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

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 never heard of Tariff until recently


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

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

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

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……

“Embrace and Release”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Birthday feelings
Another year is back no longer can leapfrog this day
Where my body squeals on me from time to time
Melanin, flawless, caramel skin transparent
for you to view my friends,
Face ageless, mind intone to my compose poetry,
Every Nano second counting down to dust,
By the grace of the almighty:
The loud notification bell rang the old familiar tone,
From my well-wishers, on Facebook, and WhatsApp,
The thousands of unwanted gray hairs cover my silky black,
to match my aging face as I jokingly play around with my camera
My smiles seem to match well with my reassurance
of knowing that l am going to be alright today,
the loud notification keeps on coming,
I am releasing a happy energy
called I am alive and doing great
I have reached the good old age of ....
Here I am once again, unscrambling the word birthday,
Happy birthday to me.
copilot
Reflecting on our lives during birthdays holds a special significance. It’s a moment to pause, look back, and take stock of our journey. Here’s why it matters:
Gratitude: Birthdays remind us of the gift of life. Reflecting allows us to appreciate the people, experiences, and opportunities that have shaped us. Gratitude fuels positivity and contentment.
Self-awareness: As we age, we evolve. Self-reflection helps us understand our growth, strengths, and areas for improvement. It’s a chance to assess our values, beliefs, and priorities.
Life Lessons: Birthdays prompt us to revisit pivotal moments—the highs, lows, and lessons learned. These experiences contribute to our wisdom and resilience.
Setting Intentions: Reflecting helps us set intentions for the year ahead. What do we want to achieve? How can we align our actions with our aspirations?
**Celebrating Milestones: Each birthday marks a milestone. Reflecting acknowledges our progress and celebrates our existence.
So, on this special day, take a moment to look within, appreciate the journey, and embrace the next chapter. 🎂🌟
2of30

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"

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!

The sun rises in shades of yellow
I can only hear one word social distincing
One song
“God show mercy on our soul
See the lines forming, feeling the panic
a bad dream: a bad report,
a conversation that doesn’t goes well..
The night of the living dead:

It’s me and my desktop
It me and my android phone
It me and the world outside,
It’s me and my fears,
It’s me and my livelihood

Somewhere are the hidden bodies,
I’ve put my gloves and mask:
I am old, I am a senior citizen
I might be shelter in the place order:
But I haven't been tested…..

A fast growing crisis..  Fevers are rising
Can we really flatten this curve?
Let’s limit the spread.
Lets work together

I hope our prayers are answered
Feeling safe again, feeling healthy
A vision of hope, a vison for peace.

No leisure travel, just adhere to the warning:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elegy of the River and the Sea

For life and death are one,

like the river and the sea.

In grief, our tears taste different,

our ways of mourning unique.

You weep; I compose elegies.

My brother, high on marijuana,

the island battered by hurricane Beryl.

As the sea crashes upon the land,

seaweed lashes out like demons.

Are we prepared for this?

To whom it may concern,

do not call me early in the morning.

I am not yet awake for words.

Give me time to sip my coffee,

to savor the warmth of intimacy.

Let me read “Good Morning, Sunshine.”

For life and death are one,

like the river and the sea.

My daily poem whispers:

"Leave me alone in the morning

with my thoughts."

My mother outlived my father.

I aspire to outlive the sparrows.

In God, I entrust my life.

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…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

King Solomon and I will fly a kite

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

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

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

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

Watch the morning glories in the morning,
   Bow their little faces to the sunrise,
Dripping, tears that release a fragrant
From the flowered garden
See the crickets run for shelter,
As the sun rises in the early morn
See the grass sharpen its blade again
The stifling insect, see the butterflies swarm
White pedals, white ******, touch of innocent

Watch  as the morning glories said good morning
A sign of love, with its slender stems heart-shaped leaves
  and trumpet-shaped flowers of pink, purple-blue, magenta,
slowly bow their faces as the sun came out.

