In the profound darkness of a frigid night, I can hear his labored breathing. He appeared to be worn out yesterday. Today, I find myself fatigued by the wounds of love, exhausted by my inability to trust in this concept we call love completely.
Love is meant to be gentle; love is meant to be forgiving. While he longs to cuddle, I simply desire to rest. Inspiration for a poem strikes me unexpectedly, often during the most mundane moments.

I cherish his smile; I enjoy the sensation of his rough, unshaven stubble against my skin. As I write, I continually reinvent myself—Joy Harjo. Yet, with each word, I also remember the struggles and painful moments I’ve encountered. I think back to betrayal—Annie Lander.
It wasn't merely infidelity; it was the haunting vision of my partner engaging intimately with others, eliciting their cries.

My restless thoughts persist in posing questions that elude answers. Still, I have sought divine protection for my well-being. May my fears transform into verses that help me grasp why the most agonizing experience on this earth is to love a man.

“Sometimes, giving all of your love isn't much to save a good soul; it demands soul for a soul as fair payment.” — Gurusharan Singh

Did I have years of experience, or was it just a mix of daily habits? I must have learned something, as my confidence has gone down. Memories that hurt come back to me suddenly, and I struggle with them every day in my love life and at work.

Here I am, getting older, feeling like I don’t really care about what happens after I’m gone. Just put me to rest under a tree.

Talk to me, my inner child. Connect with me like you used to. Were you helping me or leading me astray? I have many stories to share. Those who tell the best stories often pay close attention to their craft.

Speak to me; I was so naive and lost during those uncertain times. What did I have to go through to make a living? Those voices, those faces, those people who hurt me—where are they now? I’m still dealing with the trauma.

Speak to me, my inner child. My poetic voice mixes with my feelings in slow motion. Coyote and I walk the streets of Brooklyn fearlessly. I proudly embrace my blackness by choice. Coyote, I would rather walk alongside the tiger.

Now they watch everything I do—my online posts, my TikTok messages. Once again, no edits, just AI filters. Lamb of God, I look to you.
I was once scared of my inner child.

Love is thinner than a piece of cheesecloth,
transparent yet confusing to navigate.
More conservative than a political debate
More hearts are broken than mended
.
I am determined to search globally for an end to this love.
We desire it fiercely and embrace our fate to heal humanity.

Love may be a fleeting remedy,  
Yet we pursue it with fervent desire,  
Yearning to feel complete.

How many times must someone
How many times must we yearn to feel complete?  
How many times will we be let down by this thing called love?  
He loves me, or he doesn’t.  
I love him, but he chooses to reject my advances.  
His heart clearly desires someone else.

Love is a cross that many of us must bear.
It can be a profound and challenging burden to carry.
However, I feel empathy for its victims in relation to what we call love.
Love cannot be controlled or confined.

In the chill of a dreary April day,
I find myself wandering through the dimness,
My eyes were straining in the absence of light.
As I approach the door, a sense of familiarity washes over me, pulling me back to a time of comfort and solace.
The thought of retreating to the inviting embrace of my warm bed beckons me like a gentle siren, contrasting sharply with the biting cold that surrounds me.
In this moment, I realize that in this vast expanse of uncertainty, there is only one clear path to follow—one that leads back to the refuge of my blankets and dreams.

69 Ways to Please Your Lovers**

Amidst the silence, a sound arose, and there we were, lost in each other as I wove a poem of passion, letting your strokes guide my words and capturing the magic of our moment.

Yet, a wave of guilt washes over me: I haven’t reached that blissful peak. This realization leaves my poem incomplete. I crave that 70th way to truly satisfy my lover and make this experience unforgettable.

Nine, five, one, three—  
Is that truly all that remains of you?  
What fragments of me linger in your mind?  
If only you would take a moment to slow down  
And gaze upon the world that unfolds before you.  

Your way of life is shrouded in enigma.  
Your sixth sense, paired with your keen understanding of women,  
Collapses like a carefully arranged stack of dominoes —  
So unsettling, so uncertain, so trapped in its own confines.  

Please, help me unravel the intricacies of your thoughts.  
You've often claimed that men are creatures of folly,  
Incapable of taming their wild impulses,  
As many chase after fleeting desires  
And consume whatever is placed before them: so you said.  
Sister, sister, if only you could just slow down,  
For we are already halfway through this journey.  

When a past love transforms into merely a chapter  
In the book of our lives,  
It signals that you have reached the finish line of that phase.  
His number still drifts endlessly in my mind—  

Nine, five, one, three, is all that you have left of him.  
Please, help me grasp the depths of it all,  
Why is it so difficult to truly love?

," I felt my fingernails digging into his back during a profoundly charged moment. It was striking to see tears streaming down the face of this strong man—he was unguarded!
He sighed deeply and reached his ****** again and again.
This was not just a display of sportsmanship;
it was a clear expression of inner turmoil

Your flesh was never warmer than my passion, a flame more intense than you could ever bear. My love for writing poetry is my secret weapon.
While I may not claim to be gifted
My identity is Black, and words have always motivated me. I can string them together easily, but making them meaningful? That’s the real challenge. Sometimes, I feel madder at life’s complexities than the Mad Hatter himself.

The idea of being in love fills my thoughts, yet this love doesn’t seem to embrace me in return. My mood can shift dramatically, like the changing sky. As the saying goes, I can’t come out to play on a rainy day—no way! Loving from afar and from the heart is a double-edged sword; there are times when I might reach for a bottle of whiskey to cope.

There are moments when I feel like I'm winning, but often, I realize the need to step back and recharge. Living in a fantasy world filled with lies, passion, and fleeting connections can be perilous, like mixing bleach carelessly.

Yet, the words that spill from his lips in his native tongue capture and soften my heart. Today, my heart races with thoughts of him. I am mesmerized by the beauty of his poetic expression. For those forty-five minutes, I found myself pondering, “Have you ever thanked God for such a blessing?" His smile answered that question perfectly.

I let go of my burdens, encouraged by his poetic gesture. With my birthday just five days away, I can’t help but feel my age diminishing in the face of these emotions; oddly enough, my body seems to be laughing at the numbers. Rudderless? Perhaps, but to hell with it! I won’t be docking anytime soon; Ama is on her way to...Ghana
“Today my heart races for you he said in Twi.

