She called it confusion. Bad timing. Even blamed the stars for not being aligned, and created stories to cushion its impact so it wouldn’t sting as much.
When he showed up, he showed up just enough—texting late, calling when it suited him, ghosting then slipping back in like nothing changed, a dismissal of the shift. And every time, she let him.
Because part of her believed that inconsistency meant he was figuring things out.
It took longer than she’d like to admit to see it clearly: there was nothing to figure out; he wasn’t undecided.
He had a long time ago decided.
He just hadn’t said it out loud.
His silence did the work for him, though.
His distance spoke.
His patterns repeated.
He kept the door open, not to walk through it fully, but to make sure it stayed unlocked—for him.
Access without accountability.
And she had been handing him the key, over and over, no questions asked.
One night, sitting with that truth, she asked herself something she could no longer avoid:
Jersey, are you really going to keep giving access to someone who isn’t choosing you?
The question landed heavier than anything he had ever said.
Because this time, it wasn’t about him.
It was about what she was allowing.
And for the first time, she understood—he could only stay as long as she kept the door open.
Afterword: I haven’t done an R&B collab in a while. This song, “Trust My Lonely”, by Canadian singer-songwriter Alessia Cara, was the nudge that brought me back. A shorter version, using the Cameo form, was published earlier.
Lyrics
It’s time I let you go I made the mistake go writing your name on my heart ‘Cause your colours showed But it was too late, you left me stained, called it art
Do you crave control? I’ve been your doll, that you poke for fun too long So you should go Don’t look back, I won’t come back Can’t do that no more
Go get your praise from someone else You did a number on my health My world is brighter by itself And I can do better, do better You and I were swayin’ on the ropes I found my footing my own I’m a-okay, I’m good as gold And I can do better, do better alone Alone, alone
There ain’t no love ’round here I loved you once, but it made me dumb Now I’m seeing it way too clear You hurt me numb, and for that I’ve run out of time To have pain to feel (Pain to feel) I’ve been your game Just taking the blame for too long Get on out of here Don’t look back, I won’t come back Can’t do that no more
Don’t you know that you’re bad for me? I gotta trust my lonely …
Beforeword: Modern science has long challenged Plato’s claim that the heart is the seat of emotion, placing that role firmly in the brain. Still, the heart endures—across cultures and centuries—as the language of love, compassion, and connection.
In “The Art of Love” (Ars Amatoria), Ovid reminds us that “love is ruled by art.” In this poem I lean into that idea imagining heART not as a physical organ but a creative space. And, a description of love as both something we feel and something we create, shape, and live from the heART.
the heART of love
The soul is the gallery of emotions Love is its art, painting connections The canvas of life, a beating heart Each beat creating a timeless art
Whether brushstrokes of joy, hues of pain Colors of sunshine, or droplets of rain Through every emotion, a masterpiece grows A portrait of love in its highs and its lows
Love is the sculptor, it shapes the clay Molding our lives, a masterpiece on display With hands of compassion carving each line Etching life’s stories, connected, intertwined
In the dark of night or the light of day Love is the rhythm that guides our way Each stanza follows the chorus of dreams Unfolding life’s songs in symphonic streams
The heart is the canvas, each beat a stroke Painting the moments emotions evoke Shades of passion, a palette mix of colors Love painting life’s journey from winter to summers
Heart beats love, a timeless art A rhythm pulsating, art to heart Souls displayed in life’s gallery sublime In love, the masterpiece of the Divine
Beforeword: This is Easter weekend, when Christians remember the life, sacrifice, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The story does not begin at the cross. It begins with a humble birth and unfolds through a life spent teaching, healing, and showing the world another way to love.
This poem traces that journey—from cradle to cross—and the path that led to the hill called Calvary. It is the poetic-story of the Man on the middle cross.
Born to a humble girl named Mary And raised by the carpenter Joseph Laid in a manger in Bethlehem A cradle made from straw instead of gold
A child who puzzled scholars in the temple Speaking truth beyond his years While elders listened in quiet amazement To the wisdom of a boy
He walked dusty roads telling simple stories Seeds, vineyards, lamps, lost coins Turning everyday life into lessons On mercy, faith, and the kingdom of heaven
He sat with fishermen and tax collectors Touched lepers others failed to see He called the poor and the broken “blessed” And made the last feel first
He opened blinded eyes and lifted bent backs Spoke peace to storms and demons alike Where despair had taken root Hope began to breathe again
He overturned tables in sacred halls Questioned the pride of priests and rulers Teaching that love of neighbor Was greater than ritual or rank
And there he hung between two thieves On a hill called Calvary The Man who healed the world now crucified The Man on the middle cross
Beforeword: It’s been a while since I shared a Shabbat Shalom post, so I’m returning with this piece—“The OG!”
“OG,” short for Original Gangster, traces back to 1970s Los Angeles gang culture, but its meaning has widened. Today, it points to a founder, an originator, someone who sets the standard and earns respect. As the dictionary puts it: someone or something that is an original—an originator, especially one held in high regard.
This piece plays on that idea—with a holy twist.Listen and read along:
The OG!
The OG don’t knock. It kicks in doors that lock up your blessings Hops the fence of your past and repossesses your future Tags every wall of your history with one word— forgiven
The OG lifts the weight off your neck that guilt tried to chain there It steps in the street between you and judgment and tells death sentence: stand down!
The OG snatches shame before it can speak your name. It rolls up on fear’s corner and shuts the whole block down Pulls you out the alley of regret Brushes off your soul like dust on a jacket
The OG don’t check your record first It moves first Flips the script Claims the territory your mistakes tried to ruin
You thought mercy was soft?
But watch the moves:
Doors kicked in. Chains broken. Records cleared. Future reclaimed.
That’s the work of the OG—
Original Gangster? No Original Grace!
Shabbat shalom. May the God of peace also covers you with grace unending.
I’m intentionally making my way through Kenya. Trying to experience as much of this vast land as I can.
Today—Tigoni.
Why Tigoni?! A friend took me for a drive and to spend time at an organic farmers market.
Tigoni is northwest of Nairobi, in the highlands of Kiambu County. You pass Ruaka—a very busy built‑up spot with lots of shops, stalls and traffic—before the road gets more rural and heads up toward Tigoni.
In just about twenty or so minutes outside of Nairobi you start to feel the shift: quieter, greener, and noticeably fresher and lighter than the city. My lungs got a proper fill.
We are now surrounded by tea farms and open countryside.
Once we got out of the car, I moved slowly through it all. Soaking it all in:
Fresh juices that taste exactly like the fruit they’re made from, no additives.
A farm-to-table meal that didn’t need any dressing up.
I picked up a bouquet because it contained my favorite flower—the calla lily—and because it looked like it belonged in a painting.
At some point, the cutest baby girl wandered over, carrot in one hand, reaching for my bouquet with the other. She stopped munching on her carrot, and leaned in to smell the flowers in my hands, completely locked in. Be still my heart. That was an unguarded moment, one that will stay with me.
There was live music.
The singer greeted us as we walked by the tent and explained that she’ll restart singing soon.
After complementing her beautiful kaftan I asked what genres she sings—among them she listed … you guessed it …reggae! Now, hear the clincher, her surname is Reggae. You can’t make this stuff up!!! Some would say the universe was aligning. I say, that was a God-moment.
As we milled about, iconic Bob Marley songs wove themselves through the tea leaves and drew me to the white tent, where Ms. Reggae was doing the reggae!
