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.

Things I never knew I’d come to love
Sinking into this old leather chair, I never imagined I’d cherish it so much. Retirement’s first year has gifted me with time—time to sit, to think, to watch. Mediocre movies, once dismissed, now captivate me. Nigerian films, with their unique culture, have taught me so much. Though, I still can’t grasp the slaps and the “Are you mad?” lines. Some writers could do better, and the disrespect towards women is unbiblical.
I never knew I’d love my own company. Dining out no longer appeals like it used to. Making videos of my daily life, once a private affair, now feels like sharing a piece of my soul. What is privacy, if not isolation? I was meant to share my inner thoughts, my poems, my art with the world.
Life has no balance, they say, but to stay sane, we must find it. Helping others brings a joy I never knew. It’s a hope that they, too, might help someone someday. Some days, I feel complete, then fall back into uncertainty. I try to remember the color of silence—silence I never knew was a color.

A fear of relationships and love often runs deep, tied to the pain that love can bring. The heartbreak, the intimacy of knowing someone deeply, and seeing them with another. They promised us everything, but now they share those promises with someone else. Love can feel like a mortal wound: death ends a life, not a relationship. What is lovely never dies but transforms into another form of beauty.

I harbor resentment towards my ex, but not towards his children. I love Coca-Cola, but not the caffeine. I love the act of intimacy, but not the togetherness it implies. I will always fear love, but I will never forget that one kiss, the last goodbye, and his first hello. The look in his eyes the day he cried. I won’t apologize for protecting my heart. My expectations of him shattered us.

“My soul, wait in silence for God only, for my hope is from Him.” (Luke 3:15)

I shall not fear walking the streets alone, without his hand in mine or his comforting words at the stoplight, “Please wait before we cross.” But I still fear love from mortal men, who can oppress, dehydrate, and suffocate us. However, God’s love never fails. I will always keep my distance from love, even though many say that love is life, and life is worth living with that kind of love. I will never tremble again or grip my heart because love has disappointed me. My love for them is genuine, but their love for me was about the money.

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.

Echoes of the Heart”

Within a man’s heart, myriad plans unfold, While in a woman’s, greatness seeks to hold. The world, like seas, stretches wide and vast, And water’s weight varies with hands’ size cast.

When love blooms deeper than mere mortal ties, A woman’s heart remains forever pure, skies Of divinity glimpsed by the pure in heart, Blessed souls who seek God in every part.

Yet love, a tempest, leads us astray, Toward unattainable shores, where we sway. Filtered photos veil longing smiles and grace, As poets weave emotion into every trace.

Misunderstood tones echo through our verse, A symphony of feelings, for better or worse. Trust wavers—can we surrender once more? Falling, yet fearing we’ll never rise ashore.

So, guard your heart, my friend, with care, For love’s slippery slopes await us there. 🌟

Whispers of Youth

Dusty boxes, like forgotten books, Hold chapters of quantum leaps— My first steps, tiny and determined, Leading to a world of wonders.

Goat’s milk, flavored with Grenada nutmeg, A remedy for cow’s blandness, And lactose intolerance—the secret code Of those simpler days.

Cod liver oil, Sunday mornings’ ritual, Bitter drops to ward off unseen foes, Mumps, measles, whooping cough— Childhood’s battles etched in time.

Curiosity fueled my quest: Pebbles, night crickets, butterflies— Each a treasure, carefully collected, One line at a time.

And that snarky bird, Caged, then set free— Freedom’s squeak of happiness, A lesson etched in feathers.

The kitchen window, a gateway, Its slight squeak echoing freedom. The bird, banana thief turned guardian, A debt repaid in whispers.

Childhood memories preserved, Not just atop that distant hill, But in the flutter of wings, And the quiet moments we cherish.

🌼

Reflections of Love

She approached me, her eyes filled with longing. “Why is it so hard to love me?” she asked. I hesitated, knowing the truth would wound her. “It’s not you,” I replied softly, “it’s them.”

Never promise eternal love to anyone. Nothing lasts forever—not even a poet’s wishes. Thoughts and feelings exist only in the vast expanse of space. My heart retreats into solitude, seeking answers.