I often reflect on the character of specific individuals. The character I'm referring to, in a dictionary sense, is not the same as the characters in my book. Writing reveals a person's character like nothing else.

The characters in my poems are never about me; they reflect my willingness to come to terms with them. For the past two years, I have taken on a new character: Who am I? What was I thinking? Who told me I could take on such a huge responsibility?

I have found that friendship is better for business than business is for friendship. I have proven this quote to be true. I always appreciate when someone gives me something, and I cherish that gift until the end.

Years ago, when I was a teenager and times were tough, my cousin and I would borrow things from each other, like clothing. I remember my favorite blouse that I lent to her. I spent almost all my wages to buy that top, yet she took forever to return it to me. One day, I finally mustered the courage to ask her for it back. She promised to return it within a week.

A week passed, then another, and another. I decided to go to her house to retrieve my favorite yellow top. As I walked into her backyard, I saw my yellow silk blouse in the sink, lying in a pile of ***** laundry. My heart stopped for a moment—there it was, green and moldy, crying out to me: "Rescue me!" I couldn't believe my eyes.

She never respected my belongings or those of others. It has been over thirty years, and I still have the pink robe my boss gave me after the birth of my first daughter. I cherish it and appreciate the thoughtfulness behind that wonderful gift. When someone gives us something, we must consider how much they care to choose a token of their love for us.

I often reflect on the character of some people and how they tend to use others. When you can’t come through for them, they sulk and feed on others' sympathy. My advice is this: don’t help people who won’t help themselves. Just walk away and take it from this character.

My poetry aims to provoke thought and reflection on complex themes of love, lust, and the myriad emotions surrounding humanity. I particularly focused on the raw and often troubling nature of ****** arousal, especially from a male perspective. I wanted to shed light on the painful experiences of women who have endured encounters with womanizers—those whose advances leave a lingering sense of disgust and apprehension. For many, the refrain “once bitten, twice shy” resonates deeply; a reminder of the scars left by past experiences.

Moreover, I draw parallels between politics and personal relationships. Just as politicians are often driven by ambitions of power and prestige—neglecting the true happiness of the masses—so too can intimate interactions become one-sided and manipulative. There’s a piercing moment of vulnerability that comes with being stripped bare emotionally, akin to the experience of a medium rare steak: tender yet exposed, much like the hollow feeling of a faked ******—both experiences leaving one feeling undone.

Among my body of work, I treasure a poem titled “Free *****,” which embodies my wish to let my thoughts roam freely across the vast expanse of the internet. I released my words into the digital ether, hoping they would reach hearts and minds far beyond my immediate surroundings. To my delight, my poems resonated with thousands of readers, sparking a dialogue filled with interpretations and reflections. Many of them encouraged the idea of self-love, urging me to appreciate not only my work but also the journey that birthed it.

What this world truly craves, I believe, is love—sweet love—rather than the pervasive bitterness of hate. I yearn to set my poem free, allowing it to travel far and wide, carried by the currents of thought and emotion, touching lives and fostering connection.

Be quiet so you won’t be heard anymore. You might have heard this phrase growing up. Why do people think it’s their job to silence others and stop them from speaking freely?

Every spoken word should be heard, like a loud ringtone from a cell phone that signals someone is calling. Everyone deserves to be heard.

My grandparents and parents believed they should silence me as a poet when I was a child. At one point, I found it hard to speak up. People kept asking why I was so shy. Why was I afraid to talk to adults? My shyness turned into social anxiety. With my friends, though, I spoke confidently. Adults intimidated me because they used commanding language: “Be quiet so you won’t be heard anymore.”

As an adult, I struggle to follow orders or deal with condescension. Maybe that’s why I love writing so much. When I write, only I can hear my voice. It wasn’t until I shared my work that I let others see my thoughts. I had stayed silent for too long and held back my feelings for too long. I decided to confront those who silenced me with my own spoken words.

"Language is powerful; it is the greatest science. It captures the fullness, color, and diversity of the world and of people. It is more valuable than wealth, buildings, ships, religions, paintings, or music." — Walt Whitman.

He captured her charm, serenity, and intelligence in his work. He frequently glanced from the canvas to her face. Asking her not to smile was like asking her not to breathe; patience wasn’t her strong suit.

What’s in a smile? Beauty, and everything! It was a shame that it didn’t showcase a young woman in her prime, the one everyone came to know and love. Her strong features and openness transcended the warmth of a morning rose blooming in spring.

Instead, he painted an autumn theme rather than the warmth of spring. The shape of her face and the curve of her lips were striking, yet they seemed inadequate for someone destined to be a future queen.

That was how I captured him while he slept. That was two years ago. He never contributed anything meaningful to our relationship. Was it love, or was it compassion? I remember those two years well. I told him I would forever love him. What did he do? He sold the link to our happiness. He sold the bike, GH 6615.

Those two years were a peaceful interlude for us, a reminder that what’s in a smile is not always what we think it is.
If I were a carpenter and you were a lady,

Saturday Morning Routines**

The familiar smell of wood smoke slowly filled my bedroom, wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. Through my window, I caught sight of the warm, flickering lights from the flambeau, casting dancing shadows on the walls. It was in that moment that I knew it was time to leave the warmth of my bed. The deep, gravelly voice of old man Sealy drifted up to me as he directed his right-hand man to place another log on the fire, ensuring it remained a blazing beacon of warmth.

With a sense of purpose, I slipped into my trusty rubber rain boots, the ones I always wore for early morning adventures, and made my way toward the barn. The soft light of dawn was just beginning to break, illuminating the world in gentle hues of pink and gold.

As I approached, I heard Pappy’s voice calling out, “Hey there, small point! Where do you think you’re going? You should be back in bed!”

But I was determined. I wanted to witness the ritual of pigs being slaughtered, an experience that held both fascination and a sense of solemnity for me. Each Saturday morning, old man Sealy would carry out this age-old tradition on my granddad’s farm. It was a process that ensured the villagers had access to fresh meat—pork, beef, chicken, and lamb—straight from the heart of the countryside.

Pappy had instilled in me a sense of purpose when he often said, "Do not handicap the children by making their lives easy." His words echoed in my mind as I made my way to the pig pens. I felt a mix of trepidation and excitement as I approached, ready to observe the harsh realities of farm life.