I spread the kanga (also called leso)—Kenya’s colorful cotton fabric—and joined others sprawled out on the grass, just being.
No rush. “…Don’t worry about a thing…” melodically sung while Ms. Reggae lovingly cuddles her daughter and I couldn’t help but join in, making it a sing-along:
My ultimate find of the day was a handmade mango butter body moisturizer. I asked the shop owner skeptically: “Mango has butter?!” To which she gladly informed it’s in the seed and went on to describe how she makes it—the end product whipped, soft, almost like cream. It smells divine, and it lingers.
Now, not only do I get to eat one of my favourite fruits, I get to wear it too. My skin’s still holding onto it, smooth and hydrated. (I know what will be in Christmas stockings this year! 😆)
As if the vast spread of greenery all around wasn’t enough, somewhere behind it all, a waterfall—you don’t quite see it, but you hear it, steady and soft, like a backdrop Mother Nature threw in just because she could!
Nothing dramatic about the day. But it felt full. The kind of full that comes from slowing down enough to actually notice where you are.
Have you ever heard a cow mooed in the wee hours of the morn, that low rumble rolling through dawn’s stillness, before the sun disappears the night sky?
Have you ever walked past Maasai herdsmen, red shukas dotting landscape’s green, their cattle answering only to rungu’s sway?
Have you ever locked eyes with a baboon, a baby wedged in tight while she leaps and runs and feeds?
Have you ever seen a lioness frolic with her cubs, letting them tumble over her body, teaching them survival dressed up as play?
Have you ever stood still while elephants trample grass, felt the ground rumble in low tremors, watched a matriarch trudging along, alone, as if waiting for life’s end?
Have you ever noticed cattle egrets clinging to elephants’ backs, white against grey, small beside massive, yet moving in symbiotic agreement?
Have you ever heard the crowned crane sing in unison, nature’s orchestra on the open plains on long legs lifting seamlessly through marsh?
Have you ever seen impala startled by hyena, leap— body suspended mid-air, as if gravity paused in step with fear?
Have you ever realized, somewhere between dawn’s moo and dusk’s shadows, that a safari is not about sighting— but about scale?
Have you ever felt yourself shrink in the vastness of the wide sky, small beneath the Kilimanjaro, grateful the wild needs no permission to perform?
I have stood in that open vastness, reconnected to the magnificence of nature something in me answered back to the call of the savanna
I’ve always been a lover of nature—now it practically sits at my doorstep. What once took planning, traffic, and intention now meets me effortlessly. There’s a kind of healing I’m experiencing in this shift. The quiet here settles in a different way. In other places quiet was something I’d go looking for—here, in Kenya, the quiet finds you.
Contrasting this to the last place I lived—New York City—where nature felt negotiated. Central Park and Bryant Park were two of my nature chill spots. But one cannot escape the reality that they are framed by steel and concrete, that silence is interjected by sirens, and the sky is viewed through the framing of high rise buildings. The city made every effort to ensure nature had its place, but it was contained. You visited it. You scheduled it. You left it behind.
Here in Kenya you’re surrounded by nature. I live in the city, Nairobi, yet nature is not on the sidelines I only need look beyond my patio to cows grazing in a meadow.
Nature stretches wide across the land, unbothered, uncontained. From the vastness of the savannah to the bespoke authority of the mountains, nature just IS. And somewhere in this transition from the city that never sleeps to one that lulls your senses into calm, something in me loosens, unclenches, exhales.
Photos by me: Amboseli & Nairobi Parks, Giraffe Center
A weekend drive can take you into the heart of Maasai Mara, the horizon seems to stretch on endlessly. Or to Amboseli National Park, where gentle giant elephants roam and playful lion cubs romp beneath the shadow of Kilimanjaro. And you feel present in nature.
Snow-capped Mount Kilimanjaro, photo taken by me while on a safari drive through Amboseli National Park
But Kenya isn’t only nature, it’s what I’d also describe as being “layered”.
Nairobi has its own city qualms but moves to a different kind of energy. The art scene is alive—galleries, street art, design studios—and fashion tells stories in bold color, texture, and form.
There’s a confidence in the creativity I’m seeing here meaning it’s not an imitation, it knows intuitively what it is.
The pace of life also demands something different. Or maybe it offers it.
Work is still work—I still work hard and work long hours but it doesn’t consume in the same way. There’s an unspoken insistence on balance. You feel it in how people gather, how they pause, how they step away. It forces me to let go the grind mentality and to recalibrate what urgency really means and what’s to be prioritized.
And then there’s the contrast that keeps surprising me—the topography itself. Vast savannahs that stretch into forever, then a shift, and suddenly you’re met with coastline—warm waters and soft sand along the Indian Ocean. I’m slowly coming to learn that this country doesn’t settle into one identity, it’s too vast and diverse for that.
What I didn’t expect, though, was the familiarity.
I find when I say I’m from Jamaica, Kenyans light up. Almost immediately they go to reggae. The rhythm of reggae floats easily here. It’s not unusual to hear it in the gym as I work out or its beats blaring out of matatus (minibuses) zipping by on the roadways.
Jamaica-culture inspired minibuses (matatus or nganya) on the streets in Nairobi (complete with Jamaican flag waving in the wind)
And Jamaica is well known and embraced. It’s the music, the culture, the energy—it lives here in a way that feels genuine. And for me, that lands deeper than I anticipated. There’s something about hearing those sounds, seeing that appreciation, that makes me feel at home in a place that is still new.
Wanted.
Recognized.
Connected.
That’s a feeling that can’t be beat.
Moving to Kenya was first a change in geography and since I’ve been here it continues to be a shift in how I experience space, time, and even myself.
Even now as I write this piece, I can hear birds outside my window serenading the break of dawn, ushering in the new day with nature’s tweets. It feels like the wild outside has found its way inward—quietly restoring, gently rebalancing.
Beforeword: The “glass ceiling”, was coined by Management consultant Marilyn Loden in 1978. It symbolizes the invisible barriers that hinder women and marginalized groups from advancing in their careers.
The thing about “glass ceiling” when smashed is that the shards don’t vanish— they fall Sharp, jagged, relentless, raining down like a warning, like a punishment for daring to rise
Falling glass cuts deep— Patriarchy, splintered but still clawing Violence, turning freedom into something fragile Laws, binding instead of breaking chains Norms, polished smooth but when harmful they wound Root causes slicing through progress turning triumphs into scars Rights into relics Hard won gains into loss Reproductive rights overturned— choices stripped, voices silenced, autonomy reduced to a battlefield where laws are weapons, and women’s bodies contested spaces
But how does the ceiling hold? It’s not chains you can see, not walls you can touch— It’s an unspoken limit, the silent “no” It’s underrepresentation dressed as “not the right fit” It’s the weight of pay gaps The care work not paid The lock on leadership doors The promotions that never come no matter how qualified or how high women climb
They say, “You’ve come so far” But they don’t mention the cracks beneath our feet The unequal shifting ground The backlash waiting at every turn Every step forward risks another wound, another push back, another war to fight—again
The thing about glass— It was never meant to be a cage Meant for clarity, yet it distorts, letting light in but keeping power out
The thing about ceiling— It was never meant to hold in Meant to shelter, yet it confines, holding dreams beneath its weight
So, like Maya Angelou, women—we rise! Not just breaking, but building Not just shattering, but shaping Hands wrapped in armor, feet steady on the dust Helmets on, hearts fierce, forging new foundations Until the sky stretches wide, and the only thing above us— is rights, equality, justice
IWD is a worldwide day of activism, celebrating achievements while continuing the fight for women’s rights.
