Everyone is counting the casualties
Most of us saw the video of the decease
Most of us never knew her real name
Her story, was yet to be told,
Of a night worker, who stand alone in the dark
And defecated between the adjacent cars,
While an onlooker makes a video for shaming purposes
Words of comments, were

“How one live, so shall how ones die.
Man’s days are determined; by the almighty
Yesterday her name was the ***** from the club

Tomorrow her name will the late decease from Jamaica  
I will plant a tree in her name for peace,
And will it blossom beautifully without the shame
I shall be name, foam Flo wreck, the one who couldn’t be tame  
We only heard of people, after they are gone,
Peace be with you, peace be still
Peace came after, where was the peace when you need it most

**there is a very tiny cracks  in which another world begins and ends  Slavko Mihalic  quote

Sweet memory, like a lobster tail
Dip in   Blove smackalicious sauce  
dripping hot, with stings of green onions
Mouthwatering, finger licking, and yes
Fattening for one thighs,
That yummy feeling of so good,  
so, hot, so hot, so delicious:
My guilty pleasure, my greasy late-night foods
When the memory of unpleasant moments
Creep up on me....so that is when I focus on my lobster tail:
I let in the past so often, I think
A poet, his past, his future, his demons like a
drunkard who never remembers his yesterdays  
A phrase my mother seldom uses to control to my father,
After a long weekend of *****
it’s so true sometimes I cannot
stop myself from going back to my past
In order to make a connection with my future
Oh, the things we do for love,
Oh, the things we have to endure,  
In hope of receiving love:
Such cold thought, such headaches.
Life without Love is as a flower without fragrance.
Richard B. Garnett

Never keep the ashes of your love ones bottled
To free a spirit is to free ones soul:
I believe in doing a deal once a week for someone<

Something about that feeling stimulate the inner me
It is more fulfilling than when they stimulate our *******,
Isn’t the …. good enough to get the job done?

Poetry writing moves me,
Old ancient painting and building get my attention,
I always sense the inner spirit of others
No matter how far away, they might be:
Sometimes, my stories are too sad to be told:

Flush the negativity out of your heart. Believe that life is awesome, and you have the chance to make the most of it.Quotes

However, do bear in mind that …It is not easy to shake off the gloom. The more you try to run away from it, the more it chases you. So let us learn to face our sadness: Quotes

****** masks
As we look around,
All we see is humans wearing ****** masks
A world of silencers, a world of social distancing:
Before we use to sit silently and watch the world
Around us:  misbehaved: the unruly bunch

Silence is holy it draws attention
To our inner peace:  today is the silence of the mask
Draws attention to fear, a fear of us being side track
By this disease, so we wear the mask of silence,
Do you remember, the measles, chickens pox’s
Scarlett fevers and the list when on:
But it’s nothing in comparisons to corona corvid 19

Lockdown: Now it’s staying at home means getting creative
Evaluating our lives, our behavior, our life style..
Was it out of control?  
Were we ever essentials?

  I hate wearing the mask
It make me feel like a captive, but i know better
Not to wear it: I need protection from you
And you need protection from me.

Because of what Mr. Trump said “the Chinese disease.”
Wearing the mask to do the tasks
Letting go of the hatred enable us to move forward

A world without humans is not a world
Is a silence world:
with one small flower emerging from a rock on a side walk

journal entry Poetry..
I am not ready to face this man
Who broke my heart into squares?
I am not ready to look him full in his lying eyes
And asked him why did he made my eyes overflow
I am not ready as yet to asked him if he remembers
  the birth of his child, the signal from the moon,
the last Friday night of fish and chips
Wailing and speaking in tongues,
being strip down to my waist as
you held my hand and encourage me to be strong!!!!!
That trauma was only for a very short period,
My broken hearts will never heal,
because of whom I invited into my soul
However, to reshape my heart again will take courage, but to
Forgive, sounds good
Forget, I’m not sure I could
They say time heals everything
But I’m still waiting… Quote
Just before he said “How are you Are you okay?
To slam the door in the viper face once again is a step to healing.