As I stood there, I watched the pigs squirm and squeal violently, their cries filled with panic as they sensed what was coming. The lambs trembled nearby, their fearful eyes darting around as they desperately struggled against their fate.

As a young child, I had always understood that these animals were raised to become food. Yet, with the passage of time and a deeper understanding of life and death, I now look back on those mornings with a blend of nostalgia and sadness. Despite the grim circumstances,
I found joy in the camaraderie of those moments, particularly while grilling meat on a stick alongside the village butcher, surrounded by laughter and stories of days gone by.

These vivid childhood memories of the slaughterhouse remain with me, serving as a poignant reminder of the cycle of life and its complexities. What stories do you hold from your own childhood experiences?

A list of tasks to accomplish before I embrace love again:

I envision my mind wandering through expansive fields where patches of grass lie brown. A single wildflower stands out among the scattered pebbles beneath my feet. Memories linger, taunting me alongside the bare trees with their bent trunks. A cool breeze brushes against my face; the once reliable umbrella tree is gone, leaving me exposed to the sun's relentless rays. I squint against the brightness.

It's time to decide: Will I dwell on the ghosts of my past, or will I focus on the warmth of the sun shining down? I have a clear list of goals to achieve before I open my heart to love again. I've put the pain behind me—it's my choice to lower the drawbridge or keep the enemy at bay.

When I fall in love again, I will be happier than ever before. I've buried those painful memories beneath the bare umbrella trees, and I refuse to let them control my future. I reflect on past loves that took me for granted. Should I forgive them? Or should I reject their memories altogether?

My tears will become the moisturizer that nurtures my spirit as I dig deeper into the fertile soil of my thoughts. I will honor each name with my tears and finally put those chapters to rest.

The Wicket-Keeper


Today, I learned that a lover I once cherished has passed away. Just yesterday, he was alive, and I never imagined I would feel this way about him. It’s strange how I rarely think about the rain unless it floods my drains, my driveway, or my beloved rose garden, or dampens my happy mood. Yet, here I am, grappling with a deep sadness over his death.

The tender moments we shared will always be etched in my memory, even amidst the ups and downs that relationships bring. Our past was filled with challenges, perhaps I was mistaken, or maybe he was right. But tonight, I find myself reflecting on the love we had. He was my old lover, the wicketkeeper, someone I held dear in my heart, now a distant memory that I will always carry with me.

Coral and Limestone**

You can take the country out of me, but the essence of acid lime runs through my veins like an indelible mark of my heritage. Growing up on the island was a unique blessing, where the roots of kinship ran deep and everyone seemed connected by an invisible thread. It was a place where every child knew everyone else's name, and my grandmother, affectionately called Nana, was a beloved matriarch to every little boy and girl in our neighborhood.

As barefoot rats, we wandered freely, our skin kissed by the sun and our laughter echoing through the verdant fields. Parenting in those days was tough love; it wasn’t so much about sparing the rod and spoiling the child, but more about corrections delivered through gentle slaps and back slaps that reminded us of the importance of respect and discipline. Misbehaving was never condoned, and there were no rewards for bad behavior back then.

What I treasure most are the sun-drenched afternoons spent playing outside—running wild amid the soft, prickly grass, chasing vibrant rainbow butterflies fluttering in the warm breeze until the aroma of dinner wafted through the air, summoning us home. I recall the bright sunshine juxtaposed against weeks of refreshing rain, our small island alive with the sounds of nature and the scent of the earth after a downpour. The sense of community was palpable; even the less fortunate neighbors always looked out for one another, embodying a spirit of care that resonated deeply.

There was a peculiar taste to the ground beneath my feet—as if it were infused with lime. I can still picture my cousin, unabashed, munching on chunks of dirt, much to Nana's dismay. Each time, she'd scold him, stressing the importance of clean habits. Yet, every other weekend, we endured our little rituals of castor oil or cod-liver oil, doses that made our bodies shiver with discomfort. Nana called it “cleansing our little souls” and claimed it would build strong bones and teeth, instilling in us the resilience we needed.

Our island was a paradise of coral and limestone, dotted with endless stretches of sugarcane fields that sweetened the air with their fragrance. The tropical rainy season was a vibrant tapestry of life, enriched by resources like petroleum, fish, and natural gas that thrived in our warm climate. What more could any child ask for, other than the simple joys of happiness and safety?

Reflecting on those days, I am enveloped in warm memories of the tender island winds that danced over the hills during breezy afternoons. How could I not give back to this land that shaped my very being?

My heart will forever find its home on the coral and limestone earth,
where the pride and industrious spirit of our little island stand as enduring symbols of our identity. Motto

He Choose to Grow Weak

Could you help me understand the complexities of our actions? When joy fills our hearts, we radiate positivity, but when sadness washes over us, it feels like an ache that permeates our very being (Proverb 17:22).

How can we support you if we remain in the dark about your feelings? You often bury your emotions deep within, creating a pressure cooker of unresolved thoughts and pain. In those shadows, you find yourself hiding away, tears spilling down your cheeks. Why did you choose to stay trapped in that desolate, lonely space? Remember, reaching out for help is not a sign of failure; it is a brave step toward healing.

Life resembles a resilient tree, swaying gracefully when the winds are gentle, yet vulnerable when fierce gusts challenge its strength. Why did you hesitate to step into the light from that somber, solitary existence? Like a tall, proud tree that can snap under overwhelming force, you, too, risk breaking under the weight of isolation.

Recognize that asking for help isn’t a trick or a sign of weakness. Carrying the burden alone is a choice that ultimately leads to a gradual decline in strength. Once again, you may feel like a small child, uncertain and timid. You declare, “Mommy, I am a big boy now. I can do everything by myself.” But in that misguided belief, darkness thickens, and the innocent are caught in the turmoil of your struggle.

That Toothpick was like an emoji

What became of the elderly man who habitually lingered outside the pub, a toothpick perpetually perched between his lips?
I often pondered the significance of that toothpick—it seemed to serve as a silent emblem, a mysterious token of his unspoken thoughts.

As children, we absorb the world around us, processing our myriad experiences as we grow. When we reach adulthood, we find ourselves striving to unravel the complexities of those early moments.

I’ve always been captivated by the habits of grandmothers, particularly the way many would discreetly tuck their money beneath the layers of their skirts. I can still picture her, clutching her cherished apron, its fabric soft and faded, evidence of countless meals prepared with love. Even when we navigated the lively streets of the city, that apron was her unwavering companion.