IWD began in the early 1900s as a movement for women’s labor rights, better working conditions, and suffrage. But the first milestone in US was much earlier – in 1848. Indignant over women being barred from speaking at an anti-slavery convention, Americans Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott started the US first women’s rights convention in New York. Inspired by protests in New York, socialist activist Clara Zetkin proposed an annual Women’s Day in 1910, leading to the first official IWD on March 19, 1911, in several European countries.The 8 March date was chosen after Russian women demanded “bread and peace” during a war-time strike in 1917.
Beforeword: “Koi no yokan” is a Japanese phrase that translates to “premonition of love,” describing the feeling of meeting someone for the first time and intuitively knowing that you will inevitably fall in love with them in the future. It differs from love at first sight because it’s not about the love happening at that instant, but a certainty about love that is yet to come.
This was not love at first sight
When we first met my heart didn’t skip a beat my breath didn’t catch in my throat It exhaled like it had been held for years and didn’t know why It was like meeting someone and feeling the future in a knowing way Like feeling the rain will fall before it does
We spoke of ordinary things— weather, work, tea versus coffee We laughed easily We communicated in the silence as if somewhere inside we knew our spirit had leaned into each other and whispered, “This one”
No fireworks— It started way quieter than that No falling It started safer than that Slow Certain with inevitability Just knowing
And now— on a day dressed in red and roses— I don’t celebrate a spark I celebrate that quiet certainty That gentle, steady pull that brought us here without noise without fear without doubt
I grew up when reggae was finding its roots When reggae was suspect When Rasta meant trouble When dreadlocks closed doors and the music was blamed for what the country didn’t want to face
Flashback—seventies Jamaica Transistor radios balanced on window sills Needles dropping on scratched vinyl while elders shook their heads: “Turn down dat” “Change de station” “Dat a no music”
Reggae wasn’t welcomed then It was scrutinized, watched Dreadlocks meant no job, no classroom Rastas crossing the street to avoid harassment Church sermons thick with warning Babylon named, not understood as Rasta knew it—as rebellion not revelation
Sound systems told a different story Speaker boxes stacked like monuments Bass ricocheting off zinc fences Beats thumping through yards where truth was louder than fear Reggae carried news The sentiments of a people in the struggle Stories the national newspaper wouldn’t headline
It survived on borrowed amps on spiritualism and repetition on voices that refused to be silent: Toots and the Maytals helped to name the genre: “Do the Reggay,” Toots said in 1968 The Wailers—Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, Bunny Wailer—grounded reggae in social reality and Rastafarian thought Then came Jimmy Cliff, preparing global audiences for reggae
Now look—
The same music once dismissed is Jamaica’s loudest ambassador The same rhythms once scorned now open world stages Reggae feeds families Fuels festivals Artists across the world build careers on this foundation— our basslines under their success, our cadence shaping their sound
Some cite the source Some remix and rename it But the root remains— Reggae. Jamaica.
So Reggae Month is a pause to remember how we once doubted our own voice and how that voice went on to teach the world how to listen
A four-part birthday tribute to the Legend and in honor of Reggae Month 2026
(6 February 1945 – 11 May 1981)
PART I: BEFORE THE ICON
Before the T-shirts Before the flags dangled in dorm rooms Before the word legend softened the edges There was a yard Tin roofs Shanty houses Bare feet kicking soccer ball Musicians learning rhythm from dust
Reggae wasn’t a product yet Bob arrived as a witness One more voice from Trench Town saying: This is what hunger sounds like This is how hope stays alive
PART II: THE MESSAGE
People like to say the music was about love That’s only one side of it
Love, yes—but, It was A love that argued back A love that named Babylon—the system of oppression A love that would not let leadership lapse into amnesia A love that challenged power, challenged politicians, that made comfort uneasy
“Is this love that I’m feeling, or is this the love that I’ve been dreaming of?”
When bullets came for him, they weren’t confused They knew the danger of a man who could move crowds without running for office
Bob didn’t claim politics Politics claimed him
PART III: WHEN JAMAICA SPOKE TO THE WORLD
Through Bob, a small island stopped whispering Suddenly, Jamaica wasn’t just a place on a map— it was a position A voice in the hallowed halls of the United Nations Denouncing apartheid Reggae crossed borders South Africa heard it Rhodesia heard it as Marley’s liberation song “Zimbabwe” ushered in independence Reggae in the hands of Bob— Protest learned melody Redemption was song Philosophy you could dance to People who had never seen Jamaica felt understood by it
Bob didn’t market He transmitted
PART IV: THE COST OF IMMORTALITY
Now he is everywhere Often reduced to smoke and slogans Stripped of context Sold back to descendants of struggle as lifestyle
But listen closely— the songs still resist simplification They still ask hard questions: “How long shall they kill our prophets, while we stand aside and look?” They still refuse silence: “Get up, stand up: stand up for your rights.” They still carry the unfinished work: “Open your eyes and look within, are you satisfied with the life you’re living?”
Legacy Legend isn’t comfort it’s responsibility Bob Marley was never asking to be worshipped He was asking: Who will carry this next?
Beforeword: In the wake of Hurricane Melissa, as Jamaica grieves and rebuilds, a renewed sense of patriotism has emerged. In moments of devastation, we are often drawn back to the strength that has carried the island through its darkest hours. It is in this spirit of reflection that I return to the story of Samuel Sharpe and the Christmas Rebellion of 1831.
Guided by faith and influenced by the growing abolitionist movement, Sharpe—a Baptist deacon—organized what was to be a peaceful strike on Christmas Day, demanding freedom and fair wages. At the time, Jamaica essentially functioned as a single vast plantation under British rule, sustained by the labor of an enslaved majority. What began as nonviolent resistance soon ignited into the largest slave rebellion in the British West Indies—an uprising born of courage, faith, and an unyielding demand for freedom—the same resilient spirit that continues to drive Jamaica to rebuild, endure, and rise again in the aftermath of Hurricane Melissa.
A Dectina Refrain
When Sam Sharpe Rose that day In Jamaica Revolution birthed Christmas strike sought wages Plantations burned, peace was lost Sixty thousand enslaved rose—armed Hanged, yet named National hero When Sam Sharpe rose that day in Jamaica
Beforeword: This spoken-word tribute celebrates the life and legacy of Jimmy Cliff, one of Jamaica’s most iconic voices. As a cento, it is crafted entirely from Cliff’s own lyrics but stitched together as both a celebration of his life and a rallying cry for hope and resilience for Jamaica’s recovery from Hurricane Melissa.
I can see clearly now the rain is gone, I can see all obstacles in my way. The dark clouds that had me blind, they’re gone I feel the sun returning to shine.
Take a look at the world, See the state it’s in today. I am sure you’ll agree We all could make it a better way, If we put our love together.
Man and woman, girl and boy, Let us try to give a helping hand— Lift each other up. Between the day you’re born and when you die, They never seem to hear even your cry. I’d rather be a free man in my grave, Than living as a puppet or a slave. The bigger they come, the harder they fall, one and all.
We still have—
Many rivers to cross, When you can’t seem to find the way over, Keep moving, as you travel along, your will keeps you alive
For— You can get it if you really want, If you try, try and try, try and try. You’ll succeed at last.