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

Beyond the bustling cities I’ve witnessed, From New York to Chicago, Boston, and Washington, Lies a stark reality of homelessness, Where hope seems elusive.
Yesterday, I engaged in conversation with a relative, As she walked through a parking lot, intent on reaching her car. A homeless man halted her progress, His plea for a dollar met with her momentary inability to provide.
Undeterred, he accepted her response with grace, His eyes lingering on her features, admiration in his words: “Lady, you look so fine. If I weren’t homeless, I’d take you out to dinner.”
Curious, she inquired, “Where would you take me?” His proud reply echoed through the air: “Red Lobster!”
Her smile persisted as she continued toward her car, Reflecting on his unexpected compliment. Rummaging through her car’s compartments, she found a dollar, Returning to the spot where the homeless man stood.
She handed him the bill, a small gesture of kindness. And what did we learn from this sweet exchange? Flattery, delivered with kindness, can soften even the hardest hearts. As citizens, we strive to help one another, Offering what we can, even if it’s just a few dollars.
My poems, my solace, my counsel to the world: Oh, my God, where are You? In times of need, I trust that eventually, You will take the wheel.

Yesterday I watch a movie that had ten episodes
There I was alone watching into the morning 3: 00 a.m.
It was more about ***, lies, and manuscripts set in the heart of Maine

Limitlessness,

It mirrors the limitlessness of the human condition?
Facebook is like our mirror, we are always looking into the mirror
Facebook, Facebook in cyber space, who is this fearless of us all

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of us all:
How many likes, how many visitors, how many notifications,
How many request shall I confirm or delete in a day:  why must I translate?

To see how the other half lived or used to live: juggling with the human behavior
I am running out of space to stored my poems, but my word kept coming

**Isaiah 55:11
so My word that proceeds from My mouth will not return to Me empty, but it will accomplish what I please, and it will prosper where I send

I dream of a street I once resided on
An old dwelling, with galvanize fencing
A main street, with poor street lightings
I wake longing to be back there,
I remember the country, but not the heartaches,

Where I use to live and where am I now
Its poetry, it a google map, it history,
How did i get from there to here?

Once again it poetry, it was a drastic move
How i comes and goes in my dream of being there
Not the dwelling, not the whispering of the trees,
Nor the shortage of water, but the freedom of being me..
“Freedom is doing a job that I love. Not because I have to do it, but because I love doing it.” Quote
I just finish watching another Netflix movie.. About families
Unauthorized living: some of the plots could have been better
But, I enjoy the main characters, in comparisons to mine

Daniel was funny, too rich to be happy, too stupid to know how to live
He gives his bodyguards two thousand dollars just to see who **** was bigger,
To stupid to know how to live
Too rich to be happy:
A character like him needs to live on my street,
In that dwelling on the main street, without his daddy’s billions:

Being rich doesn’t stop one from being a *****,
Those sisters proven that in the movie:
A man will always be a dog, with his sniffing,
With my findings, Beautiful women suffers
more than ugly women do..
once in a while allow your mind to take you home
a place where you felt safe. During these ugly times:

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.

🌼

We stare into the ceiling without looking at each other

Slowly you place your hands between my legs of burning desire,

I saw a portrait of your youth, as the silence engulf us:

My guilty pleasure, your disobedient hands,  

In a few hours you will become a man.

I didn’t cause this silence; our hearts were entwining (:)



My guilty pleasure, the portrait of your youth

A mother’s warmth, or just a cougar fantasy

Who made all the rules, society or us



The hearts asked for pleasure first,  

Then comes the sacrament of confession.  

my African prince of Lloren, Kwara, my vision



I will not accept that one and one should be two

A double plantain so jointly attached is still one

Love is not a substance, but at times comes off as one.

Therefore, from this day forward

I will treat love like a commodity  

Basis facts my guilty pleasure, your disobedient hands

Manly as ever, one day you will be my man. (:)  

As we walk the sandy beaches of Togo:

Just remember, one plus one doesn't add to two:

“If you wish to succeed in life, make perseverance your ***** friend, experience your wise counselor, caution your elder brother, and hope your guardian genius.”


― Joseph Addison

Whispers of the Heart

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

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.