Now, reflecting on those customs I once found peculiar, I recognize how the toothpick and the hidden money represented their ways of coping with life’s myriad challenges. The old man who so often graced the pub’s entrance has since passed, joining countless others who have left us. We gathered to honor their lives, sharing fond memories and kind words at their funerals.

Yet for me, the echoes of their lifestyles continue to resonate, capturing fleeting moments of nostalgia that refuse to fade away.

Central Park radiates beauty when you’re in love. It transforms into a slice of heaven, where every moment feels like a poet's dream. Imagine harps playing softly and golden crowns illuminating a blissful paradise. As twilight falls, the air is electric with romance; lovers' dreams ignite with every spark.

Experience the enchantment of Central Park, where the artistic and poetic collide in a stunning display. Towering trees and the skyline offer a backdrop that creates a magical atmosphere—truly a gateway to paradise. This space embodies the dreams of poets, filled with vibrant crystals, rubies, diamonds, sapphires, and pearls—or simply a place to relax among nature’s weeds. It’s where love stories unfold.

Colorful hot air balloons drift gracefully above, and the sounds of Bollywood fill the air, creating an enchanting ambiance that continues long after dark.
Come, and let your heart feel the magic of Central Park,
Poetic, artistic, romantic, trees and sky liners Central Park the gates of heaven in clear view,
It’s heavenly yet powerful; Poets dreams Cristal, Ruby, Diamond, Sapphire Pearl or gold or just chilling its tares amongst the weeds Strolling or experiencing it’s where lovers meet; Colorful hot air balloons circle the park
Bollywood again and again after dark

Viable Solution
I am completely detached from that situation. I did not play any role in creating the issue at hand. My focus today is solely on discovering a viable solution.

Why is there such a tendency to place all the blame on artificial intelligence?
In reality, AI empowers us, providing both confidence and clarity as we craft our creative works. When we relied solely on paper currency, we faced the risk of theft, and then credit cards emerged as a safer alternative. Many people continue to voice their concerns, but I fail to see anything inherently wrong with embracing AI in our processes.

I recognize that for some traditional poets, the rapid evolution of technology can feel daunting and overwhelming. Yet, adapting to these changes is essential. I remember when computers first entered the healthcare field to assist in tracking patients' medications. I felt a wave of apprehension at first; however, I can now confidently say that this technology has been a tremendous blessing, making it much easier for me to capture my thoughts and ideas on paper."

I’ve never been kissed on the dance floor.  
With him, I feel light-hearted,  
but apart, I’m utterly devastated.  
I’m a dreamer, he’s laid-back,  
and without a genuine connection, our love feels  
like scenes from a disconnected game—  
where hate destroys, yet love seeks to heal.  
But with each passing day, my love for him dwindles.  

We are apart because this kind of love cannot thrive.  
We never dance; we never kiss on the dance floor.  
Our rhythms never sync; he lacks that spark,  
and so, a kiss on the dance floor has eluded me.  

Feelings shift when loneliness takes their place.  
Love wavers,  
when a marriage crumbles,  
as I wish and hope our love was strong enough  
to bridge the gap.  
Unlike wildflowers plucked without care,  
my love was stunted,  
never given the chance to blossom.  

Still, I hold a profound respect for him.  
A part of me must make a choice,  
and so I choose happiness; I choose solitude  
over the confusion of pity masquerading as love.

In "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,"

I felt my fingernails digging into his back during an intensely charged moment.
I was surprised to see tears rolling down the cheeks of a strong man—he wept!
He sighed!
He reached his ******, time and again.
Was it a display of sportsmanship or a sign of injury?

Too Much to Handle**

These days, I find myself captivated by TikTok, spending hours scrolling through its endless stream of content, even more than I indulge in writing my poetry. Ouch! It feels like a betrayal to my creative spirit. My body is not merely flesh ready to be consumed; it’s a sacred vessel, a fortress to protect. Each harsh word affects me deeply. My body is my temple, a sweet Floribbean honeydew, yet tonight, my room feels suffocatingly crowded.

Thoughts of past relationships swirl around me like unwanted guests—those side thoughts, the ghosts of exes, and looming large, there you are… John Crow, an unwelcome reminder of what once was. I remind myself that my poems serve as messages, heartfelt whispers from me to myself. This evening, I’m finding calm that rivals even the most tranquil sea. The Pacific Ocean may be fierce and tumultuous, but tonight, my inner peace feels stronger.

Writing about my pain extracts the rawest emotions, breathing life into my work. It’s interesting how deep suffering can propel one into a profound journey of self-discovery. In love, though, I often lose sight of my true self, questioning, who am I really beneath the layers of affection?

I feel like I flick between different versions of myself, switching from a past that was less than inviting, wrapped in my own illusions. I once believed you were the king of my castle, my protector in a world of chaos.

Tomorrow, I plan to rise with clarity, sober from the wine that never touched my lips tonight, and then, I hope to navigate the adult decisions that await me with newfound wisdom.

Quiet weep

This inspiring song strongly reinforces our global beliefs, originating from the depths of Africa. The chorus has gained considerable popularity online. While some may argue that it is more radical than spiritual, I respectfully disagree. It resonates deeply with those who hold these beliefs
“No turning back” comes with a lot of meaning, behind this chorus line
I know of a lot of Genz who do believe in religion
But to see how they react to the chorus “I have decided to follow Jesus
Make us believe that we can conquer the devil.
They took up, they crossed and followed thee
Was it the beat in the songs or the lyrics that inspired so many
Of them to get up and dance along?
As poets, we might refer to this as zigging and zagging,
As Genz will probably say, free up your minds
I would say trust the song, not the singer
Distressing without demonstrating.  
Camping without thinking,
Moving gracefully without political approvals
Let them see the youth at their best.
as the Caribbean folks would say during carnival time
We come to play.
No turning back!

Human Hyenas**

Since the dawn of humanity, the narrative surrounding creation has often placed Adam at the center, positioning him as the architect of the enchanting yet elusive Garden of Eden. However, this romanticized view glosses over a fundamental truth: many women became disillusioned with the carefree dispositions and laid-back attitudes that men often exhibited. Over time, this disconnect led to a collective realization among women; they became increasingly frustrated with behaviors that stifled desire and intimacy in their relationships.