I made a pact with him: ten years. In that time, he must see only me, taste only my lips, and make love to only me. Our souls, like enchanted mirrors, reflect each other’s desires. Hope blooms, fragile yet resilient.

Morning blessings—happy or sad—become our ritual. His white attire, the baseball cap—the innocence of youth captured in every glance. Falling in love after seclusion is both exhilarating and terrifying—a roller coaster of emotions.

I see no flaws now, only what my heart craves: his eyes, those high cheekbones. Our souls entwine under the sun’s warmth and the north wind’s chill. Who will bless this union? Who will stand by us when leaves fall, and all fades like forgotten dreams?

For now, let me love him. Let our smiles intertwine. Let our souls make love, defying time and space. 🌟

Echoes of Innocence
Who weeps for the child,
who carried her father’s gun to school?
Was she truly alone in this premeditated tragedy?
Did Sesame Street’s lessons reach her tender heart?
Nothing remains discreet—
love and sorrow intertwine.
A child, advised to be kind,
but who taught her to pull the trigger?
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
reveal the true danger:
Is it the gun, its owner, or the would-be thief?
Insanity, madness, and lunacy dance,
yet the gun itself remains innocent.
People, not guns, wield fatal power.
Who will cry for this child?
The court system?
Perhaps only divine intervention can heal her wounds.

Resilience Unveiled”

To the woman who weeps upon betrayal’s blade, Her heart’s fragile wings, in tempests swayed. Yet within pain’s chisels, a metamorphosis blooms, Mating intelligence refined, wisdom consumes.

She deciphers subtle cues in future mates’ eyes, No longer blinded by love’s sweet disguise. Her heart, a compass, guides through the storm, Detecting low mate value, keeping her warm.

But what of the other woman, entwined? Dancing with deception, love’s twisted bind. Her prize: a man who betrayed with ease, A heart ill at ease, history’s infidelity keys.

Days pass, the all-woman stands tall, Dress discarded, memories small. Her worth, her happiness—her own throne, No charity case, no borrowed zone.

Malice whispers, venomous hiss, She invokes Hanlon’s razor, dismissing the abyss: “Never attribute to malice,” she imparts, “That which is explained by stupidity’s arts.”

Human behavior, folly and wisdom entwine, And silently, one weeps upon life’s knife.

Tainted Blood

They lost me because I loved them enough to let them go, If you love something, set it free; if it returns, it’s yours. Or perhaps they wanted to have their cake and eat it too.

As poets, we often shy away from lines like these, Odium-filled phrases that don’t necessarily mean failure. A failed relationship doesn’t imply personal failure, But rather a problem—either created by us or our partner.

Let’s list the problems:

Lack of capital

Lack of patience

A weak man seeking rescue from a strong woman

And the list goes on, each issue a thorn in the heart. The pain fades after the first heartbreak, Yet trust and love become elusive.

I knew I would lose them—the scent of tainted blood wafted from their pores as they drew near. So, I stopped the kisses, the intimacy, and then came the unwarranted jealousy, the emotional hurt of rejection.

We see them for what they are, and sometimes, that’s enough to set us free.

Grief Unmeasured

I measure every grief I meet—
knowingly, they’re all related to me.
Some smaller, some larger,
but all carry weight.

Yesterday, a friend’s text arrived:
“Her daughter was shot in the head.”
The words formed a puzzle I needed to unravel:
What, why, where?
I kept asking.

Death came too soon for this young woman.
My thoughts turned to my own children—
why must mothers bury their offspring?
Black-on-black violence, a painful reality.

I reached out to my friend,
but she refused my texts and calls.
Understandable—the shock is overwhelming.

Will pain ever grow old?
Will humanity cease its violence?
Or will weapons persist indefinitely?

Why does existence hurt so much these days?
Will we run out of comforting words?

This morning’s headlines were grim:
“A young mother abandons her newborn.”
Heartless? Perhaps not.
Fear for the child’s life drove her actions.

What future awaits that abandoned soul?
What trials lie ahead?

Emily Dickinson once wrote:
“The meaning of life is just to be alive.
It is so plain and so obvious and so simple.
And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic
as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves.”

In passing, we find solace—
a piercing comfort on our journey through Calvary.

Elegy of the River and the Sea

For life and death are one,

like the river and the sea.

In grief, our tears taste different,

our ways of mourning unique.

