ink staining our hands,
Capturing the ache, the beauty, the sands.

In the tapestry of life, memories weave their threads, and the echoes of past workplaces linger like faint perfume. Seacrest, with its morning shifts and graveyard hours, left an indelible mark—a mix of disdain and nostalgia. The Stench, both literal and metaphorical, clings to the corridors of memory.
Retirement, a withdrawal from life’s hustle, offers solace. It’s like stepping out of a turbulent river into a calm pond. Yet, self-reflection creeps in—an inventory of wasted years spent in an institution were money reigned supreme. What good remains? The ledger is blank, the balance elusive.
Here, at sixty, sanity is my prayer. A few screws may be loose, but not enough to rattle the Monkey cages of life’s absurdity. Kindness flows, a gentle current, but I know it can backfire—a vulnerability in a world that thrives on sharp edges.
And you, a familiar face, a reminder: “This path, tread cautiously.” In my next life, I’ll be a poet—a real one, successful and unyielding. A master tinker, weaving words into magic. A philosopher, unraveling life’s mysteries.
But for now, I am Annie—the content creator, the mother, the friend in need. And perhaps, that’s enough.

There he stood on the podium, clutching a Bible. I hope some of us can recall that day—a day of disbelief, a day when we wondered, “What the heck is going on?” A fibber, a husband, a Republican—some might say he was the people’s choice. Now he’s running again, vying to lead his party. For his followers, he represents hope; for others, he’s a curse. The light, the brown, and the black foreigners—the ones who will rewrite history. Will they say this time that we’ve inherited a mess?
When I’m uncertain about my writing, my mind often returns to my childhood focus point: the poem “The Pied Piper of Hamelin.” It holds lessons to be learned. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light”—our fragile nation teeters on the brink of failure. To understand its message is to believe in the legend. Our nation’s wealth grew from the backs of slaves, and we grieve the injustices throughout history. An apple tree without fruit, cows without milk, chickens without eggs—a well without water. These little things we took for granted are like a nation lacking patience, kindness, and loyalty.
Proverbs 28:11 warns that the rich can be blinded by their own perceived wisdom, while the poor, possessing understanding, see through their delusions. It reminds us to seek true discernment beyond our own perspectives.
Crisis upon crisis—our dogmatic nation grapples with challenges.

He yelled at me in Ewe, my friend.
I asked him to calm down.
Such an accent, powerful and forceful,
It fired me up, igniting a desire:
Passionate love with him, that's my aim.
For this, he'll need a bouquet of flowers,
A gesture to mend the death of love!

I'm weary of waiting,
Boundaries blurred; no limits seen.
But patience prevails—good things await.
The Israelites sought a king,
And the Queen will welcome him to her chambers.
His voice softens, realization dawning,
My love needs solitude and respect.

My poems serve as my sanctuary,
Words of a woman in pain or perhaps love.
He yelled at me in Ewe,
A language I can't comprehend.
Bittersweet romance, tangled and mysterious.

The sun has risen, and a dove is cooing outside my window. All the tall buildings on my block seem to be resting. Here I am thinking of the cave man—his strength, his battles. Skylines, super tall buildings, and yes, some of us are not liking the look of our city. When there is no hope for your city, its citizens suffer tremendously. Why do other cities thrive better than some? The big question is, what makes a city thrive? ‘The more people you bring in, the more vibrant the city will become,’ Euchner said. But who are these people? (Ha! Ha! Profit holders.) Lack of empathy, people struggling with mixed feelings. While the impacts of rats in the subways make the alley cats stay low in the darkest alley, the sun has risen, and a dove coos outside my window. Meanwhile, the morning sun on the tall buildings seems hopeless. Here I am thinking of the cave man’s mental state: My brain is tired, my soul seems a bit weary, and I need more sleep (so mentally fatigued). Comme ci, comme ça!”

Our neighbors hate what they do not understand. As a child, it was so hard to comprehend such behavior. To me, it said more about them than us. However, envy is not jealousy; it was their way of feeling left out. They would say things like, “Her head is always buried in a book.” But to me, their noses were all up in my young business. I was always searching; I craved knowledge and loved looking up to intelligent people. As I listened closely to their words, I realized that conversation is a two-way street. Somehow, I loved being on their street just for the knowledge they seemed to possess. I never seemed to smile; my brain wouldn’t allow it. But somehow, my lips remained pliable. So many would say, “I saw your lips first,” but I knew I wouldn’t get a smile from you. My days aren’t like yesteryear; I don’t care anymore about other people’s feelings. The experts have a word or two for this kind of thing: “Emotional Invalidation” (rejecting other people’s feelings or thoughts). Or others might say, “I don’t give a [expletive].” In my youth, I loved beauty, but beauty moved slowly. I always knew that an ugly duckling would become the Queen of the swans. Our neighbors hated what they didn’t understand; they were too busy searching for words to put us down—words of hate, nothing that one could find in the dictionary. As a child, I never knew that grown women never wore underwear until that day when the neighbor fought her neighbor. Only two silk *******, and it was only for Sunday worship. So, the gossip goes, anxiety and uncertainty circulate. My neighbors and their offspring still hate what they do not understand. If you need to learn more, ask the village bread man.

Breathe Again
Did I truly accumulate years of experience, or were they merely years of monotonous repetition? The echoes of my past reverberate, etching pain into the fabric of my love life and work. As time advances, I find myself embracing a newfound indifference—a defiance against the judgments of others. That perennial question about my funeral guest list—whose presence matters, whose absence stings—loses its grip on my thoughts. Let them bury me beneath the ancient mahogany tree my father planted long ago. There, sheltered from life’s harsh winds, I’ll find my final repose.
Love and loss intertwine, their dance a testament to human resilience. Can love truly conquer the most relentless hardships? Or does fate hold us captive, binding us to our own narratives? My ex, who departed last February, lingers in the shadows. Does he know he left us behind? Could he return, inhabiting another vessel, weaving a fresh tapestry of mishaps and lost chances?
The best storytellers are keen observers, attuned to life’s ebb and flow. Like a river, I carry within me a multitude of stories—of sadness and fleeting happiness. These currents shape my existence, etching their marks upon my soul.