Now, in hindsight, it seems that the damage has been done—too many grievances accumulating without sufficient efforts to mend them. Our world, vibrant and diverse, belongs to all of us, representing a tapestry woven from various perspectives and experiences. It transcends the simplistic archetypes of the average Tom, ****, and Harry. However, the mutual respect that once characterized interactions between men and women has eroded, giving way to a reality where the notion of a man's dominion—founded on outdated theatrical standards—is no longer viable.

Instead, we find ourselves navigating a tumultuous landscape, rife with chaos and confusion, where differing mental attitudes and perspectives collide. In this fractured society, phrases like "I was here first" echo with divisiveness,

Being in the Moment**

My mother believed in prayers more than my father did. My father preferred to tackle his problems with a flask of white ***, while I believed in the importance of being present in the moment. There are hidden compartments within us, my poetic friends. "Being in the moment" can serve as a helpful reminder if we understand it in a more expansive way.

Perhaps it was true what someone said about dealing with situations as they arise. I refused to grieve for my dearly departed husband because past experiences had taught me to suppress my emotions. My lack of dispassion and willful stubbornness made me question my feelings: Did I really love him? Did I forgive him?
Perhaps it was the disrespect that prevented me from doing so.

The truth is quite different. Forgiving an offense empowers the offended. It is to a man’s glory to overlook an offense (Proverbs 19:11). While I can’t change the past, I can learn from it. This wisdom might prevent me from walking through a fire like that again. I would look at his picture on my refrigerator and feel a mix of love and hate toward him. In that same moment, those emotions coexisted within me.

I yearned for companionship, craved to be held tightly throughout the night. If someone can fulfill needs for companionship, love, and intimacy, there’s a greater chance that the other person will fall in love again and again. But not me. You burn; you affect me deeply. I have invested so much and ended up the loser every time. Love seems elusive to me; instead, loneliness has become my captor.

I know that loneliness does not have to be the final word. Even when the world feels against me, I will shine through, like ancient wisdom. I lost the love of my life due to jealousy. He lost me because I loved him enough to let him go. I experienced a breakthrough; I had given up on loving a mortal again. I would rather be alone than live with someone and still feel lonely.

I am not programmed to fail or to tolerate foolishness. Call me stubborn, call me high and mighty, call me the new modern woman. I refuse to age as a failure but instead strive for greatness, relentlessly pursuing my happiness. I know I deserve this. The poet within knows it, too.

As my online followers watch my journey, they should go ahead and do their own thing—after all, life is too short for anything less.

Breathe Again

Did I have years of experience
Or was it years of daily repeats
I must have had, my confidence had suffered,
Those pop-up painful memories
In my love life and work experience I feud daily
Here I am today as I am aging,
I developed this thing called
“I just don’t give a ****”
About after I am gone,
Just buried me under a tree,
Speak to me, my inner child:
Speak to me, like how you did in my past:
Were you guiding me or were you misleading me?
Lots of stories to be told,
The one who tells the best story
Were mostly observant of the craft,
Speak, to me, I was so blind, I was so lost
Nave, during those years of uncertainty.
What I had to endure, to make a living,
Those voices, those faces, those oppressors
Where are they now?
Here I am still feuding with the trauma
Speak to me, my inner child.
In slow motion my poetic, voice,
Entwined with my emotions,
Coyote and I travel Brooklyn Street without fear,
I am black by nature
Proud by choice, coyote I rather walk with the tiger,
Now they are studying my every move,
My internet posts, my TikTok text
Once again, no edits, only Al filters,
Lamb of God I look to thee
I was once that frightened inner child.

If I tell you I saw a rose blooming in the heart of winter, you might not believe me, especially if you're among those who struggle to stay afloat. But that rose serves as a powerful reminder of something we’ve forgotten. For me, it represents resilience and hope.

During summer, I often ponder whether we ever really stop to smell the roses—such a cliché, but it’s true. I didn’t give much thought to the rose until two days ago when I discussed it with a friend. I used to receive a single rose on the 6th of every month.

That tradition came to an end when our love started to wither, just like that rose.

Despite that, the memories linger. Did I appreciate those gestures of love during those months? Absolutely. I felt love and warmth, and now I find myself facing another period of solitude. But let’s be clear—I can buy myself flowers.

I refuse to forgive that single rose or the person who took our love for granted. I’ll savor my eggnog and Bailey's Irish Cream, but I won’t be baking my goose.

Laughter brings invaluable positivity to our lives and relationships. I’ve come to recognize why a laugh, a smile, or a simple gesture can uplift someone's spirit. When the roses smile at me, it’s a reminder that I’ve opened my heart once again, and I won’t shy away from embracing that.

Large heads

The Modern Slavery Crisis Must Be Addressed.
Calling on all poets for an urgent meet-up
The Pied Piper has surfaced again in this world.
On this occasion, he is dressed in a Jojo Armani suit.
He never drinks bottled water from the guest tables
He questions the labels, he questions the cell phones
He reacts to the earplug in their ears
It brought on a wave of sadness,
What is this madness? He said under his breath!
He looked across at the audience,
And whisper how convenient!
Stand up, stand up, stand up for your rights
Did this new generation go down without a fight?
No pointed hats, but why so many large heads?
Here ye hear ye, hear ye, have the men and women
This generation sold their souls for honey.
Misery is a life sentence in which love company,
That is why he called the meetup today, per se,
Cats and dogs will never be friends, he said in an unknown language
Timekeepers cannot stop time, time will run out,
Large heads will Strunk because it filled with air,
Great leaders of the world, I welcome you all.
But I am not Bob the builder, I can't shape your future
I am the Pied Piper:

What demands our attention today?  
A war devoid of consequences,  
Or a history shaped by creationism?  
A stillbirth born without shame?  
Vivid pain and haunting memories linger.  
A wedding absent of both bride and groom—  
Did we call for the ceremony too soon?  

The Gen Z lifestyle is riddled with artificial deceptions.  
An unforgettable presidential race stands as a historical disgrace.  
Did the pope truly have a closed casket,  
Or was it merely a non-cadaver?  

Platforms like Facebook are swarming with scammers—  
More than we've ever witnessed before.  
Referrals are obsolete;  
Being broke has become a norm,  
Your wallet may as well be smoking.  
Buy one, get one free—Temu’s prices tempt us all.  
This is the reality of U.S.-China trade tariffs.  