Afterword: I used 5 of his most popular and “truth-to-power” songs:
I Can See Clearly Now — A bright, optimistic anthem about overcoming obstacles and finally seeing hope after hard times.
The Harder They Come — A gritty, defiant song about struggle, resistance, and standing your ground against oppression. The movie, by the same name, brought reggae beyond Jamaica to a global audience.
Many Rivers to Cross — A deeply soulful reflection on hardship, loneliness, and the long journey toward freedom and peace.
You Can Get It If You Really Want — An encouraging, motivational tune about perseverance and believing in yourself despite setbacks.
Wonderful World, Beautiful People — A joyful celebration of love, unity, and the beauty of humanity set to infectious reggae grooves.
Rest in Peace & Power Jimmy Cliff. May your soul cross the river to its resting place.
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I’ve been quiet here, not from lack of words, but because life shifted fast and hard. I recently relocated to Kenya for work — a major transition that has demanded my full attention, mind, and energy.
At the same time, my heart has been anchored back home, as I watched the devastation of Hurricane Melissa unfold across Jamaica. Many of you have shared kind words to the posts I managed to get out on the situation in Jamaica. Again, THANK YOU!
Holding both realities at once has been heavy. The emotional toll of uprooting, starting over in a new country, and witnessing so much loss in a place that shaped me has been A LOT. Some days I’ve felt stretched thin between responsibility and grief, between staying strong and needing rest.
I’ve taken this brief pause from this online space to steady myself and make space to process it all. Writing is never far from me, even when I’m quiet, and I’ll be back here soon with new stories, new reflections, and the same commitment to honesty and hope. I’ve got so much to share including from being on the ground in Jamaica, watch this space!
Thank you for your prayers and your steady presence here.
Quiet roots take hold Storms pass, tired hearts still rise Rest, to bloom again
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
October 28, 2025, Melissa roll een— category 5 a true Goliath, full a noise an’ might breeze a tear dun tree sea a climb ova hill she come wid a hundred-eighty-five mile a hour win’ pressure low like she mean fi mash up everyting
But she never know bout Jah-mek-yah dat Ja-mai-ca is more dan a place pan a map it’s a pulse, a community, a people weh she couldn’t stop an when she roar she wake up all a wi worldwide from Bronx to London tide
She never know wi bigga dan har storm— dat when wi unite, wi turn grief inna form an’ show di worl’ weh it really mean to be JamaiCAN
Wi aguh pick up di piece dem— bit by bit, brick by brick fram yard to lane, from mountain to sea Melissa wake up all a we an’ we aguh move togedda like one family
From di likkle one dem a sweep di yard to di elder a patch roof wid nail an’ hamma every han’ pon deck every heart a beat— yeh man, wi still deh yah
Di breeze try fi ben’ wi di rain nuh try fi drown wi but wi—wi aguh build back betta from storm an’ rain wi aguh sing again louda dan di soun’ a pain but resilience nuh mean we fi walk alone so sah even di mightiest tree need support jus’ like we
So yeh, wi proud— but pride cyan pour concrete Yeh, wi strong— but strent still need sleep fe keep Even tallawah need a han’ fi lif’ when troubles come heavy an’ penetrate deep
Wi likkle—but wi tallawah Wi batta—but wi beautiful still Wi shaken—but wi nuh bruk Wi hurt—but wi a guh ‘eal
Fram Black River to deep inna St. James Parish wi aguh rise again like mawnin’ sun pan Blue Mountain hill, we cherish wi not jus’ survivin’, but wi revivin’— wid one heart, one love, one will
So when di worl’ look pon wi mek we tell dem clear an’ true fram de diaspora to de yawd crew T’ough we batta an’ bruise We are JamaiCAN— so we CAN rise again Stronga. Betta. Jamaica!💚🖤💛
Afterword: Why I Write in Patois
I was intentional in using patois to write this tribute poem because some pain refuses translation. The pain of watching the land that shaped you being whipped out of shape by forces beyond human control can’t live comfortably in borrowed language. It has to be spoken in the tongue that raised you, the voice that knows your cadence, your memory, your silence.
Patois understands my inner being. It carries the weight, the humor, the ache, the defiance. It translates not just what happened, but how it felt. It connects me to every other Jamaican—whether in the diaspora or at home—as we collectively felt the trauma inflicted on our homeland and our people. When I speak in patois, I am not performing culture — I am returning home. To my people. To my roots. To the land that made me.
Some grief is only fluent in the language of home.
SUPPORT JAMAICA REBUILD
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
Beforeword: You may be familiar with the Bible story of a young shepherd boy, David, who defeated a mighty giant, Goliath, with nothing more than a sling and a stone. I chose that story as the inspiration for a children’s lesson I was asked to teach at church about bullying. To bring it to life, I wrote a poem—a playful riff on one of my earlier pieces, “That’s It, I’m Telling Jesus”. The kids all joined in by shouting the refrain: “That’s it, I’m telling Jesus”.
He towered over me that day, Stomping so loud the earth did sway. He mocked my God, he mocked my song— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
He shouted and laughed, then turned away, Like bullies do when they have their way. I felt so small, for I was just a boy, But I knew God had a plan, oh joy! That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
He scared the people all around, Even the king went and hid his crown. But God gives courage to see things through— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
I gathered my stones, smooth and bright, They’d be my shield today, that’s right! Pray and trust, then seize the day That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
I swung my sling round and round, It made a swishy, twirly sound. But just before I let it fly, He called me a shepherd boy—oh my! It made me mad, so very, very mad— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
I twirled my sling again and again, Then let it go with all my strength. The stone flew fast, straight through the air, AND GUESS WHAT? It hit him here!
Right between his beady eyes it land He fell with a thud by God’s mighty hand! The victory was not mine, I must give thanks— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
Afterword: David chose smooth stones for the task at hand. We can choose smooth stone words filled with peace, love, joy, hopewhen we come up against our giants (whatever forms they may be).
Five years anniversary is symbolized by wood—the symbol of endurance, strength, and growth. When I began this blog, the world was shut down, literally, by COVID. In the stillness, I reached for what I knew best—writing—words became a refuge, a way to shape uncertainty into meaning. What started as a tender seedling has taken root, stretching upward and outward. Each post is a ring in the grain, each shared reflection a fruit carrying stories reflecting the world around me, each reader a branch that gave life to the tree. Looking back, I see how writing not only sustained me but connected me to others—you dear readers—reminders that bonds can be formed even in silence, and friendships forged even through words.
Blogiversary— five years of growth and beauty here’s to words, to us
Update: Thanks to Dagmara and the editorial team at Spillwords for publishing this piece. Please drop by and show some love with a 👍🏾❤️ or comment. Thanks 🙏🏽
This piece of mint upon my tongue, Cool and sharp, a memory clung. Refreshing tea, from pot, flow like song A feeling I had forgotten for far too long
Steam curls upward, time bends in its sway, Suddenly I’m taken back to Montego Bay. Rain ra-ta-tat on grandma’s kitchen zinc roof Her voice is a calm to thunder—a lullaby, my living truth.
“Endure the storm, my child, you’ll find your way— After the darkest nights, there’ll come brighter days.” While mint’s fragrance floats effortlessly, A healing balm for all that ails me.
Now, in this city—a jungle of concrete Where busyness masks life, blanketed in conceit The mint revives me—channeling memories of choice, Like grandma’s kitchen and her soothing voice.
And when the world around me feels heavy, unkind, That taste of mint reminds me what I must find: Strength that lingers, roots that last, A living hope connecting future and past.