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

Monday ‘Blues

Sometimes we pray for the weekend
But all good things must come to an end
The more the weeks surpass, nothing seem to change
What would the new week bring?
An apology of some sort from the president?
Would another court reject Trumps campaigns lawsuits?
Did anybody release the children from family detention centers?
In Dilley, Texas:  Oh man the Monday morning blues soars!

Tuesday the smoother, as we stroll along,
The friendly goodmorning is coming back
The smiles are wider on the faces of the low renters
As for me taking one day at a time:

Wednesday:
I feel like I am stuck in the middle of nowhere
The new normal of stress-Free Virtual Thanksgiving is approaching
I detest this corona pandemic political bull….
or as Trump would say (The Chinese virus)
More than ever, more than anything I have ever encounter on this earth:

My poems sometimes is more of an opinion than
Poetry, it reveals my thoughts on most subjects
Which others people might discuss in *** shops,
Lunch tables, gathering,
however, my words are not just words
while they might make ones think,
or shrugs one’s shoulder:

Every poet has a beginning
Every river begins somewhere,

My words come from grief
Hardships, injustices let sum this up
To the unfairness of life..

Thursday:
let’s say positive thoughts
And so far so good..
Because it will be Friday
And please remember every poet has a beginning:
Every winner, must blessed the loser,

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. 🌟

It not easy going up against God’s Peoples
Date your wound
Picked your fights,

"Debates test the performative aspect of leadership: stamina, mental agility
as viewers we all know the mental agility of some of them:"

You can sway a thousand men by appealing to their prejudices quicker than you can convince one man by logic.”
― Robert A. Heinlein, Revolt in 2100/Methuselah's Children

Poets should get together and debates,
The inner thoughts of each other:
We are in the heat of this pandemic
The thought of not knowing,
Who family member would get that awful text
It’s not  so easy to go up against God’s people
Remember the world,
Picked your fights,

Something is going on in this world that isn’t rights
When the God given talent of man is used to destroy\
Others, it should be taken away.

If you use your time wisely, God will give you more time. If you use your energy wisely, God will give you more energy.** Quote:

Dreams of My African King

In the quiet hours of night, my African king visits me. His presence, both vivid and elusive, dances across the tapestry of my dreams. We spar—our voices colliding over the phone, tangled in passion and discord. His white t-shirt clings to memory, a canvas for whispered secrets and unspoken truths.

Laundry day becomes sacred—an intimate ritual. He separates his clothing, each fold a promise etched into fabric. I, too, remember the days when I stumbled over his name, syllables tripping like hesitant birds. A thousand rehearsals, yet he corrected me gently, unraveling my mispronunciations with patience.

How much more can I love him? Love, unquantifiable, spills beyond boundaries. It echoes in the cooing of doves—their soft wings carrying messages between realms. To love is to risk—the precipice where self dissolves, and soulmates emerge.

He visits me, not only in dreams but also in waking life. I glimpse him on bustling streets, in the hum of subway cars, and within the ink of my poems. Our souls, celestial magnets, draw close. We need each other—an equation of hearts seeking equilibrium.

I am a believer in God’s design. He weaves our paths, stitches constellations into existence. My king, once stronger, faced battles that scarred his spirit. Yet God’s promises remain—our shared destiny etched in stardust.

Me ma wo akye—may your eyes witness miracles. In the quietude of night, may your African king’s silhouette linger, a beacon across the vast expanse of longing.

Decorative image of graphic representations of green leaf

Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, (quote a line)

Even in death you think,

you have that hold on me:

It is the week of your passing, however it is

My everlasting reassurance,

another blessing, another year  

Gone into the unknown,  

it's has not yet been proven

About the scattering of your ashes  

Am I a fool, to feel sympathy for you.  

Or should I just simply smile and speak  

Boo!  boo!  or not to speak ill of the dead  



There goes the dead.

There is not a single blessing

Which we receive on earth

That does not come from heaven,

That source of our new birth

Deep within each blessing I received from heaven

we deserve it, blessing on blessing,

Either for me or for my loved ones

R.I.P G

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.

