In Praise of Art

I have learned to adore a pen and a paper more than anything else in this world.

I am grateful to my right hand which delights in following every step of my dreams.

I congratulate my eyes for lying open during dark nights and heavy seasons.

A standing ovation to the neurons and axons and cerebellum and cerebrum that continue to adorn me with the beauty of intelligence.

I commend my eyes for allowing me to see, and if blind, I would have thanked my ears 

What a traitor to forget the nose and the tongue: expression will never be the same without you.

What is a writer without a heart, a pulse to pump a  flow of interest and desire of wealth through these valves?

I thank God for life; mine and everyone else's' that allows me to write.

image by William Ste. Marie

Caged- for Nelson Mandela

                                                           27 years a man was caged 

                            for being right, black in his skin,

placed behind an iron box.

                        They took his light and 

                                    his reflections,

                                              he refused to give up

his heart, his mind.

                         Firm, unwavering, optimistic.

                                           He made it out in time...

                                                     How long are you willing to be

                         Caged?

image from nelsonmandela.net

9:05 am Poetry

Who named the swan?

born to surprise the world
with its feathers
as it sits on water
majestic as a reed 
warblers nest, guarded 
by the fragrance
of wild berries. When she opens
her wings, they spread over 
the oceans, the toughest plumes, a humble neck, curved lips, dotted eyes--black.









image from http://alzirrswanheartstock.deviantart.com/

Who's in Your Circle?

Who are your friends? Ask Job and he'll tell you he doesn't know. But, he knows that some                           creatures pretending to be friends in you circle need to disappear. They add insult to injury, make you wonder how they became part of your friend list in the first place.
            Sometimes, we find ourselves amongst the worst group of people, or
                     they find their way to us.
                               Our efforts to erase them from our lives results in thoughts of loneliness.
  we would rather be friends than wondering hearts looking for familiar grounds to rest.
               Ask your self these three questions about your friends: Do they add value to my life? Do I positively influence them? How is my life goal connected to theirs?




image by inshiraphotos

Whose Fault Is It?

When your boyfriend breaks up with you, the first thing you want to do is go back to him. Remind him he shouldn’t leave. Throw yourself at him—the almost cooked spaghetti struggling to remain on a white wall, hoping you would stick. If you survived the first day after the breakup, then you would live the rest of your life in denial. Whose fault was it? Now you must understand, that this question is one that is presented right after the examination of a “relationship” even if the relationship succeeds, we must find someone to glorify. It was Adam who chased Eve down in his body and she responded.

So in the cold waves of January, I asked myself: who’s fault was it? That I had broken up with one of my boyfriends and was to come home and receive another call to end the second relationship. I kept both so well. I can never blame myself for having pink lips and eyelids that are drawn like smooth oval eggs and eye lashes like the fluffs of goose’s black neck. It wasn’t my fault. Richard loved me. The kind of love where he’s always apologizing even if you’re the one who is obviously wrong. We met at the gas station. After I had intentionally thrown a coke can at his windscreen for overtaking me on the road. I hate road rage so I was grateful that we weren’t on the street when I did it. Whose fault was it? Mine. I had started the relationship unintentionally. Please don’t blabber about fate because she also does not exist to me. But he responded: “You’re going to pay for that you witch.” I am not one to be attracted to witchcraft but suddenly, I loved the idea of swimming through the air with just a broom.

I say sorry and leave. Giggling when I click my seatbelt out, laughing harder than the day I found out there were two lumps in my right breast. Stopping quickly when his white car became a shadowing ghost around me until I reached my garage. When I get there, I don’t get out of my car. Because I am boiling with fear and strategizing ways to make life better than what fate has made it. He comes over and knocks on my windows with his finely shaped nails. I turn on the radio and listen to the weather forecast. Tomorrow, Friday, it will rain in New York. I mimic inside the car, someone opening an umbrella and protecting themselves from stubborn rain. He tries to open the car to no avail. I feel a strain in my chest and begin to breathe heavily. I open the door to breathe, when he walks back to his car but shut it back because he might return. I sip my orange juice resting in the arm of the car door and rest my head back to sigh. Whose fault is it?

image by Inshira Photos

model:Muhiba 

New York City Perspectives

                                                                                           

Sea Food Poetry

I love crabs! Especially in my okra stew. Here's a short poem I wrote on the D train. My inspiration, I was probably thinking of eating some banku and okra stew, the traditional one with lots of crabs and w3l3! It tastes deliciously bombastic!

                                                             Crabs in a Barrel

                                                          How did they get there?
                                                            if not by their own
                                                      automatic limbs and claws
                                                             gliding across the wooden
                                                       curves of this containers
                                                              indulging in the swings
                                                        of being carried
                                                             then settling back
                                                 into a  pool of frustration

                                                     How did we get here?
                                                             by spitting at each other's
                                                       faces and yelling
                                                                          at familiar voices
                                                       containing our anger
                                                                  in the grips of our arms,
                                                       pulling our hairs apart
                                                            in the blink of the explosion.


image from rapgenius.com