Are our lives dictated by the Bollywood Referrals Act?  
Isn’t that the truth?  
Comsi comsa.

Located in Accra, near the Gulf of Guinea,
In the town of Ashaiman Ghana,
There is an aspiration within me to become his source of hope.
Two years of heartfelt affection and thoughtful consideration have led me to question whether I should emulate Bob the Builder.
Should I aspire to be his savior, I must acknowledge that without ambition or skill, any attempt at aiding oneself is ultimately futile.
While hearing about his daily setbacks, I refrained from expressing my emotions.
Internally, I feel a sense of sorrow and disappointment regarding his inability to assist himself.
The difference between us is that I actively pursued opportunities to achieve my current position.
I am not Bob the Builder.
I cannot shape a grown man for the future.
He could secretly contribute significantly to his family lineage.
A long-distance relationship requires trust and resilience.
That I don’t have, because I am the one with a weak heart
Though I may be vintage, I am certainly not lacking in intelligence.
When a flourishing rose abruptly withers,
A firm white flower will unexpectedly bloom in its designated location.
My heart has experienced and endured everything.
Money is important, but one must work diligently to acquire it.
Located in Accra, near the Gulf of Guinea,
In the town of Ashaiman Ghana,
There is an aspiration within me to become his source of hope.
However, this is where I must conclude.
He should take responsibility for his position in life and work towards self-improvement.

The earth requires it there.
The poets do not like the lyrics.
As the tsunami approaches the lands

The poem integrates without a solution.
As the summit talks upheld information

Global warming, tariff continues debating:
China not backing down, and we, the poets
Surprisingly asking what’s next?
A poem like this doesn’t comprehend
That earth requires it there,
Make it make sense, this Tariff war
About percentages, or principles of humanity
Make it make sense, make it a kind world
Make it turn water into red wine,
Make them say, “We are for the small people,
And not the profit holder’s fat wallets,
Make the world spin like a Bitcoin machine:
The more money there goes a burden of responsibilities there:
He who pay the Pied piper call the tunes:
,

King Solomon and I will fly a kite

On this historical Good Friday,
we seek justice for the young lady
Her father made her act as if she were his niece.
To deceive his new wife, so that she could live with them
His wife found out about the plot and hell would break loose.
On social media, who is in fault,
The father or the new wife,
for sure not the innocent child
A lie can bring down an empire, a lie can be engraved in history
Chioma, Chioma, anger are secondary emotions
Would love and devotion once again intertwined?
As the wise King stood beside my fingertips today

Just prayer, for kindness and forgiveness
Love conquerors all, love can lead to forgiveness,
Acid corrodes a tongue that speaks falsely
Will one day become un-Godly?
We will hold on to this kite before we release it
Time will tell in ten years,
While the innocent will endure the most suffering. (Amen)
All children should reside under their father’s roof
According to the biblical time:
Blood is thicker than water,
Acid corrodes a tongue that speaks falsely
Will one day become un-godly.

Sore fingers and a keen intellect,
With the poet’s pen, all will be well.

I never heard of Tariff until recently


For those who liberate the caged bird,
They also liberate themselves.
Individuals who instigate conflict for,
Monetary benefits will ultimately undergo reformation in due course.
History often repeats itself many times,
Yet some individuals fail to heed their warnings.
The Great Wall of China was damaged by workers
As they were trying to make shortcuts to get to the other side.
The Trojan Horse was constructed with strategic thinking.
Similarly, the Berlin Wall was built as a barrier.

Today marks a competitive phase between
Temu and Shien are notable entities in the clothing industry.
It remains to be seen if they will address the challenges and opportunities within the sector effectively.
The term "Tariff" has become familiar to me over the past few months.
Shall we worry about them; shall we give in? Shall we seek solutions?
Only divine wisdom can guide us during challenging times.
For those who liberate the caged bird,
They also liberate themselves.

In current times, breaking up is often referred to as a slow-motion breakup, or as the new generation might say, "pulling back." The lyrics of songs reflect the sentiment that breaking up is challenging, though it is approached differently today.

Whenever I approached two to three years into a relationship,
I recall sensing the gradual shift or withdrawal occurring,
Their tone of voice intensified,
Their smiles became less genuine,
And those familiar words, "I will call you later,"
Many therapists today observe that individuals often overlook warning signs in relationships. As a therapist, it is essential to recognize that love can cloud judgment, and emotions can distort rational thinking.
Luckily for some of us, we got out, and we rose again,
We became stronger loveless women, guarding our hearts with everything we got
Who was to say that it was Eve's fault, the serpent the manipulator?
No wonder in a world like our men are only loving each other’s
Two-of-a-kind stick to their own.
In current times, breaking up is often referred to as a slow-motion breakup, or as the new generation might say, "pulling back." The lyrics of songs reflect the sentiment that breaking up is challenging, though it is approached differently today.
In conclusion, be mindful when deciding whom to trust with your emotions.

UNCANNY
A poem arises firmly from my thoughts.
I can see it reflected in my adversary's mind as well.
Mine is undeniably poetic, but theirs had an unsettling quality,
Mindful individuals with unusual liabilities!
Those two or three long lines on the forehead are simply lines of expression. (not)
  I do remember their names: Errol, Wayne, and Manny
Those suiters were born deceivers implementing a series of strange plots.

It took women like me years to correct their mistakes.
Where are they now, lost men without the love of a woman?
I had made it my mission to look into their eyes.
The lines on their foreheads have aged with their bodies.
An embrace or a touch from them disgusts me.
They can see the hate as I slowly reject their touch.

I have rewritten those names through the years.
As Errol transformed into Mr. Uncanny,
Wayne became the manipulator,
while Manny took on the role of Pied Piper.
Today, I observed a slight trait with Gen Z.
They seem overly enthusiastic about catering to the desires of their suitors.
Leaving so many of them with suicidal thoughts,
Words to the youth of today,
Protect your emotions carefully.  
Getting a real love reaction is tricky.
The offspring of those vipers carry their father's DNA.

This letter is for that girl fifty years ago.