Thousands and thousand
Of people, will die this year
From the virus, and the
Streets they lived on is sadden
By the masks someone
Refuses to wear, stingless
And reckless those buggers left behind

Another apartment available,
In our city, waiting, the grass
Seem greener, politics outbid
The tik, tok creativities challenges

If we listen quietly at seven P.M.
We can hear the cry of essential workers
Crying for justice victims,
The virus is a terrorist, boomer!
Launching attack on foreign lands,

Overhead we raise our voices
And asked God, not again!
In the meantime the skies seem, clearer,
the ocean seem, cleaner, less pollutions

Every time the flowers are blooming,
it’s reminding us that a new chapter of the day was born.

The races are shading, the people is vanishing,
The birds will read them down with a song,
Why!
Nobody is allowed near the headstones
Nothing last forever: unlike the red states
Winners and loser, statues falls to the ground:

Lord Nelson they are coming for your pillar
In Bridgetown,
You must come down, it is really civil rights
suddenly, not so popular at the dinner tables
he must come down!


.


,

The last time I think of death and breath
In the same sentence: was on an Easter Sunday
And on that day when I saw videos clip over and over of a
Public assassination, a lynching in the year 2020

As humans beings we all need oxygen to live,
Never take it for granted, we need to breath
Same as for the fishes in the ocean they
Need, oxygen too, to survive,

My poems need a wider audience to get
The essence across, demographically
More than a public assassination
My faithful followers is the essence of my poetry/

If I say that they can heal the world in seven days
In the mind of my reader, they will
Probably asked, who does she think she is (God?)

You see the divine is the vaccine, the healer,
I need more time to write, the poems /
That will heal this world, my poems bring
Emotional connection to one’s inner thoughts:

Seeing someone taking them last breath is peaceful
They chest goes up and then down,
slowly with a goodbye
My father was singing, one of Fat Domino
Favorite song, then he slowly closed his eyes:

According to reliable source my x husband,
also struggle to breathe before he took his last  breathe

My gold fish just float to the top of the tank.
The last time I think of death and breath
In the same sentence: was on an Easter Sunday
And twenty minutes ago, before I compose this piece

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. 🖋️

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.

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.

The secret of being a senior

There is always one more death to make that long sigh!
We fret over ever little things
We stay awake and cry when we ought to be laughing
Our humanistic way of coping with life: (perhaps)

How Old Is Mrs. Claus?
Mrs. Claus is 1,136 years young!
We will never grieve for the Mr. and Mrs. Claus
They will forever live in our hearts,
Fictional but pleasing to the young

When we were in our youth
Going to the doctors never really apply to us
So we put N/A  on every line..
We define the lack of trust in them

Trust is collapsing in America these days
How many more times can we believe in the governments leaderships?
I did build my wall, not because he says to do it.
It my bank note, it my reminder that evil exist in all of us.

We often tried teaching the youth a little thing or two
Wisdom comes from age, suffering and with its memories of pain.

My daughter friend just turns twenty one, beautiful, yet green
She thinks that she is ready to take on the world
I told her to slow down, and look around: (this new normal is fierce)
Twenty-one is just a number, being wise is another thing
Wisdom emerges not from experience itself.
  by working towards it:

The secret of being a senior, we don’t have to worry
About the female cycled, or getting pregnant
We can cry for no reason: and wrinkle out gracefully…

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.

A Poet tell the best stories,
It’s a daily struggle for me, when I am on
Schedule, to show up there….at 3035
I usually take one foot slowly off the bed
I have to transform my body into someone else

Her name is Waverly, the most frequent alters,
a pretender, but not like the mouthy poet (A.L)
Seven hours of lies, trying to make ends meet
Twenty eight years of deceits, show in the receipts
Of hard, hard labor, and the back breaking toil of the day

The pointy nose, hold on to fake clipboard
Should I hate them, the system or me?
They is so many of us low renter in that place
But in the days of the corvid corona 19
These, days there are So many of them
Uprising, coming and leaving, the drilling
Should I hate them, the system or me?