Afterword: This piece written for Spillwords prompt: to create a piece where a character experiences a vivid, forgotten memory triggered by a specific flavor (e.g., burnt sugar, sour lemons, or something unusual). Weave the memory into their present-day conflict.
stones listening, ancient and still at the summit, trees embracing pain inked on paper, jagged edges scatter, confessions releasing like small birds from my hands mountain listens, no judgment—only air receiving what no longer serves me I breathe, heart restored held by something vaster than fear ENOUGH cares left hanging in the thin mountain air
Dawn nature serenades chirping birds, morning breezes eyes flutter open
David whiskers quiver in the air fangs clack toward windowpane
Dawn sunbeam on the sill paw lifts, curiosity stirs, reaching for light
David hands unclench bedside machines hum lashes twitch
Dawn curtains billowing softly like a prayer on the wind
David radio crackles Bon Jovi drifts through static song becomes the sky
Afterword: My first rengay!!! Thanks David for this beautiful collaboration! The co-creating process was flawless and flowed seamlessly—two minds working in synchronicity to create a single piece of art!!!!
Rain is precious Not just water— When meted out in the right measures, a treasure
I remember, as a child The first few drops on parched ground drinking like it had been waiting for forever and then—steam Lifting up, escaping And the smell? It was like earth opened her chest and breathed out life We’d dig in dirt in child-like abandon Mash it between our fingers Make mud pies Pies served to makeshift dolls
It was magic to my little girl mind
But night rain? Oh, that was a whole different vibe. When the drops hit zinc— rat-a-tat lullaby rising just above silence Better than any pill It lulled you into peace A deep sleep of sweetest dreams
I miss that— Those simple days when rain was enough. Enough to make magic. Enough to make rest. Enough to make me believe.
Afterword: This piece grew out of a comment I shared in response to a reader on an earlier post, which also touched on the theme of rain. My comment was:
Beforeword: A couple weeks ago the Poet of the Week over at the Skepticskaddish introduced the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. This collection coins new words to express emotions and experiences that once had no name in English. For the prompt, we were challenged to choose one of these words, use it as the title of our poem, and either weave the word itself into the piece or capture the essence of its meaning.
I chose énouement:
n.the bittersweetness of having arrived here in the future, finally learning the answers to how things turned out but being unable to tell your past self. Pronounced “ey-noo-mahn.”
The moment I read it, I knew exactly what I wanted to write. Still, the poem took me a couple of weeks to bring to life. My muse was heaven—of course, not a place I’ve been, but one I’ve imagined through the lens of biblical reflection. I’d say bittersweetness is not a term associated with heaven, but énouement captures the emotion of knowing I will never be able to turn back and tell my past self the fullness of what I now behold—an experience even greater than the words of Scripture managed to describe.
The streets are not just gold— they are light in motion, alive under my feet. The air breathes music. Colors sing. And Jesus— Jesus is here, looking at me like He’s been waiting since before the dawn of time for this exact moment.
This is the ending. The answer. The final piece that clicks into place and makes the whole puzzle beautiful.
Every midnight question— answered. Every prayer I thought went unheard— fulfilled. Every why— woven into Heaven’s glory.
And yet— there’s that feeling. Énouement. Not sadness— no, never sadness— but a tender ache that whispers, “If only I could tell my past self— you made it. And it’s so much more beautiful than you ever dared to dream.”
But I can’t. The past is sealed. The road is walked.
I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith. The tears are sown. And now— the crown, shining with stars, is placed on my head by the very hands of Jesus.
I’m not longing for back then— Storms carved me, fire refined me. Faith tested, more precious than gold, shines to praise, honor, glory at Christ’s appearing. The waiting taught me to want Him more than the answer. Every tear, every trial, every shadow I walked through— all of it, shaping me into the child He would crown.
No eye saw this. No ear heard it. No mind imagined it. But now— I live in it.
Énouement in heaven is joy rooted in gratitude, dancing in the arms of the Father, and knowing— He always knew the ending.
From my vantage point in a cozy California-style casita at the iconic La Quinta Resort, encircled by the Santa Rosa Mountains, I’ve come to see how the peaks of Palm Springs transform with every angle of the sun—shifting from radiant glow to deep shadow.
Through this haiku series I trace the desert’s quiet drama from morning to dusk—I chose haiku for it’s minimalist elegance mirroring the timeless simplicity of the mountains themselves.
This marks the beginning of my Palm Springs R&R travelogue—more moments, reflections, and snapshots from this desert retreat to come.
Sunrise
Golden blush awakes, Mountains stretch from their night’s dreams, Light crowns each sharp peak.
Midday
Heat shimmers the stone, Brown ridges blaze in full glare, Stillness holds its breath.
Afternoon
Deep shadows carve lines, Desert’s art in bold contours, Sun sculpts shifting shapes.
Sunset
Blanket in amber Peaks bow in a soft embrace, Day gives way to night.
My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me—holy is his name. His mercy extends to those who fear him, from generation to generation.
Mary’s prayer concludes this week’s “Ancient Prayers for Today’s Cares” series. Her prayer is actually a song outpouring with awe, humility, and joy. She marvels that the God of heaven has noticed her—a young, humble girl—and chosen her for His plan. Her words echo themes of God’s mercy, justice, and faithfulness, showing that she knew her story was part of a much bigger story.
What’s powerful about Mary’s prayer is how it shifts from personal gratitude to a declaration of God’s character for all generations. It’s a reminder that praise isn’t just about celebrating what God has done for us, but about proclaiming who He is for everyone.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Praise
Lord— My soul can’t stay silent— it rises, it magnifies You. My spirit comes alive because You looked at me— ordinary, yet seen.
Mighty One— You have done great things for me. Your mercy is new every morning, it stretches wide, generation to generation, never running dry.
Here I am, just one voice. Forever I will say: God saw me. God loves me. God is faithful.
So let my life sing Your name. Let my gratitude spill over until it blesses more than just me.
My prayer is not that you take them out of the world but that you protect them from the evil one. They are not of the world, even as I am not of it. Sanctify them by the truth; your word is truth… My prayer is not for them alone. I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you… Then the world will know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.
Jesus prayed for me. Jesus prayed for you. Let that sink in!!
In His final hours before the cross, Jesus prayed—not for Himself alone, but for His disciples and for all future believers. His words carry the weight of eternity: a plea for protection from evil, for sanctification in truth, and for unity that reflects the oneness of the Father and the Son.
What’s remarkable is that Jesus knew the challenges His followers would face—opposition, division, temptation—yet His request was not for escape, but for strength to remain in the world as lights of truth and love.
This prayer reminds us that our faith is part of something much larger than ourselves; we are bound together across generations, cultures, and nations by the love of God.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Protection & Unity
Jesus— When You prayed that night, You saw ME! Before I ever spoke Your name, You spoke mine to the Father. I’m so grateful.
Protect me from the evil that prowls, not by pulling me out of the world, but by keeping me steady in it. Shape me by Your truth until my heart aligns its beats with Yours.
And Lord, Dismantle the walls we build to separate, Erase the lines we draw, so that love speaks louder than division ever could.
Let my life be the living testimony that the Father sent the Son, that the Son loves His own.
My heart rejoices in the Lord…. There is no one holy like the Lord; there is no one besides you; there is no Rock like our God…. He will guard the feet of his faithful servants.