You may feel like the world is against you, but that’s just a momentary perception. This letter is for the young woman

that was fifty years ago, at eighteen. While society has evolved, the emotions and struggles I faced are still relevant today and emphasize resilience and identity.
Your individual experiences are crucial. They offer powerful insights into the past that shape our understanding of the present. I share my story to empower you, reminding you to recognize the connections between past and present as you carve your own path.

Forget about your looks—they will develop over time. Look around you; harness the beauty of nature. Those wild aloe stalks you see today will become invaluable in the beauty industry.
Aloderma Pure Aloe Gel is a fast-acting moisturizer that restores your skin’s natural hydration, delivering intense moisture for a plump complexion. By 2025, this will be a key ingredient in many ****** products aimed at reversing aging.

People may laugh at you now, but you will rise to embody the beauty of a goddess. We were wise and adventurous in the face of the unknown. Be brave and strong

Remember, you are sheltered under the blood of Jesus.
Read Psalm 91 every day

Theresa's Quote:**
"To the black hairstylist: Again, I will say that you are a blessing to these women and a blessing to this hair.

Black hair is a heaven-sent gift that helps black women keep their heads held high in public."

I prefer the black wig B1; it suits my complexion and looks convincing.
This is about her internship in Washington, D.C. During her college years, her health fluctuated. She spent two weeks traveling from Maryland to the city, all while searching for a place to park her car.
Before boarding a train to Washington, she majored in political science. Some stories are best left untold, but not this one. It eagerly reveals itself through my poetic sense of humor. Poetry writing is not only about rhythm and rhyme; it can serve as a voice of reason, a therapy session, and a means of soul-searching as our fingers work their magic.
A Black woman’s hair is often viewed as off-limits to outsiders. Her numerous wigs are her crown and glory. Her extensions tightly squeeze her natural hair, which she ignores for the sake of beauty. Even with a low-paying job, she carries herself with grace. Even if it means using the same wig repeatedly, she secures the B1 bob cut with bobby pins.
On that Friday afternoon, her school credits were on her mind. Her career path and every little thing weighed heavily on her thoughts. Even her romantic life took a backseat. As she headed toward her car in the parking lot, she searched for her keys in her bag, thinking of ways to beat the bumper-to-bumper traffic back in Maryland.
As she opened her car door, she noticed a well-dressed man in the adjacent car watching her. He looked attractive, and her instincts kicked in. Was he checking her out or being creepy? She offered him a faint smile.
Just as she was about to get in, her bobbed wig fell to the ground, exposing her messy natural hair. Embarrassed, she quickly picked it up and closed her door, silently asking herself, "What just happened? Why did my wig let me down?"
Second chances seldom come along.

The main road lies dormant, its houses seemingly asleep. But at 6 a.m., life bursts forth in a flurry of activity. The heavy traffic that streams towards Jack in the Box Gully is relentless, a so-called alternative route. No rest for the weary, as the relentless tempo of modern life takes its toll.
Balance seems irrelevant, and human feelings are an afterthought. Desires dictate actions, indifferent to the residential nature of the area. The fact that children under ten live in these houses is brushed aside. The sheer volume of vehicles, the multitude of auto loans, and the presence of underage drivers paint a picture of a society disconnected from reality. Public transportation is deemed unfit for their island, relegated to third-world countries in their minds.
Are these the Gen Z rebels once more disrupting norms, or simply indulging in youthful mischief? One day, we may have to take to the skies like birds, as the ground becomes increasingly perilous. The Ministry of Transportation's generational stance—whether a Gen Z, a Millennial, or a Baby Boomer—seems irrelevant as all grapple with the impact of modern conveniences on the environment.
The choices of today inch us closer to harm. The cacophony of life is set into motion by the decisions of fools, and the cost may be our very planet. As the sun rises, the moon still holds its place in the sky, a symbol of hope for those who still believe in miracles. For the people of my country, let us hold onto this hope.

The Story as I Understand It
Leonora Speyer

In my opinion, I understand the story. From biblical times to now, as I write a little note to Leonard Speyer, I believe that Eve was misled by Adam all along. Adam was approached by the Serpent long before Eve came to the Garden of Eden. The Serpent knew that he was no match for her, so he intended to bring her down. Her looks intimidated him, and her beauty was unmatched. Beauty without brains is a myth; she had what it took. Man is weak because he is easily influenced by external temptations and lacks the strength to resist them.
The apple in the garden was for showmanship. It wasn't real. Did they mention if the birds picked at the apples? From experience, a bird would pick at the apples, so if they did, they sinned too. There were nine of us in the home. My mother would willfully leave money, food, and other stuff to tempt us to see which of us would eat it or take it, knowing it was forbidden to take things without asking permission. Today, women are being blamed for the weakness of men. The more the blames, the stronger women become. The apple was just the key to the knowledge of good and evil: curiosity kills the cat. The apple was the way out of the garden to go and seek. Those two were the Gen Z of biblical times in my opinion. Adam and Eve were considered the pioneers or trendsetters of their era.

Whatever is good is divine,
Whoever chooses wrong is entwined with evil,
Let the foul pollute themselves,
And those who lie, let them continue their tales.
Bad liars must have good memories.
Today, my passion is my solace,
It helps me navigate the madness around me.
It only takes one, two, three to trigger my anxiety.
"The thoughts you resist persist," they say.
With the positive energy I hold,
I greet you all with a hearty welcome and a smile,
Letting you know I appreciate every one of you.
Whatever is good is divine,
Whoever chooses wrong is just evil.
My life is an open book, revealed in my poetry.
Some seek plastic surgery to better themselves,

I improve my mind with my writing.
Words are my friends, surrounding me.
As my broken heart aches, my writing improves,
Like a crying baby given a lollipop.
At times, the sound of rain calms me,
Lying awake won't help, but the tick-tock of rain might.
I choose my words carefully,
For manufacturers lie at times,
And one size doesn't fit all. Because the manufacturers lie at times
All sizes don’t fit all.

What the birds know today is that I am not there
Funny as it may seem,
those birds and I have something in common
We are always looking for something,
What puzzles me the most is when I put out food

They appear from nowhere, chirping and calling for others
To come to share the food.
They are fascinating creatures,
I think I have hyped them too much by feeding them a lot of sugar:
However, I loved how they picked the leftovers.
And in a nanosecond, the food was gone.

I am back in the cold once again,
I truly missed those birds outside my door,
They do not need to migrate south.
And most of all they don’t have to select
Or regret voting for a president
In their defense, each of them appears to be a leader.
Who leads Birds of a Feather?