You weep; I compose elegies.

My brother, high on marijuana,

the island battered by hurricane Beryl.

As the sea crashes upon the land,

seaweed lashes out like demons.

Are we prepared for this?

To whom it may concern,

do not call me early in the morning.

I am not yet awake for words.

Give me time to sip my coffee,

to savor the warmth of intimacy.

Let me read “Good Morning, Sunshine.”

For life and death are one,

like the river and the sea.

My daily poem whispers:

"Leave me alone in the morning

with my thoughts."

My mother outlived my father.

I aspire to outlive the sparrows.

In God, I entrust my life.

Lillian’s Echo

In the dayroom’s dim embrace, Lillian sat—a survivor etched in time. The air clung to stories, whispered secrets, and the lingering scent of suffering. She, the one-character legend, spun her tales—prose blabber, raw and unfiltered.

Born into the system’s cold arms, Lillian emerged as an adult onto Brooklyn’s unforgiving streets. There, she tasted the bitter brew of inhumanity—the kind that seeps into bones, leaving scars unseen.

Abortions etched memories on her soul. Each child, born or unborn, imprinted on her heart. Tears flowed freely among the day roomers, their lives force-fed with drugs until the final breath. Neglect and abuse danced in shadows, haunting their fragile existence.

Lillian’s own children—thirteen souls conceived in the crucible of ****. Some lost to the system, others to her desperate choices. Abortion, a relentless companion, etched its refrain: “You will never forget.”

Ms. Smaldone, wise and weathered, shared her truth. Money, she warned, was no legacy for offspring. Instead, travel—imbibe life’s nectar before the curtain falls. Merril Lynch riches crumbled when sickness struck, and family greed devoured her nest egg.

Lillian listened, her eyes reflecting pain. She vowed to seize life’s moments, to honor the lost and the forsaken. Four west day roomers, souls adrift, yearned for salvation. May they rest in peace, their echoes woven into Lillian’s prose.

Echoes of Solitude

An old man, unpopular and weathered,
Sketches cartoon characters of his childhood tormentors.
Their names, like bitter echoes, resound in his memories.
“Those *******!” he mutters, lips trembling.

He refrains from tears, fearing their taste—
A blend of loose cells from his mother and father.
Weeks pass, and Eugene, his friend, remains absent.
Hospitalized, perhaps, for an unknown pain.

The dayroom chats, oh, how he misses them!
Eugene’s face would light up when they spoke
Of Aunt Harriet’s cookies and Uncle Jack’s fishing trips.
Just the two of them, sharing moments by the lake.

But his parents? Ah, they were different.
His father’s advice: “******* to ease the pressure.”
His mother’s counsel: “Run from the bullies.”
And the therapist? “You’ll amount to nothing,” they said.

He harbored resentment, wishing he’d never been born.
Shunned, scorned—a life marked by isolation.
Yet poetry became his refuge, a soft spot in his heart.
I gifted him my favorite pen, urging him to write.

Empathy, my duty, compels me to tell stories—
To amplify voices silenced by circumstance.
For in the ink-stained verses, we find solace.
Dark n Beautiful, your words resonate.

Written by Dark n Beautiful. 🖋️

“Embrace and Release”

In the quiet of night, I pondered—
the art of severing ties, like pruning a tree.
The weakest links, once tightly bound,
now set free, like a maiden’s unclasped bra.

2024 dawns, a canvas for transformation.
Covid’s grip loosens, and clarity emerges.
Meltdowns yield to focus, tears to savings.
My *** life, like New York’s winter, chills.

Raw verses spill forth, unfiltered and true.
Yet my smile softens toward strangers,
and I find myself liking humanity anew.
Trust remains distant, a horizon to reach.

Biblical tales echo vulnerability—
the weaker devoured by the strong.
Have I surrendered my worth for fleeting moments?
No tears stain my words; they remain silent.

As I gaze upward, pondering thoughts,
my brain’s triad—forebrain, midbrain, hindbrain—
collaborates, yet sometimes drifts apart.
Do I know myself anymore? Today, I listen.

Goodbye, old lover; hello, new friends.
Life’s tides carry me forward,
and I embrace the journey, raw and unafraid.
May vulnerability be my strength, not my undoing.