Eyes darting across a blank canvas
Where do I begin?
Heart filled with words yet spoken
May this blank canvas embody these unspoken words

Blank—filled
Empty—whole
Bright—yet dark

Words unheard
Accounted for within

Sankofa,
Let’s begin

At the age of 16, poetry, cacophonic, became an outlet for me.
Emotions that once felt so distant, merely a faint and infant shadow, stand beside me today at 23.
Hello, friend, it’s been a while; I thought I would not be graced with your presence again.

you walk with the ignorance of youth
to live forever
tomorrow as throw away
as any cigarette ****
or boy who bored you
who mentioned LOVE
an indestructible force of nature
but once I walked with you
arm in arm laughing
a moment of time we shared
forever
you were fleetingly mine
before we parted
strangers
on a Saturday afternoon

We grow up in a world that breaks us,
then blames us for being broken.
Told to speak up—
then silenced when we do.

We were born into systems built on lies,
handed burdens with no blueprint,
and somehow expected to fix
what we didn’t create.

They call us lazy.
Say we’re disconnected.
Too soft.
Too loud.
Too online.
Too everything but enough.

But here’s what they miss—
We feel everything.
We think deeply.
We question what they accepted.
And we see through the noise they got used to.

They talk like we’ve failed before we’ve started.
But maybe we’re not the problem.
Maybe we’re the mirror.
And they don’t like the reflection.

We don’t want handouts.
We want to be heard.
We want room to grow,
not cages labeled “youth.”

We are not apathetic—
we’re exhausted.
We are not lost—
we’re searching for something real
in a world that keeps faking it.

So, listen.
Not with judgment,
but with intention.

Because we’re not just “the youth.”
We’re the pulse.
The pivot.
The possibility.

And whether they hear us or not—
we are speaking

There is a beauty that
comes from walking a
clover laden field, or a
path in the woods and feeling
the autumn breeze and
smelling the wildflowers.
You are so alive.
There is an aching pain
as sharp and vivid as the
beauty, some knowledge in the
fiber of your spirit, that you
won't hold it forever.

Death walks with you silently.
It bides the times...so patient.

You are aware, so keen to
the fact that if you could
consume the beauty, the
honeysuckle, clover and brilliant
orange and pink of the sunset,
you might put death off for a while.
You do it in the heartbeat of your
sweet green youth, and you
keep walking, eyes wide open.

I remember climbing the grades as I watched time in 2X
My youth slipping though my fingers
And suddenly life is harder and you have urges to do bad things
And suddenly you’re not a kid
And suddenly I’ve learned to navigate the walls of my own mind
And now I’m not a kid
And my youth is gone

As a child, the backyard was
my sanctuary and my
playground.
I climbed the soft
pine tree and crawled to
the top of the garage.
I stood and gazed at all the
houses and streets.
I felt rich.

My mom had a brown
jewelry box shaped like
a treasure chest.
It reminded me of
pirates and adventure.
I filled it with
football cards
gum
candy bars
family pictures, and a few
coins.

I found a small shovel
and buried it in the
backyard close to the
pine tree.
I pretended to forget
where it was.
A week or so later, I
suggested to my best friend,
Wally, that we should
search my yard for buried treasure.

Of course, we found it.
I acted surprised.
We celebrated.
All these years later,
I realize that my treasure,
then and now, is imagination.
I'm a wealthy man.

The candy shared in days of youth
Has melted in our mouths,
And left a taste so bittersweet
It lingers on the tongue.

But with each year that sweetness fades,
And bitterness we chew,
Then swallow down like sugared stones
We wish to taste anew.

Years later: again

on the heath, and in the pit --


I loved to lie in.

He laid out some towels
She set a bucket right on top
The outside pitter patter
Echoed closely by drip drop
She plopped down on the couch and said
“I hate our leaky roof…”
He cozied up right next to her
“We’re newlyweds, it’s cute!”

The dog had left a pungent gift
Spread out across the floor
They tied cloth over their noses
Prepared to go to war
They scrubbed the ground on hands and knees
He, unusually mute
She poked his side with smiling eyes
“We’re newlyweds, it’s cute!”

Baby two cried till blue
Every other hour
And baby one learned to run
Too young for such a power
People seemed to judge and stare
Her cheeks turned rosy red
He raised his voice, ignoring glares
“It’s cute! We’re newlyweds!”

She zipped up the dress
He escorted down the aisle
And gave away his baby girl
His heart in full denial
The newfound silence of their home
Was echoed in his head
She played their own first dance song
“It’s cute, we’re newlyweds”

Years spilled by, the kids had kids
Less heed was paid to clocks
Days now passed in reading chairs
With simple meals and long walks
They shuffled down the sidewalk
At a careful, measured pace
Their scooting right in sync,
A peculiar kind of grace
She paused to rub her fingers
His hands were also wrung
She raised her deep-set eyes to his
“Do you ever miss when we were young?”

His wrinkles seemed to lengthen
As a gleam came to his eye
His mind replaying memories
Of leaky roofs and a youthful bride
Then he looked at the woman beside him
Sore with the weight of life
And for a moment he stayed silent
Overwhelmed by his beautiful wife...

“I don’t miss when we were young
Though time has worn us down
The love I had for you back then
Cannot compare to now
I’ll brave a thousand achey bones
Just to take slow walks with you.
Besides,” he took her hand in his
“We’re newlyweds, it’s cute.”

In this age when bullying is such an item of concern I cannot help smiling whenever I recall my youth as a boy soldier; then it (bullying) was practiced as an art form, encouraged (I’m sure) by authority for its “character building aspects”. Thus:

When I was in the Army, well, that's Apprentice school,
Inspecting one's belongings, early morning seemed the rule.
And many hours spent beezing boots and ironing, folding, kit.
Taught me to carry on with smile and hate it every bit.
One had to lay one's kit on bed, and sleep by there on floor
To survive next morning's panicked fright begun by crashing door,
And that prancing A/T noncom., his ego, bully led,
Who would burst his way into our World and yell 'Stand by your bed'.

Then we'd all leap to attention, crumpled, ruffled hair.
And our eyes they'd be unseeing though we each knew he was there,
Looking straight ahead, just hoping, as he poked among our stuff,
As he picked up polished boots, that he wouldn't be too rough,
And hurl them through the window or against the fire door,
That he wouldn't scrape his own boot studs along our polished floor.
Of course, these hopes, these dreams of ours, were just pies in the sky.
As well to hope or dream like that, well, pigs might even fly.

Now he's checking button stick, and laces properly square
And the cardboard frame inside your shirt, the one you never wear.
The plimsoles stiffly black which you've polished shiny bright.
The dimensions of your bed block; that counterpane's real tight.
And its corners, every corner, must be folded tight to bed.
If it's not, you'll spend a morning drilling hard outside with Fred.
And now, today, I marvel that our masters thought it right
To let this sneering, snarling, youth on us vent all this spite.

But the proven test of character when all is said and done
Was despite the gruelling life we led, we jeeps, we still had fun.
And my particular little joy, the butter on my bread
Was thinking, when outside of School, I'm going to smash his head.
Some others might have thought the same not that it really matters,
For though I don't recall his name, his memory lies in tatters.
And after all, recalling life, those patterns on the quilt,
Can we be sure that what we write is free of any guilt?