When Words Don’t Come Easy”

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

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


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

The sun has risen, and a dove is cooing outside my window. All the tall buildings on my block seem to be resting. Here I am thinking of the cave man—his strength, his battles. Skylines, super tall buildings, and yes, some of us are not liking the look of our city. When there is no hope for your city, its citizens suffer tremendously. Why do other cities thrive better than some? The big question is, what makes a city thrive? ‘The more people you bring in, the more vibrant the city will become,’ Euchner said. But who are these people? (Ha! Ha! Profit holders.) Lack of empathy, people struggling with mixed feelings. While the impacts of rats in the subways make the alley cats stay low in the darkest alley, the sun has risen, and a dove coos outside my window. Meanwhile, the morning sun on the tall buildings seems hopeless. Here I am thinking of the cave man’s mental state: My brain is tired, my soul seems a bit weary, and I need more sleep (so mentally fatigued). Comme ci, comme ça!”

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

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

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

Death came too soon:
To be precise every single day persay
it ended or did it not?
To all who knew them: we felt the pain?
But what lead up to this madness is: a crying shame
Your life is worth living
our heart bled for our love one
Right up to they last dying breath:

It ***** to keep a secret,
Jealousy is a disease, fear is mind killer
a killer is on the loose. Corvid 19

Two deaths, two stories
Double sins, double tragedy
But, oh, the feeling corona is leaving behind
The questions, no answers, so little time to reflect

Humanity is sickened by one horrific headline after another
I wondered who is going to be next:
I trust my life to an earthquake more than Politics

Raged like rough sea, against the salty rocks,
Holding on like sea ***** never letting go,
the thing call corona ..

1 Corinthians 15:54, 55:
“Death is swallowed up in victory.
O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”

To the one they left behind,
To the one who weep at the open graves,
To the one who silently stood by?
And to ALL of us on the frontlines

To the ones who knew of this deadly disease
And stay silent: isolation is also a killer;
To the ones who grieves and respond to loss

A mother who loss her daughter:,
a husband, who lost his wife..
so many cadavers , so many untold stories..

the crucial role we have to play daily..
This war time dynamic:

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
�

There he stood on the podium, clutching a Bible. I hope some of us can recall that day—a day of disbelief, a day when we wondered, “What the heck is going on?” A fibber, a husband, a Republican—some might say he was the people’s choice. Now he’s running again, vying to lead his party. For his followers, he represents hope; for others, he’s a curse. The light, the brown, and the black foreigners—the ones who will rewrite history. Will they say this time that we’ve inherited a mess?
When I’m uncertain about my writing, my mind often returns to my childhood focus point: the poem “The Pied Piper of Hamelin.” It holds lessons to be learned. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light”—our fragile nation teeters on the brink of failure. To understand its message is to believe in the legend. Our nation’s wealth grew from the backs of slaves, and we grieve the injustices throughout history. An apple tree without fruit, cows without milk, chickens without eggs—a well without water. These little things we took for granted are like a nation lacking patience, kindness, and loyalty.
Proverbs 28:11 warns that the rich can be blinded by their own perceived wisdom, while the poor, possessing understanding, see through their delusions. It reminds us to seek true discernment beyond our own perspectives.
Crisis upon crisis—our dogmatic nation grapples with challenges.

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?

I never heard my mother told
My father that she loves him
Perhaps after seven sibling,
She did not had the strength to utter the words

Most of us as women sing the blues in our own way
Am I a fool to have loved you?
I wrote a piece about a mother and her son
Time together, from birth to end of his life at twenty-three/

The light that once gleamed from my eyes
the golden beam that upstage/
my caramel cheeks/
my rude lips upon which he pressed his own hungrily/
—my naïve body, darker than the night:/
Rejected his hours of longing:
I just can’t forget that day he walked away/

As a young adult, I guess,
it wasn’t meant to be:
Today I am calm,
Yesteryears I was uncharmed/ by his touch/

That, poem of mines that never was published
Was not meant to be/ it was restrains
Deep inside my fragile heart/

I uses to observes my friends relationships
With their men friend/boyfriend/
Total departure/ total disasters/
Dishonesty is food to a relationship/

But I hate  it/ FYI … my friends fools…
When love and hate collide
You just have to compose a poem/
Or a song/ even go shopping

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"

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:

You shut me into your heart’s great void of silence. . .**

The nagging pain, the fiery blood:
My flame heart………….embalmed
Resentence, revenge to the one that hurt you:
What had love done for you?
What did you learn by saying?
“I love you, I love you
to those who were incapable of loving
Now, I dagger you, over and over,
Erasing the love, I once share with you
Love is a hurting thing,
Hate is a natural emotion,
My heart is no longer silence,
But it fears the unknown………..
What causes hatred.. Love
Where hatred does comes from poison of love

On a chilly December day in Manhattan, I had just finished a job interview. Despite my frustration from two years of job searching, I thanked the almighty for another day. As I walked down 54th Street, I noticed a long queue stretching from here to Halifax. Curiosity got the better of me, and I joined the line without knowing what awaited me.

A white lady with a clipboard emerged from the building, escorting a few people at a time. When it was my turn, she scrutinized me from head to toe and instructed me to follow her. In a room, she handed out a test sheet, giving us only twenty minutes to complete it. The sheet contained around 40 questions, including math problems and vocabulary sentences. I finished it in less than 20 minutes, wondering what would come next.

After waiting again, she returned and said, “We’re hiring for Macy’s department stores across the city. What hours can you work, Miss Lander?” I hesitated and replied, “Morning shifts.” She assured me that I had aced the test and then dropped the bombshell: “You’ll be better off in the shoe department—not clothing or beauty, but shoes.”

With a forced smile, I thanked her. Who knew that a cold day and a mysterious queue would lead me to the shoe department at Macy’s? Life has its surprises, doesn’t it? 😄

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

I went to sleep in the year 2020
and woke up this morning in 1841
In old England, as is might seems:

Using words like give me a pint,
You old ******, lick me boots,
Lass and me Gentlemen
They had everything
Like everything in common with
America nowadays except, of course, languages.

To flogged a dead horse more like what i was seeing:
Racism there was as white as you could imagine
race against race: British and Ireland

The rich and the poor,
The upper class and the low renters,
Stagecoaches, and pan wagons,
I was somewhat confused,
with such animosity
White on white racism,

so when did the Black race came to that place.

Come to me senses, a poor Irish lad told a lass
A poor lady response by saying
aye better be on yah way!
You silly ******,
The red brick hair, the Irish twang:
Looking restless, moving around in that city,
Where the noise, and the eyes of the people
Seem, a part of labor and a part of pain
A part of sadness and a part of happiness

After seeing this small glimpse of their future
The labor, the pain, the sadness and the happiness
Was so timid,  waiting to be belong
One ****** even said, the sea give,(seafood)
And the sea takes, (shipped sinks)

Was I dreaming, why was really there?
As a poet in order to move on in the future,
we must know our past stories,
there will be times of unwanted pain,
the odd games…………

Where we are force to live in a roulette society:
I felt worn out like a cylinder..
In the year 1841 – 1843 in a comatose state

Billy don’t be a hero

Fear the unknown, fear the weapon
In all of my life on this earth,
I have never been into a store
And there was no toilet Paper
Is it a diarrhea epidemic?

We do not fear the unknown.
We fear what we think we know about the unknown.” – Teal Swan.

It was the empty shelves,
where the toilet papers stood before

It scared me. So many times
I walked those aisles
And fret at the prizes of the toiletries,
Would the thicker paper clogged my toilet
Would the thin sheet break easily?
Was it precaution, or prevention?

Fear the unknown, deal with the epidemic
My cousin, announced yesterday
She was tested positive, with the unknown
She seem hopeful, she seem fearless,
She believes in resurrection:
she believes in the scriptures

I do believe in not trying to be Billy the hero
I am a poet, not a hero with great noble’s qualities,

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

Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear,
Under my blue mask eyes that
hate without a trace of kindness:

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

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

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

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

How do you come to terms with yours?"

Large heads

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

Tonight I pray for my enemies
Not the dead for sure!
The dead and I always settle our feud

I look at my monthly bills on the kitchen table
And decided if I should eliminate those first
Not going anywhere for sure!

I received the blessing, from him
He is my source of love and guidance,
An enemy can be mortal
Or can be in this moment China:
An enemy who got away with genocide:
Tonight I pray for my enemies,
Because, I am the voice for the dead..