The ones who tell the best story
Is the most observant one, to the craft?
A river is a body of water
With lot of stories to tell
Sadness and happiness,

My experiences there comes with pain,
Shame and mostly the sadness of
Staying at one place so lengthy!!
My restless spirit is now catching on to me
Is it too late for me, for us?
Me or my alters or just I
Oh, how I remembered them so well

Within each new poet there is a new idea
Each new idea brings a zest to future poems
The new poet fades too soon: so has the pointy nose
They never, stays, but memories of them, stain like glass
Taking the memories of their appearances
like shadows over the sun:

Did I really had years of experience
or years of daily repeats.
then I must indeed say my confidence has suffered..

The Door into Darkness

How does one response to questions
About someone who drove them into madness
Times doesn’t always heal old wounds
Some wounds are none -reversible,
Some clothing is none returnable,

Her questions seem to be ..
What was the purpose of his life?
To her it might seem unfair not to answer
For me, it hurts… more that childbirth

Breaking a bone is painful,
Breaking someone spirit and heart weigh heavily:

The tongue that brings healing is a tree of life,
but a deceitful tongue crushes the spirit.” (Proverbs 15:4

His love for me plays out like an air filled balloon
From the Caribbean Island to the America shore
The King will choose his Queen,
But in his kingdom he longs for a wife,

The door into darkness, for me
Would not be, I prefer all my rooms
To be lit……

Psalm 90:6
in the morning it springs up new, but by evening it fades and withers.


When my heart returns in the seclusion,

I uttered these words to myself,

Give it time, be wise, embrace self-compassion

I must put myself first, I must, I must,  

This time around, I don't want to walk away,

Taste only me, make love to only me
Reflected only in my space.
enchantment leads to my dearest delight
enter my soul before the break of dawn

A dream within a dream according to Edgar Allan Poe

For our morning blessing/
Happy or sad, our morning salutations/
There is nothing more appealing  
Than seeing white undershirts and white teeth
as it captures the youth of innocent,  
falling in love, with a cub, half my age,  

A trickery of unfocused emotions bearing down.  


I can see no flaws,  
I see only what my heart allows,

Trembling lips, both top and bottom
gazing into those eyes of witchery illusions

Just this once, just feed me, just enter my soul  

This frigid northern cold, the Africa heat rises:
Who will bless this union?
When it all fades like leaf

All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away.

Let me love you for now,

Let me smile, while you smile,

aloud me, to accept you,

as you enter my soul

He gathers up his belongings and board the train
A little hunger contribute to his weary load/
which can be promising or can be fatal
No matters what the day might bring
He just has to move on because he is
worthy of human  interaction.


even though the world has marched along,
His unsteady gait, his hours of stinks,
Passerby, will complain,
even  through the eyes, of empathy
he stink or life stinks?

He knows the looks upon the faces of deep
He will continued to smile, with grace
See  him, smell him,  he is still alive

Your loves ones are dead, per say.
Your, nurses, your doctors, your actors,
your funeral directors,
and there he stood that happy ******,
stilling repasting and idling/

On the city train/ your flat forms/ alleys and doorways
Dreaming, how it was, when he was activated/  
And was once cherish by a special  love

Now the earth is formless and empty,
darkness is over the surface of the deep,
and the Spirit of God is hovering over the waters.

Your states are drowning
in stench, of death
Fear not want not,  
while he is homeless,
But content this ******,

the vagrant!

A survivor a moth without the mold,
A fire, without smoke, the hungry man
Without food, a man without a home,
And with all the pity that you feel,

Take heel, death is permanent
Homelessness is not a disease,
Corona Corvid 19 is the infectious virus

Wear, the mask, adhere to the rules
he whispered to me
his homely, homelessness is not our war,
You are their underground enemy >>

An uneducated woman clings to a young lad’s side
He woo her, he romance her
in six month time he took her for his bride

on the honeymoon in the heat of the night
in the wooded  house lid by only the street lights

he saw her for whom she was: as she lay there
a thing as cold as ice, without any care

he consummate the marriage like a hasty
frighten, laid back  hare:

he rose up before dark, and followed the cat
as its sat on his grandfather old front door mat

he wonder why he downgraded himself , no ecstasy  
was it for lust or love, *** or sympathy

how could he take her for his bride,
and cling to her side,

Not knowing she was cold and sexless

A relationship like this can be painful
but not necessarily hopeless

**For Love is blind but with the fleshly eye
,
He was so wrong. today she is colder than ever

I am afraid, in this
Times of uncertainty
Leading up to November election,

Love without feeling,
Sunlight without the warmth
At time when our city is a cage,

filled with rage:

The talks of death, without hope
It can be brutal my friends,
The flowers blooms
where no man can see it beauty

Upon the graves of the daily departed
Old men and women sit alone (waiting and waiting)

What is it that we lack in these troublesome times?
Happier days, without the cage,
Without risking the rage,
Without, keeping our eyes
On the numbers of dead bodies,
In our inner cities or around the countries bend:

Our trembling lips under the masks,
I thirst not for the wine but
for my freedom to breathe freely
Without, limited restriction, without fines!
Our lips tremble under the colorful protective masks,
Can we really breathe?

A little while ago I had a lengthy conversation
With my dearest friend in Angers western France,
about 300 km southwest of Paris
We cherish our memories of the past:
With little hope and a dream,

We might meet again on the Island of Barbados..
Our memories of the past with keep us intact
Our future for right now seems uncertain.
We have to cry, we have to cry,
We must cry, we must…

The world is remodeling,
Can you feel it: did you hear it?
Black on black crime: The new Norm:

The Jim Crow laws were a system of anti- black laws.
These laws were made to keep black people lower than the white people .
The harsh punishments of these laws included being treated as a lower part of humanity.

Will this Black lives matter crash or will it
Seek black folk’s justice?

Who would have the sea any color the mint green
Or the school buses any color that yellow
Or the American green dollar
Now trim with black and red

Forget about the silver and gold coin, tossed them
In the Trevi Fountain:
just to please the madness
in some human’s hearts

look how those short two to three minute video
Often goes viral, in a nanosecond
And the lives of others can changes in a week

Oh, this new world is not coming together
Not much to say about those new executive orders
slow them down please! Slow them down.
No one love this worldly changes,
Especially the churches,
or what is left of the human race
Due bear in mind the ozone layer
Appreciate, the three months break

Pollution has declined and traffic jams have all but vanished.
but the increase of the Taser guns shot up
More than the shooting range

And when I called out to debunks this life
With all its beauty, its problems
God whisper to me, we need our poets
We need they spoken words and they written voices
we need a new Garden of Eden
     ,

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.

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.

Child watches yours manners,

speak only when you are spoken too
Never be sassy; never look into the eyes of evil:
Else the whip will be on your cocoa backs
Its 2020 the whips snaps louder than ever,

Have any of you ever read the
“The Merchant of Venice

A poet ought not to pick nature's pocket.
Let him borrow, and so borrow as
to repay by the very act of borrowing.

Big banks are more dangerous than standing armies,
and the practice of borrowing and spending money
to be paid back by the next generation is stealing from their future
The U.S. debt to China was $1.07 trillion in April 2020

Someone forget to paid the Pied Pipers,
Was it the poor man, or was it the rich man?
They troubles became our trouble,
Now we all are suffering in the land.

They debt or the worldly infectious disease  
Now we all are suffering in the land.
Child watches your manners, speak when only spoken too

A poet can silence, a poet can be vanish from the world
And Robert Frost said anybody can start a poem,
but it takes a real poet to end one.
And that’s such a beautiful ending, gawking at clouds. Quote

Let us poets tell the real stories,
No let us convey the truth about the merchants!

Dreams and Reflections

As dreamers, we awaken to find disappointments. Each of us dreams, but on different planes. Today, I still harbor the dream of owning a place—a safe haven, my wildest fantasy. While many aspire to be boss ladies, I revel in being the captain of my own soul. My situation remains deferred; I require no rescue. Surrounded by a few friends, I am a free-spirited poet lost in words. I copulate with illusions, my natural ritual—alone with my thoughts, fulfilling my soul. Thankfully, none of your spirits infiltrate my inner sanctum.