Hannah’s prayer rises out of a season of deep pain—years of longing for a child, enduring misunderstanding and ridicule. When God answered her cry and gave her a son, she didn’t just rejoice quietly; she poured out her gratitude in a song of PRAYse that exalted God’s power, sovereignty, and faithfulness.
What stands out is that Hannah’s focus isn’t solely on her personal blessing. She praises God for who He is, not just for what He’s done for her. Her prayer reminds us that gratitude lifts our eyes from the gift to the Giver, turning personal victory into public worship.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Gratitude
Lord— My heart sings, not because life is perfect, but because You’ve proven Yourself faithful.
You took the ache that lived in my chest, the silent prayers only You could hear, and turned them into joy I can’t contain.
There is no one like You— no other place I can run, no other Rock I can stand on when the ground shakes beneath me.
You lift up, You bring down. You close doors, You open them wide. You write the ending before I see the beginning.
So I will boast, not in my strength, but in Your deliverance. I will praise You, not just for the gift, but for being the Giver.
My mouth will tell the story: God heard me. God helped me. God is faithful.
Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin. Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight; so you are right in your verdict and justified when you judge…. Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.
This prayer of David is one of the most raw and honest moments in Scripture. When confronted, he didn’t hide, excuse, or downplay his sin—he brings it fully to God. His appeal isn’t based on his worthiness, but on God’s mercy, love, and compassion.
This prayer reminds us that forgiveness isn’t something we can earn; it’s a gift we receive when we come with a contrite heart. David also doesn’t stop at asking to be cleansed—he asks for transformation: a pure heart and a steadfast spirit. God’s forgiveness wipes away guilt, but His renewal changes us from the inside out.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Forgiveness
God— Have mercy on me. Not because I deserve it, but because Your love never runs out.
Wash me. Not just the surface, but the places no one sees— the thoughts I hide, the motives I wrestle with, the moments I wish I could erase.
Against You, Lord, I have fallen short. I admit it. I can’t fix myself.
So create in me what I cannot create in myself— a clean heart. Renew in me what I cannot keep on my own— a steadfast spirit.
Let forgiveness be more than a word I hear; let it be the freedom I live in.
See, the world may worship the flawless But you— You got that wabi-sabi soul. You know… That 15th-century tea house stillness That ancient knowing that says: Let the bowl crack. Let the edge soften. Let the chipped corner remain chipped— It holds memory It holds story It holds truth
You’ve got the AWEdacity To belong To be seen To be— Exactly as you are.
So come Sit with me Take off your mask Unclench your jaw Rest your striving The kettle is humming The tea is steeping The room is still We raise our cups to the in-between, to the impermanence And toast thanks to the imperfect path To a self that is ever-becoming Ever-blooming Never done
Afterword: This piece draws on five poems I previously wrote (each linked above) and inspired by “wabi sabi before I knew of this philosophy.
Born from the quiet rituals of the 15th-century Japanese tea ceremony, wabi-sabi is an aesthetic and philosophy that finds beauty in the imperfect, the impermanent, and the incomplete.
It draws its name from two Japanese words: wabi, evoking simplicity and the elegance of “less is more,” and sabi, which speaks to the passage of time—a gentle melancholy, an appreciation for age and wear.
Wabi-sabi invites us to embrace the fleeting nature of life and to find quiet joy in things that show the passage of time. Cracks, wear, and weathering are not flaws to be hidden, but features to be honored. Rooted in impermanence, it reminds us that nothing lasts forever, everything changes—and in that change lies profound, enduring beauty.
Beforeword: I wrote future-self a letter: Dear Future Me, if you ever feel distant from your WHY, let this letter be your guide.
Hey you— Yeah, you, The one standing tall in the AFTER, Wearing the GLOW of prayers answered And paths made clear.
When you get there— Where the air feels lighter And your shoulders no longer carry the weight Of the unanswered… I hope you’ll pause. Just for a moment. And remember me. Standing here In this messy middle.
I am the version of you Still whispering “maybe” Still holding space for something That hasn’t yet arrived— A job that feels like calling, A love that feels like home, A place to finally unpack all my boxes And just be.
Right now, I am Neither beginning nor ending— But… becoming. Unfolding. Stretching in faith like sunrise Even when I can’t see the sun.
I need you to know: Some days I wake up strong. Other days— I question everything. My place in this world. My direction. Even whether my prayers Are still being heard.
But still—I show up. Still—I trust. Still—I place one trembling foot In front of the other.
So when you arrive at the place I can’t yet see, Please—don’t forget me. Don’t forget how much courage it took To bloom in the uncertainty. To smile through silence. To hope in the absence of proof.
And I hope— Oh, how I hope— That it ALL found you. The promotion. The partner. The peace. Not all at once, But in the timing that taught you To value the journey as much as the arrival.
I hope your days feel settled now. That home is no longer a suitcase or a prayer, But the secret place of the Most High— A solace. A rhythm of peace. A presence that cannot be shaken.
And when the world tries to pull you into hustle, May you return to the quiet strength Of this moment— This version of us Who waited, not always with patience, but Who kept the faith When everything felt foggy.
So, when you get there— Laugh with your whole chest. Love like you were never broken. And live like the miracle you are.
And if ever again you forget who you are or your place in the world— Read this. And remember: You were always walking in the purpose of God. You were never lost. You were just in the middle Of God’s beautiful unfolding.
With love, Me—right now, Still waiting, Still becoming, But already knowing Me now… Me then… We are enough.
Life is a play that does not allow rehearsals— You step on the stage raw Your heart your script Your conscience your guide God by your side Live, love, laugh out fully Because the hands of time move forward, never back
They came with guns and greed Tore through shrines like storms Pillaged palaces with no regard for what they plundered Gods wrapped in grates Our story shipped to museums Our ancestors labeled “exotic”
They took the cockerel—Okukor, majestic, defiant They took the warrior-king, still standing in bronze They took the birds— The symbols of vision and flight But they could not take our sky
Now— Now they come, not with swords But with ceremony They bow They “symbolically” return what was never theirs to begin with
The bronzes have come home Like prodigal children who were never wrong The wooden ancestral head—sculpted memory Let the Okukor crow at dawn Let the warrior stand tall again— Feel the soil of Edo again Feel the air hum with remembrance Let the Oba receive them Not as trophies, but as Truth
Truth is … The return is not just about objects It is about dignity It is histories reclaimed It is altars rebuilt from fragments that refused to forget It is about names restored
We are not relics We are resurrection And this— This is just the beginning
So let the bronzes speak:
“Omowale”—the child has come home!
Afterword: When I lived in Nigeria, I was given the name Omowale, a Yoruba word meaning “the child has come home.” This name embodies the experience of reconnecting with one’s heritage and the profound sense of belonging it brings.
Thousands of brass, bronze, and ivory sculptures and carvings were looted from Benin City—priceless pieces of history scattered across the world for decades.
These Benin Bronzes, described as individual plaques that each read like a page in a book, together tell the rich, complex story of Benin.
Now, after years in foreign lands, these treasures are beginning to make their way back home. Their return marks only the first steps in a growing movement for repatriation—a movement that seeks to restore stolen heritage and heal historical wounds.
Beforeword: Had you ever heard of the Great Wall of Benin City? Until recently, I hadn’t either. When a friend mentioned it, my curiosity was instantly piqued. Naturally, I did some research. This spoken word poem was born from that journey of learning and reflection.
