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

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:

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.

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.

Who know me best,  

Who know me, (me)

When I fall in love

I fall hard, or am I mistaken his love

For candy on my eyes, for now,

Or is this the real thing,

I know the truth,  

Am I in total denial of wanting.

Denial has a dark side:

I have a past, of repeating,

The same mistakes,  

Why can’t I see passed those brown eyes,

The saddest part, he hasn't taken me to cloud nine

Or touch my G spots, or glorify me,

What is it about him, that make me thirsty,

I cry so much last night, I cried  

Cry of loneliness, ****** deprivation,

I even cry after ***, they called it the

drowning in a sea of feel-good chemicals like oxytocin and dopamine,  

But it never happened, the done deal so why am I crying?

I will blame this one on my booster shot,

What the hell they injected into my body?

I am seeing things in a different form of light.

Or is my lack of trust?  

I cry even more, seeing his ringtone

And refused to take the called,

Just wanted him to reach for me instead,

I wonder if he has any idea, of what he is

Doing to me: I am a woman,

I need to be touch.  

How can I overlook this jealousy?

And focus, on me, and not on you.

Your needs are being meet,

I feel like I am pregnant, again, waiting  

For that little life inside of me to

Come out and love me. Wholeheartedly

Make love not war America.

****** 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

I never heard my mother told
My father that she loves him

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

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.

🌼

Next to her silks petticoats
my mother’s  brown stocking lay there
on the bed: on the iron board was her
Crispy iron Sunday dress,
on the dresser was her favorite perfume
and talcum powder. And this meant only thing
it was Sunday morning service:

This morning I remember her routine,
I never got into the habit of the military habits
My free will soul would never allow it:

I remember passing the Police exams
As I was about to go for my training
My mother discourage me from going
She based it all on my small petite figure

Her exact words: you think you can fight
Off those big men: Those criminals out there
In the big streets.. I never got to prove her wrong
So, I turn down the police academy recruit training:

And trade in a trip to South America in nineteen eighty three:
I remember that last night before I got on America Airline

My last old year’s night party at the Hilton Hotel,
The loud music, the co-workers, and there I was with
Mixed emotions of being Happy and Sad:

I wish they had a word for being happy and sad
at the same time because that's what I feel every time I was with him:
my other true love< E.B
I still have that **** gold and black spaghetti straps dress
I wore that night, each time I fallen back
To my old habits.. I would take it out and take
One more look at it…and whisper my past
And ask myself why I am holding on to this
Dress for so long: we didn’t had the internet or the Bajan tube
To look back on:  but by seeing that dress. I saw the younger me
With vivid  moments of happiness, and bad decisions:

Today I lay here in my bed with my memories
As I divided them in happiness and sadness sections
Have I proceed with my plans in law enforcement
Would I be alive today to write this poem
Have I not attended the office party
Would the scars of that night still frets me
At each place, in time some of us stop
To picked a rose, or even smell a rose
That why I love this quote:

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: ‘It is the time you have wasted for
your rose that makes your rose so important.’, Anne B...

because, it have seem like I have made some loser that was in my life seem important:
Did I do it for him or for me? Now that is the question..

A little nod to
Walter Everette Hawkins
Ask me why I love you, dear,
And I would ask the sparrow
If it matters! That he ..he stutters
Love is a forbidden nectar,
And so we are like flowers; and bloom only, when the sun, kisses us.”
― sir kristian goldmund aumann,

Don’t ask me if I still love you
I wouldn’t ask you my heartbeat,
If being downright violated isn't too much for me
Ask me why I love you, one more time
And I will ask the debt collectors for more time
Or I will ask my brain, not to confuse me
mind, body, soul and spirit (my Trivedi effects)
Then it wouldn’t be any need for us to get upset
If I get the right answers
I will smile with you again,
Ask me why I can't trust my heart with you
Let the other one reply.
She knows you better than I do,
When the **** hits the fan
Where the heart is pure
And if we can’t find the answers
We shall depart
only the inner voice gives me freedom

The Cities we grown to love and hate at the same time:


We live in corrupt city folks
keeping the guns at the ready while we sleep:
is our mojo:
while the nightlight burn bright

We speak different languages
While listening to some nasal accents
These are our neighbors, the city dwellers
You and I, we are the foreigners of the city
Inside us we long for our homeland:

There goes the fast moving yellow cab in the city
Driven by the visitors: the ones with the bad accents
We knew all along, we are not free
From the stares, and the resentment of I.C.E: enforcement:

It quiet inside, it loud out there and when we
Opened our mouth we are the loud people
that speak the language of our ancestor:

Before them city Judges: we are judge, we are label:
We are the aliens, 1 Chronicles 29:15

We are foreigners and strangers in your sight,
as were all our ancestors. Our days on earth are like a shadow without hope. *

We speak the languages with some nasal accents:
this morning the spirit of my ancestor came calling:
it time to follow my heart..

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.

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.

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.

Granville Wesley Clarke

May 14, 1921 ====July 19 2011

The late ******* or Perry

A golden heart stop beating at sunset July 19 2011



Today my memory is a large duck egg

Yes, that large duck egg, you got from the  

Chicken coop, so that I could have it for breakfast”

If you haven’t tried ducks, eggs
it's time to became a tester.


There will be no funeral today,

Only memories of the people we love

I remember the tall trees, in which you

Climbed in order to cut the branches that block the view

And the wind that cool our roof top  



I remember our morning strolled in big gully

In which we would go and pick green lemons

I with my small paint bucket, you with your big brown onion bag

with our findings you would fill it to the top,

My small paint bucket I  also filled it up to the top:

With my doo rag tied so tight around my head I sweat bullets

my brother old pants protected my skinny legs from the bugs

There we were strolling through the woods  



Almonds,  I ****** the juices, and hammer the nuts with a rock

As you cut down trees, to finish your pig pen,

There will no funeral today, or weeping

Just good old memories, about the dead

Rest in peace, with the angels,

Until we meet again,

To all those who goes crazy every time
They heard the word “I love you”
You all need some kind of help;
I will forgive any child under two
Because they are learning and
They brain are like sponge
they soak up new words , phrases and
images for their memory bank

It’s funny how sometimes the people you'd take a bullet for,
are the ones behind the trigger." Quote

when we love, we immediately change the path
in our brains, we crave, we seek attention,
we become addicted :

I remember a long time ago,
When my bff and I would hang out together
We were happier and free will individuals

until she allowed those words from  a man
to get into her head “I love you
the same man broke her heart,
and it almost killed her:

when we love, we toyed with our brain:
to all those who goes crazy every time
you heard the word “ I  love you:

Think of Donald trump and his speech
on how he love his country
and want to make America great again

“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

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:

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:

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.

The Mask Tell Our Story

No one can see us when we wear the mask
The phantom of the opera,
Swiftly, we walked by with a frown.

The mask tell a story,
Of what evil men can do,
Of a rich man,  a poor man
who never travel to foreign lands\


He wore the mask, of soot
On his face, on his hands,
But, he never travel to foreign lands
Somehow, we all is blending in now..

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.

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

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.

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 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.

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.

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:

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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 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. 🖋️

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.

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.

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

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

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

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…

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 >>

Running Alone

Within a crowded world, I lived my life alone.
Some dreams were fulfilled in unexpected ways.
Often, I believed 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,
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 my life 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.

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
     ,

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;
!