Goodbyes punctuate my relationships; loneliness, my chosen weakness. Like Lady Moses, I ascend the mountain of self-reflection, glimpsing my tomorrows before aiding others. We, the fake poets, are also


summary:

In essence, the poem encourages us to embrace our dreams, face disappointments with resilience, and seek clarity within ourselves before extending help to others. Life, like poetry, is a journey of exploration and understanding.

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

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

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

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

A mango is not only a fruit it’s represent the tropic
An image of memories, it organic taste
This represents the first bite to the last:
Tracing back to its originality,
Tropical warmth, which smooths the lips
The sweet, succulent taste is noticeable:

Somehow, the roots refuse to grow
In Brooklyn, amount the sandy earth
Where the suffering continues,

A mango tree will never rooted in Brooklyn.
The soil is useless and barren,
Seized with an impotent anger
Where the death toll rises daily

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

We all love a good story.
With a good ending,
What is going on today is not a story
It is the reality, of mad virology scientist

It’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to pieces
It’s easier to live a lie,
however,the truth needs no translation
The poet became an unhappy Ambassador,
he believe in worldly- views:

Nothing is final to a poet eyes and ears
. But to a mad scientist: it say progressivism
To him man or language wasn’t created equally
Every poet should be responsible for his poetic language
while every scientist should be held responsible for his action.

As well as his emotion and excretion
either from the mouths, or from the other end
the smell, textures even the tones
as long as  the world  acknowledges
them as the Lever of things to come

it’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to piece
where there is action they will be a reaction
Leadership money and power
is this what we are dying for


"Whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue
keeps his soul from troubles"

Oh heavenly Bible,
he stood there holding you
A fibber, a republican, the people choice
So many times I saw him at the podium
Jeering and coming up against the people of God.
Yet, not a bible near by>>

A hope of promise to his followers
A curse to the dark, yellow and brown foreigners:
He often said that he inherited a mess
So were my father exact words
After he brought a second hand old Wolsey car
Back in 1967: he too inherited a mess

Now the crime in the land is uprising
More regrets than before: is servicing
More bombing than the Vietnam War

How shallow can one be?
How detached is he from his constituency:
The fear of the ego, and the power of the spirit
A poet ponders, about his next tweet or text

Such men behind the wheels:
means a nation will suffer,
God children pray
for justice and for peace.

They wealth kept on
growing from the backs of slaves
That is why we grieve?
Each and every day

An apple tree without fruits,
Cows without milk,
chicken without eggs
A well without water, those little things
we took for granted, is like a nation without
Patience, kindness and loyalty

Proverbs 28:11
The rich man is wise in his own eyes,
But the poor who has understanding searches him out;
!

When words go blind
Tracing one ideas: or ignoring
Would be so hard to recalled
Through darkness one will fumble
Leaving a life of consequences
Visionless: exactly; exactly

Does faith make us stronger?
I do not trust my work place
Ten percent of us do the right thing
And ninety percent do not give a ****
So, be smart take care of yourself

Take that ten percent for you and your family
Break down your life in four parts
Love yourself first,
Be vigilant,
No more giving others 100 percent of you:

Make every hour in the day work for you.
Always take half an hour to look in the mirror
Before going on to the next hour..
The man or woman in the mirror


As water reflects the face, so one’s life reflects the heart.” ~Proverbs 27:1

Happiness
Is not
A sin

But a little sin can gain temporary happiness
Oh lord helps us, help me..
I just couldn’t go on sinning

Stupidity is not a handicap>
All trace of it headed straight to him
Ugliness doesn’t sit well on my eyes

All part of him was ugly; it was so hard to focus
Poetry can be ugly or beautiful at times
However a painter and poet have some things in common
Ones paints what he see, the other feel what the other can’t feels
I wish the painter would paint the ugliness
And allows this poet to search for the goodness

"When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.
John F. Kennedy"

When You Loved Someone

When you loved someone, the world transformed. You’d shoot the moon and extinguish the sun, all in the name of that someone. The hunger in your belly became secondary; their nourishment mattered more. Your compass spun, recalibrating their magnetic pull. Family receded, replaced by the gravitational force of love.

Miles blurred into insignificance as you traversed continents, chasing their presence. Sanity, once a steadfast companion, now wrestled with your heart. “Madly in love,” they called it, as if madness and love were inseparable twins. Perhaps they were.