The Wall They Couldn’t See
They called it a wall— But it was more It was science wrapped in soil It was grit It was story A 19,900-mile long ingenuity of a people who carved equations into earth
The Great Wall of Benin City!
Longer than China’s wall But never longer in textbooks— because what conquerors don’t understand, they erase
It was the moat—a defense, a design Dug by Edo hands that understood symmetry topography strategy
The Benin Empire— One of the oldest, most finely honed states in West Africa Rising strong since the 11th century First the Portuguese Then the British They saw a city— Crime-free, clean Crowned with bronze and carved ivory A city where honesty lived in the marrow of men Where streets ran wide like open arms And governance? It had a pulse, steady and wise
Yet … They looked with blind eyes Called African brilliance “chaos” Called African symmetry “primitive” Because the math we mapped wasn’t chalked on their boards
They came with fire in their pockets and hunger in their eyes Trading for men And when the loot didn’t come fast enough They came with cannons
1897 Benin city A rhythm A revelation Burnt to the bone Stole the art Stole the gold Stole the breath
Now … The Great Wall lies hidden in the Nigerian bushes— Not gone, but grieving Not erased, just waiting
Waiting For tongues to remember For history to reclaim For voices to rise like the harmattan red dust and sing:
We were here We were brilliant We still are
Because the wall? The wall was never what they saw It was what they couldn’t
It was legacy It was light It was a people
Afterword: Almost 1,000 Benin bronze artifacts—including statues of birds, a warrior‑king, a cockerel (“Okukor”), and a wooden ancestral head—originally looted during the 1897 plunder, have been symbolically returned to the Oba of Benin in Edo State, their ancestral home!
29 years ago in a moment in time Your life matrimonially linked with mine You were my husband, you were my friend I was by your side to the very end
A heart of gold has stopped its beating Arms in teddy-bear like hugs no longer giving I’m left with memories my heart will hold That’s where you’ll stay alive in the stories to be told
Gone too soon—your life on earth, shortened If you could but see—there are so many disheartened A loss too much for us to bear Signs of you are left everywhere
There is so much I’ll miss about you All the kind and thoughtful things you do Your dedication in extending the gift of your charm I can still hear neighbors’ greetings: “Hello Mr Hall”
Reminiscing on the early years where we did everything together Strolling city streets hand-in-hand, young lover There was never something I asked you wouldn’t do Christmas by the Rockefeller tree, and road trips, and even Disney too
Those memories make me smile and others cause me tears It’s true, our marriage broke over the years Through it all we remained as good friends Through forgiveness—hurt feelings transcends
Work will not be the same without you I will miss knowing you’re a floor below doing the work you do I will miss so much, like hearing the sound of your voice But move on, I must, there is no other choice
I saw your last tears and wiped your face dry I know that you could hear me, though lifeless you lie I shared with you the deepest treasures of my heart I know you passed knowing in my heart you’ll stay a part
I’ll never understand why you had to die Taken so quickly, like in the wink of an eye Accepting you’ve come to the setting of life I commit you to Rest In Peace, my love, from all stress and strife
You left in the prettiest season of all Where trees are transitioning in the beauty of fall We’ll remember you always in the beautiful parts of your life Preserved in memory’s garden we’ll keep you alive
In loving remembrance Your wife, your friend to the very end
Afterword: This piece was commissioned by a wife to honor her husband after his passing. As with every commissioned work, I took time to speak with my client to understand the heart behind her story. I do this with every client because it allows me to create pieces that truly capture the essence of the message my clients wish to convey, rather than me simply weaving words together creatively.
Before we shout “Well done!” Before the names are called, Let us take a moment—to honor it all: This church. This family. This ground where faith and growth both rise.
You’re a house of many nations, shades, and stories— Yet here, love is the common language. Where Grandma’s prayers cover teenage dreams, And uncles, aunties, elders cheer with eyes that have seen That excellence takes many forms, And no one journeys alone.
To the graduates:
We see you. Caps cocked, gowns flowing, Milestones in motion. From crayons to calculators, Fingerpaints to final exams— You made it! And your church stands to salute your stride.
Whether from kindergarten or college halls, From homeschools or trade schools, You’ve crossed a threshold. And the God who started you on this path Is not done walking beside you yet.
To the high-flyers, the focused, the driven: Your eyes were fixed on the prize. You mapped your way with purpose and passion. Late nights, early mornings, Deadlines met with devotion. You pressed forward. You pressed through. And the excellence we see Is not just in your grades— It’s in your grit, And the God who gave it to you.
To the ones still figuring it out: We see you! Excellence is not a straight road— It zigs. It zags. It waits. You’re allowed to pause, to wonder, To try, to fail, to ask: “What’s next for me?”
Let me say this: Even uncertainty is part of the plan. You are not lost—you are learning. Every step, every stumble is shaping the story God is still writing in you.
To the ones who didn’t know if they’d make it here: Maybe motivation left along the way. You know—life be lifeing, But look—you’re standing. That in itself is a win. That is excellence. Progress is praise-worthy. Each chapter a testimony. Don’t you go downplaying what God brought you through. Ask yourself: “What changed along the way?” Maybe it was you. Maybe it was your faith. Maybe it was that still, small voice That said, “Keep going.”
To our elders, our late bloomers, our lifelong learners: Let the world know— Learning does not expire. Dreams don’t have deadlines. And classrooms aren’t the only place where wisdom is born.
You’ve shown us what courage looks like When age walks boldly into new beginnings. You remind us:
You don’t stop learning because you grow old; You grow old because you stop learning.
So keep learning. Keep reaching. Keep believing.
And to all: This journey to excellence is not a solo flight— It’s Spirit-led. It’s prayer-powered. It’s faith-laced. You didn’t get here by accident. And you won’t go forward alone. ‘Cause: “Anyone who keeps learning stays young.” And anyone who walks with God— stays steady.
So walk on, graduates. With your heads high, your hearts open, Your dreams anchored in divine direction. And know this: excellence is not just a destination— It’s a journey. And yours has only just begun
Afterword: This piece was commissioned by a church. As with every commissioned work, I took time to speak with my client to understand the heart of their story. This process enables me to create pieces that authentically capture the essence of the message they wish to share, rather than me simply weaving words together creatively.
For this piece, I drew inspiration from the congregation’s multicultural and nurturing spirit. They wanted it to reflect the intersectional nature of their community, to inspire a love of lifelong learning, and, above all, to honor every graduate—from kindergarten to graduate school and everyone in between.
