The soul is forgiveness because it knows forgiveness. A bird tried to build her nest under the outdoor patio light fixtures, but I forbade it. Somehow, her persistence was canny, while mine was firm. Eventually, she gave up. I haven’t seen her in days; I guess she hated me during those moments. But I believe in safety first, above all else.

While I was there, I observed a lot. The ground birds stick it out with each other, while the wild monkeys never seem interested in whatever they do. They eat apples, mangoes, and leaves, minding their own business. I guess I wasn’t minding mine.

At 6:30 PM on the dock, the rooster would crow, jump the guard wall, and go up the tall tree for the night. He waits for the two hens, and if they take too long to join him, he disciplines them when they finally reach the branches. My observation is that these ground birds act like humans.

Birds hold symbolic significance in diverse cultures. If you don’t adhere to the rules, there are consequences. To watch and observe others’ behavior, to feel the pain of others, is to know the poet who is composing. We never shy away from grief and torment, which others provoke before our eyes. We smell the coffee, but we never taste it. No matter how unpleasant, enjoy your Sunday, my poetic friends."

Oh, why now? I had prayed for three more years,
Man lived, then we all die, and our resting is decided by a mortal,
Should it be with your father or mother or be by yourself?
I had seen so many old folks took their last breath,
however, to see your mother death bed visions was unsettling
How do we say goodbye, not even knowing,
I refused to say goodbye, my siblings and I refuses to let go,
After all, she was our mother, she was our friend,
She was the go-to, when nothing seems right,
My eldest daughter loves her so much,
Her favorite word was my granny always seems so happy
I had remembered her last shower, she said that she felt so good,
But however, she asked of me not to wet her white golden hair
So, I granted her wish, as she commanded,
However, to see her, in hours of her final departure was still a shocker
Just before dawn prior to her passing
a dove came cooing at my window,
I knew of the dove message so well;
he also visited me at the time of my father passing,
She was 93 years young, her memories were intact
She kept asking, if her girl Nicky was still on the Island
With a smile, she would say, you know that Nicky is my girl,
my replies to her were May, she loves you a lot too"
She hated fans, she had only allowed the cool breeze from the island to
TI enter her room; I must admit I am that way too
I hated to go under the covers while I slept
it felt like I was suffocating
My pores love to breath on their own:
My mental emotion for the following days depends on
My physical state during the following day:
And most of all our skin is nourished by oxygen from my blood (a blessing)
Affirmation
BY DONALD HALL
To grow old is to lose everything.
Aging, everybody knows it.
Even when we are young,
we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads quote)
--------------------
Some of us thinks that we will never die,
My mother knew that eventually she would go
She talks about it, she never seems unhappy,
The one she would leave behind doesn't want to accept the facts
On June 1st few members of her church came and pray with her,
I stood and the balcony and could have hear her singing
praising her God so loudly:
It was as if she was on the altar of happiness,
I just stood there and smile,
my mother was a pro until her death.
Her passing is going to change her adult children lives
She travels to America in her mid 50, and she love it,
However, the ones she left behind will honor her memories
Her church picnic days, she loves those,
Corn deals on Sunday night was a bomb,
R.I.P my mother Muriel C.


Elegy for the Passing Years
To grow old is to lose everything—
Aging, a quiet companion we all know.
Even in youth, we glimpse it sometimes,
Nodding our heads in silent recognition.
Some believe they’ll never die,
But my mother knew the truth.
She spoke of it, unafraid,
Her acceptance was a beacon of grace.
On June 1st, members of her church came,
Their presence is a bittersweet chorus.
She was 93 years young, memories intact,
Asking about her girl Nicky on the island.
Fans were forbidden; only the island breeze
Could enter her room, soothing her skin.
I, too, prefer the open air,
Pores breathing freely, a quiet blessing.
And just before dawn, a dove cooed at my window—
A messenger from beyond, familiar and gentle.
I knew then that her departure was near,
Yet how do we say goodbye to a lifetime of love?

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.

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.