Being in the Moment**

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the quiet of night, I write—
my thoughts like petals unfurling,
each line a delicate bloom,
a testament to my soul’s yearning.

The Internet Night Stalker,
a phantom of pixels and prose,
called me a “dessert rose,”
a succulent, low-maintenance pose.

But my poems reach beyond,
touching lands unseen,
thousands of eyes reading,
their hearts echoing my theme.

*** and disgust intertwine,
a dance of desire and disdain,
while politicians chase power,
leaving happiness in their wake, a stain.

And so I set my words free,
like a wild ***** swimming the sea,
for what this world needs now,
is love, sweet love, unchained and free.

How many time have my black brothers and
Sisters divided theirs tears Into Sections
With each drop, with each snuffle
With each tissue:  we thread:  as we bled to death

The chanting will echoed, the violent will rise
the barricade will  followed: then someone will die.
Black Lives Matters: Black lives matters
Are we really free?  
Are we still running from the police?

They is no such thing as equal rights
Those are upright and downright lies:
No justice no peace:  said you mama,
So heartless said your sister,
I will killed them said my brothers

As I compose this piece, racism is another kind
Of deadly disease: without a lease, without a cure:
As I stay here and listen to
the helicopter circling the neighborhood
All I can think of is bad actions, deadly reactions

Everybody stay calm, everybody stay down
Life isn’t fair,
chanted the big crowd  in Trafalgar Square:

1 Corinthians 15:54, 55:
“Death is swallowed up in victory.
O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?
Death only uses violence:

An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind.”
― Mahatma Gandhi

In the beginning
There were Adam and Eve
There was kindness,
and there was peace:

Everyone smiles in the same language
Not everyone hurts the same way:
Goodbye my brother .R.I.P

A time for demonstrating, a time to showed leadership
a time to be happy, a time to be sad,
A time to pull the trigger, a time to seize fire
A time for karma, a time for relaxing while the night calms

Rest in Peace my brother: George Floyd

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

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

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

I was allowed to take care of her child needs
But I wasn’t allowed to eat in her house..
I listen, I took it all in stride..
And I smile, what happen next
Was just commonsense
I took my black *** and my lunch bag
And walked away from the situation
Never to be heard of again.
We all have encounter racism in this country

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

I had to move forward..
I had to keep away from white folks like them: just for sanity..
And not allowed my black hands to ever again
Touch her white baby….

When I said I lived my life alone
I lived it:  I saw it; I flush it out of my mind
Just to live in this world of bigots
I am who I am.. I am worthy.

Ideas

What daily thoughts does a poet carry?
from his life, from day to day
are they his own visions, or passing images?
Of the people he passes on the street?

No matter how hard he tries to forgets
The faces of desperation behind the fears
Seem so helpless and hopeless,

He can be high today, and low tomorrow,
On those passing day, who own it?

Those moment were his, he nailed them:
A poet thought is never his own
It always  best to relinquish them into verses,
And allow his ideas to be the best of the best
He seized the moment, he frame his ideas
Eventually someone will be Inspires by his free-flowing,

To see how the sun went down in violence
on the west side of Chicago inner city
As I stood there in misbelieved with my
Poet’s pen, observing and documenting:

The situation was getting out of hand:
loud crashing sound became a shamble
  of small glassy diamonds glittered
in the  heat of the night:

  The longing, restless soul,
Chanted no justice, no ******* peace
Repeats like my ancestors drums,:

The sun went down on the town
Like the pied piper of Hamlin
As the youth, cry out for justice,
the merchant cry out to Jesus
to save their  fine  pearls,
the family legacy”
as the the restless crowd moved on with the crimes
Looting, fighting and misbehaving.

The police officers planted more rocks
On every corner, of the streets,
No justice no peace

Marching with the youths with their
Pants hanging low, in solidarity
.Ignoring the warning of the authorities
Their faces rage with anger.
Their mind made up.....

Long Lasting pepper spray set in like a finish touch
The crowd grew larger and larger..
The sun went down with blood shed
    While I stood there capturing history of the restless
  
Moaning for their mothers arms while
Pleading, resisting, please officers,
“What’s all this all for
Black lives don’t matter..

Too Much to Handle**

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

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

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

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

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