As one within a crowded world
    I lived my life alone;
Some of my dream was fulfilled
In ways I never would expected
Many a time I thought that,
I found my true calling.
I lived, a shelter life
if you only knew, the truth
The road, the pain, the silent games
Of staying alive ….in the hateful America
Looks of disappointment:

it took me three years to land a decent job
I was always doing the odds and end
Just to make end meets..

I remember once the agency assigned to a case
A toddler without any ears, just two years old
You would think that her white parents would
Change their ways, after what was handed to them
I arrived on time, did what was expected of me for the child
When it was time for me to take a lunch break
The child parent said to me:
“Sorry but you can’t eat your lunch indoor
Go outside on the steps.. We are  Jewish
I was allowed to take care of her child needs
But I wasn’t allowed to eat in her house..
I listen, I took it all in stride..

And I smile, what happen next
Was just commonsense
I took my black *** and my lunch bag
And walked away from the situation
Never to be heard of again.
We all have encounter racism in this country

The road, the pain, the bigotry of low expectation
I swore on that day, that I would never allowed any whites person
to feel that way again: so I quit the agency
They apologies to me, as they seldom do falls flat..
But, knowing what my grandfather taught me

I had to move forward..
I had to keep away from white folks like them: just for sanity..
And not allowed my black hands to ever again
Touch her white baby….
When I said I lived my life alone
I lived it:  I saw it; I flush it out of my mind
Just to live in this world of bigots

"I remember the land. I remember its people—their ways, the folly of their mentality. I never encountered the term ‘depression’ until later in life. I grappled with hatred and bigotry because they’re diseases akin to cancer and COVID-19.

Do you recall the carefree children of the eighties, their hedonistic pursuit of drugs, ***, and intellectual freedom? It goes like this: I don’t think of labor; I don’t think of work. Labor implies toil, and if it’s not self-employment, it’s slavery with meager wages from the man.

I remember the land and its people—their foolishness weighed on me. I remember the departed, how those trees outlived them. The language of the trees whispers freedom and the sound of human longevity, thanks to a matured land’s kindness.

The waste land we leave behind, even without spoken words, tells a story of abandonment. What you might see as a grassy area, I perceive as a court date—a battleground where families fight for ownership. Illegitimate children vie for their share of the land. Even unspoken, it holds worth.

How do you come to terms with yours?"

Power and Form

Power and form—the two intertwined elements of human existence. Our words, sometimes sweet, other times sour, leave a lasting imprint across the tapestry of humanity. We often say “yes” to please others, driven by our so-called rational minds. But is the life of a poet or poetess more fulfilling than that of a farmer? Are we expressions of nature or mere victims of regimented affiliations?

As unpredictable and impossible species, we roam the Earth daily. Power and form—there’s no secret society (or perhaps there is). Our secrets are laid bare under the watchful eyes of the world. Strangers peruse our family albums, much like they search for emoji hearts and likes to boost their self-esteem in the online revelry. We unwittingly sell our souls to a forceful enemy—jealousy, insecurity, and the curiosity of others.

I celebrate my strength through my mediocre poetry. Why? Because not everyone can compose their feelings onto the screen or paper. Today, I am retired; today, I am free. But some days, even freedom becomes monotonous. Mental fatigue sets in from being so… 🤔

When Words Don’t Come Easy”

Today is the kind of day when words don’t come easily. The bouquet of flowers arrives at the house, and I find myself grappling with acceptance. Is she truly gone? Am I prepared to make arrangements, to return there? Can I bear the pain, am I ready?

The calls await—those conversations where condolences are offered, where the words “I’m sorry for your loss” hang in the air. Today, words feel elusive, like butterflies slipping through my fingers.
Preparing for death is a daunting task. Grief wears a mask, and I suppress my emotional pain. I tell myself to remain logical, to cling to biblical thinking. But it rushes over me, relentless.


My prayer for the day echoes Psalm 34:18: “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” And I hold onto the truth that God is our refuge, our strength—an ever-present help in trouble.
May these words bring solace and strength during this difficult time. 🌿

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.