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 am a beacon of light for my homeland. My quaint village, serene yet vibrant, is a haven of peace. The youth, with their carefree spirit, fill the air with laughter and song, unbothered by the world beyond. Even the birds know to respect the tranquility of our lives.
From the winding road that leads to the bustling city, the countryside remains unchanged. I love to gaze out and let my thoughts wander as I speed by in the fast-moving vans. My people, ever resilient, continue to drink from the well of life and mind their own business.
Today marks what would have been my late mother's 94th birthday. She was one of my favorite people, a true embodiment of our country's spirit. Rest in peace, dear mother.
With Christmas just twelve days away, I look forward to blending once again with my countrymen, like a well-orchestrated steel band. From New York to the Caribbean shores, no holiday celebration is complete without the melodious sound of the steel pan in Queen Park.
Whether we cry in a storm or dance in the rain, this time of year celebrates life and honors those we've lost. I am a ray of sunshine for my country's people. Merry Christmas, my beloved homeland.

I was never truly loved by anyone
Only by me and I
and I am not even sure about either one

I love my therapy session with poetry
I can assess myself with self-evaluating
I am at the point in life when I don’t
Give a rat ***, about what others think of me
Retirement has taught me to be a free agent
I am now the captain of my soul
Free from other people's demands and clutches

I have not heard that demanding salutation in the
Morning of Mrs. Lander can you come to the front desk
Or waiting for the clock to strike 3 to make my exit
Time is of the essence, and it means nothing to me these days
I will be there when I get there.
Unless it is boarding time in row 3
To love me is to know me,
as for me to love you it will take
A strong will and endurance in my poetry sessions
I have been there and done that
And will not allow it into my life anymore,
Haven to be humble and being humiliated
I had to endure, haven to question myself
About my love for me, I lamented:



I was never truly loved by anyone, only by myself, and even that I question. Poetry is my therapy, a mirror for self-evaluation. I've reached a point where I don't care what others think. Retirement has made me a free agent, the captain of my soul, free from others' demands. No more morning calls to the front desk, no more waiting for the clock to strike three. Time is now my own, and it means nothing to me.
I'll be there when I get there
unless it's boarding time in row three.
To love me is to know me,
and for me to love you, it takes strength and endurance. I've been there, and done that, and won't allow it into my life anymore.
I've endured humility and humiliation, questioning my love for myself. I lamented:

Our river runs low, unlike in Barbados, where rain graces the small island, turning it into a tropical paradise. Green pastures thrive,
  a breadfruit can sustain a poor man throughout the year, while others feast lavishly. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in America, and perhaps in other parts of the world too. What are we thankful for this year?
Reflecting on 2024, what stands out as your most memorable moment? What brought tears to your eyes, and how many times did you cry out for help? This year has been tough for me, filled with force and emotional baggage,
accompanied by piles of bills. I held on, knowing that temporary meant limited, not permanent.
It's easy to be thankful for the good things.
Those who are also thankful for the setbacks experience a life of rich fulfillment.

Gratitude can turn a negative into a positive.
Find a way to be thankful for your troubles,
and they can become your blessings.

Today is Black Friday, and it feels black, an adjective that brings emotional instability. Will I be able to catch a good deal on this day?

Thank you, God, for your love and wisdom. Even in moments of doubt, I tried to keep my faith discreet. Many times, I felt the weight of my sins, knowing that conscience is not just a guide but a compass. I speak for myself when I say that each day,
I struggle with the inevitable tasks and the pain inflicted by evildoers. Today would have been his birthday, a bittersweet reminder that evildoers cannot harm us for long if we believe in your power.

I have come too far to let regrets weaken me. I am too proud and too strong for shame or regret.

Please, always come to me when I am in doubt. Keep shining your light upon me and keep my mind healthy.

My vision is clear, and I know my children will be happy and safe. I will fight for daily strength to move forward. I will adhere to your words and find rest in your guidance. You know me better than I know myself, and I love you, Lord.
Your mercy never fails me.

I grieve for others more than I should, perhaps being too mythopoetic. I am mortal, a giver by nature, and proud of the choices I have made.

I am who I am, black by nature, and I embrace my identity with pride.

Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved.
Great lines, something to think about (Edward Thomas)
Woke up to the rain and the wind beating on my window pale,
Yet I thought of getting dressed and going there.
A subway system, so far not yet up to standards,
A job like mine, no one need to hurry too
A mindset like mine, meant for me to lay low
during the northeaster...rain and wind
Poor yet full of pride, I am the servant Queen,
Yesterday, I struggled to maintain my sanity
Due to working conditions: at the workplace
I have been feuding for years. Nothing changes
not even an added penny, before its death,
More work, more stress, no respect  
Night supervisors, penciling  
or rather maneuvering into the darkness
at six am. A street crowded with overturn bins,
Flooded streets, with mudded running water
Mother of Nature, another dangerous disaster?
You meaner than corvid and Alaska,
I am the servant Queen, poor, yet full of pride:
I am fed up with others trying to take me for a ride
Sometimes, you need a break from a bad situation
Never berate yourself for giving expression to your emotions.
Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;(Edward Thomas) line
I planned to stick, to my believes, nothing will change,
I will always be the servant Queen, as longs as them reign:

Could Not Break My Spirit
Running alone in a crowded world, I lived my life in solitude. Some dreams came true in unexpected ways. Often, I thought I’d found my true calling, yet reality unfolded differently. I existed in the sheltered confines of my truth—the road, the pain, the silent games of survival in a sometimes-hateful America. Disappointment etched on faces, three years to secure a decent job, odds and ends to make ends meet.
I recall an agency assignment: a two-year-old toddler without ears. Her white parents handed a challenge and failed to change their ways. When lunchtime arrived, they said, “Step outside to eat; we’re Jewish.” I listened, smiled, and walked away, never to return.
Racism, pain, and low expectations—I vowed that no white person would feel what I felt that day. I quit the agency, guided by my grandfather’s wisdom. Sanity demanded distance from those who’d deny my humanity.
And so, I moved forward, my black hands never again touching that white baby. For I had lived
alone, seen it, and flushed it from my mind. In this world of bigots, I stood firm, resilient, and unyielding. A bigot, intolerant of differing beliefs, could not break my spirit.