I rarely pen love poems; they demand feeling, not just ink. Was I ever in love, or merely enamored with an idea? The fairytales painted love in black and white, but reality’s palette is richer. Love, like accents, can deceive. Wicked tongues weave spells, and the voice of seduction whispers secrets in Ghanian Twi.

Yet, amidst the chaos, one truth remains: love drives us to madness, but true love rests on honesty. If your lovers change like seasons, they were never anchored in truth. Your house may be quieter now, but it’s a silence built on authenticity—a lie untold, because you love someone.

Summary: Love, both wild and tender, shapes our lives. Amidst the tumult, seek the truth—the quiet strength that endures. 🌟❤️

I kept seeing Derek Chauvin posture,
so casual, so photogenic

Nine Minutes Of agony, as he squeeze the light out of George Floyd
On May 25, 2020, George Floyd, a 46-year-old black man,
was killed in Minneapolis, Minnesota
during an arrest for allegedly using a counterfeit bill
.
I just cannot get the image of George Floyd
Out of my mind, while others might see the knees of death

I saw a history of abuse, I saw a revolution,  
Apartheid, Doctor King, speeches’
I saw a poet pen, fumbles for words,
I saw emotions of my words turning to why?
A another movie in the making,
I saw an unknown man and his family
About to make history in the making;

I saw a rainbow, with the rain,
I saw blood in the streets of America,
I saw the scar on my ancestors backs fading
Somehow at this moment
I can see the Promised Land emerging as
I Stand in my showers or is it tears?

There is tropical warmth and listless life

In the city this morning of July 9th 2020
The poet finding her hidden voice
While searching for the correct words,
Just to coincide with the invisible
birds with the sweetest tunes,
on church street and  Tennis road

The stillest trees with the airborne disease
Presses on despite its odds choice
Yet, they say my poems isn’t up to parody

A poet must stay in her lane,
A painter must control each and every stroke,
An essential worker must embrace the moments
Of respect, because it’s not going to last

As well as the stillest trees,
with the airborne disease
must presses on despite its odd choice?

I think the citizens of this country
should stop focusing
On what Mr. Trump says or do.
They should reminisce on why
They elected him in the first place

My mixing bowl did not get on top the tallest shelves
By itself:**
Someone place it there, and somebody have to take it down

There is tropical warmth and listless life
Around most country today,
And yes, there is going to be more missing children,
As we move forward dealing, with crisis like this
Pandemic, politic and riots:

Because when we don’t paid the Pied Pipers
Our livelihood and our children will vanish:

Preserving Childhood memories
Those years are like dusty boxes of old books
Each book classify as a quantum leap for me.
My first steps that led to many things,

I kept thinking about my small bottle of goat’s milk
Flavored with Grenada nutmeg to tone down the taste:
Perhaps after my father saw the look of disgust on my small face,
After my first tastes, in comparison to the cow’s milk
Lactose intolerance was the key word in those days.
Little did anyone knew of it…then..
Which was worse the cod liver oil, on Sunday Morning?
Or the nauseating feeling, of the repeats of the oil in one’s mouth

1950s hardly a child escaped mumps, measles, whooping cough or chicken pox.
Childhood disease was most feared, especially amongst the poorest.
So the old folks did whatever, it took to protect us ..

I was always searching, for my next chapter, as soon as I was out of
The danger zone to record, one line at a time
to the simplest things such as choosing the
Best pebbles, the loudest night crickets, to the most
Beautiful butterfly for my collections:

I think I had mention this before once I caught a snarky bird
And try to cage, the poor thing, until my grandmother beg of me
To let it go free, freedom for him was a squeak of happiness,
I could be wrong, but I think the bird return a favor to our household…
There he was picking away at the bananas on the kitchen counter,
Perhaps he saw the danger, that windy morning
A nearby kitchen towel was left to close to the burning stove,

Freedom for him was a squeak of happiness for us on that day
I must indeed say:
Preserving my childhood memories,
not only came from on top of that Hill
But from what that bird taught me,
About a kitchen window that opened with a slight squeak"
freedom