From experiences encountered each passing day She grows, just a little more But now she knows, inside, she’s never really fully grown For in her heart, buried deep within A child yearns to be known, to be loved, to grow
Unanswered questions played on repeat:
Was it me? Was I not the child he wanted? Did I cry too loudly? Did I make him mad? Did I bring him laughter? No! He must have been sad
There’s no other explanation He’d just simply gone away
Never held her as a baby Never fed her as a child Never called her his little girl Never owned her as his child
Growing up she felt abandoned Kept it hidden, deep down inside Didn’t want to let mom know Didn’t want make mom sad For he had left her behind too
Cried when she knew mom could not hear her Built a father in her mind— Not the one who left, but the one she needed He lived in memories that never happened Kept her sane, kept her dreaming
Part II: The Reuniting
Then that image, it got shattered Reality didn’t ask permission, it just came crashing in Tearing away what she had dreamed of Leaving her bare Scared again
Said he loved her, but he hit her Said he’d always be there, but vanished again
Alone
She survived on strangers’ kindness Curled up in corners not her own Love felt like waiting on empty And pain? A predictable “friend”, well known
Part III: Attempted Reconciliation
She tried to mend the broken pieces Three times Being rejected o’er again Sending letters Making phone calls He just didn’t want to be there She learned—you can’t find what won’t be found
Yes—there were nights when sorrow sang her to sleep And mornings when tears her only prayer But even then, God held each shattered piece And when she stopped chasing That’s when He started healing
The child within has grown up Now she can let him go— Not in anger but in accepting That sometimes silence is the answer And the space for love to conquer
Part IV: Resolution
In that healing she found forgiving So she didn’t break, but bloomed So the storms that came couldn’t drown her And the darkness her mind subdue So she could see that someone was waiting
Not the father who couldn’t stay—but the One who couldn’t leave Always right there by her side In the aching, in the silence, orchestrating her becoming
Part V: The Benediction
So to those who feel abandoned Confused, abused, used
Hear this:
God can mend the broken pieces Find your child who lives within He invites— Pick yourself up, begin again And, know this He’s the Father who stays He heals He restores And
When whole meets whole Two souls stepping into love Each already complete You bring your 100 And I raise you mine
Because love—real love— It needs commitment more than chemistry It needs building blocks more than butterflies Real love, it needs nutrients
So feed love with the elements that make life thrive:
Sunlight— Surround each other in warmth on those dark days Bring light that sustains not like fireworks that fizzle out, die But let truth rise between you like the sun, consistent and always present
Fresh air— Breathe space into the life you are building Creating room for each other to grow, to exhale No manipulating No control No stifling silence— just openness between you
Rest— Don’t wear each other down Become each other’s Sabbath, a place to lay, to rest, to be Let your love feel like coming home
Nutrition— Feed each other’s soul with words that nourish not tear down Serve each other honesty Feast on it like it’s a gourmet meal—so you grow
Exercise— Work at it Work it out Stretch into new understanding Run from pride Lift each other’s spirits Stay active in faithfulness Let there be no laziness in your love
Water— Stay hydrated in forgiveness Racing to be first to say: “I’m sorry” Wash away yesterday’s offenses Flow, not force Your love, like water, takes the shape of effort, breaking down resistance
And above all, put your Trust in God Staying rooted in the Divine Placing covenant above separation Pray to keep it right Praise when you’re confused Plant your love in the soil of something higher than yourselves With God in the middle Two wholes become one
So you bring your whole And I’ll bring mine Let’s grow a love nourished right— That won’t just survive It will thrive
Afterword: The inspiration for this poem is Newstart—a physician monitored, scientifically researched lifestyle change program based on eight fundamental principles proven to help us achieve optimum health: Nutrition, Exercise, Water, Sunlight, Temperance, Air, Rest, and Trust in God.
This new chapter— with you in it— has been more than I ever could have imagined
Our love?
It’s not just love It’s a revelation It’s revolution of the soul It’s exposed me to dimensions— deep layers of connection of intimacy of support
And though physical presence feels like oxygen now… What we’ve built? Oh, what we’ve built— Intentionally. Deliberately. The way we’ve poured into each other’s wholeness into each other’s healing has made this storm feel a little less violent
The memory of your touch? It still lingers like the smell of you in a room you just left
The way we’ve showed up? In words, In silence, In spirit— It’s the light, guiding now Through every unclear step
The comfort we’ve shared? It’s more than memory It’s a trail And we’re walking it Now Across this vast expanse of impasse and ache To find our way Back through the silence Back through the waiting Back through the distance—
Yeah, after all this time. After all the running, the hiding, the loud nights where I pretended I didn’t hear Him calling. After all the “I’m fine, I got this” lies I told myself— we got back together.
It wasn’t some grand moment— no fireworks, no choir singing, no hallelujah in the sky. It was quiet, almost shy, like old friends meeting after years of not knowing what to say.
I had my reasons for leaving— you know, life be lifeing—it gets messy, prayers feel like they hit ceilings, and shame? Shame builds walls so high, you think not even God can climb them.
But there He was. Not with anger. Not with a list of everything I’d done wrong. Just… waiting, Patient, like He always knew I’d come back around.
I didn’t bring much to the table. Just my broken pieces, my worn-out heart, my questions that don’t have answers, my faith, or what was left of it, clinging by a thread.
And you know what He said? “Welcome home.” Two words that melted years of distance. Two words that drowned out the lies I had told myself: you’re too far gone, you’ve messed up too much, you can’t come back.
But grace don’t work like that. Grace don’t do math. It don’t tally sins or measure the weight of regret. It just opens its arms, and says, “I’m here.”
Now, I’m learning to walk again, this time by His side. I stumble— oh, do I stumble— but His hand is always there, steadying me, reminding me that falling doesn’t mean failing when I’m falling into love like this.
So me and God, we’re figuring it out. It’s not perfect— I still trip, still doubt, still ask Him why the world is so heavy sometimes. But He doesn’t let go.
Every day feels like a second chance. Every sunrise whispers, “You are loved.” And maybe, just maybe, this time I’ll believe it.
I. They called it a joke A satire A smear of a man in a wig As if a Black scholar was too far-fetched to be anything but fantasy As if knowledge had a color and his wasn’t right
II. But Francis Williams— he was not their fiction He was fact Jamaican born under the tyranny of slavery He was freedom cracked open by a mind that would not be chained nor contained
He studied stars while they studied skin— Tracing Halley’s comet with ink-stained fingers His eyes aligned with the heavens while theirs were stuck in the mire of bigotry and hate
III. They bought the painting for the wood Fine mahogany—the kind enslaved hands carved but couldn’t claim Ignored the man standing proud, scrolls and instruments like armor around him They saw furniture They missed the future he foretold
IV. But truth has layers Centuries later X-rays peeled them back High-resolution told the tale: This wasn’t ridicule This was intuitive wisdom To commission a self-portrait not to mock but to mark a mind that mattered To inscribe in intricate details—preserved in posterity—a testament that his life mattered
A Jamaican polymath defying every odd He challenged the limitations of slave society With equations and celestial calculations that mapped freedom across the sky, across the centuries
V. They tried to erase him with silence But silence? It’s brittle And Francis? He’s breaking through One scan, one verse, one truth at a time
So, say his name Not as footnote, but foundation Say his name Like a revolution that rhymes: Francis Williams The genius they tried to forget The comet they couldn’t contain The portrait they tried to bury— but couldn’t keep in the frame
Backstory: This poem is based on the article in The Guardian, “X-ray evidence of Black maths scholar portrait reveals snubbed genius”. Clues in a self-portrait commissioned by Francis Williams—a wealthy Jamaican polymath who was born free under the tyranny of slavery —to prove that he successfully managed to compute and witness the trajectory of Halley’s comet over Jamaica in 1759.A complex figure himself, yet his intellectual achievements are worth preserving and retelling.
Stay single till you meet the person who makes you smile from within and it escapes with such intensity it up-curls your lips from ear to ear, makes your cheeks go numb and your eyes light up
Stay single till you meet the one who proves himself worthy of you, who prioritizes you, amidst the busyness of life he makes time to see you— no lame ass excuses of “just because…” and “I was gonna but…”
Wait for the one whose touch ignites your senses, makes your knees buckle weak and your heart skip beats and your stomach butterfly-flutters, wait for the one who moves you
Stay single till you meet the one who’ll do anything for you— like walk a tight rope 50 feet above ground— because he knew you’d not ask if you didn’t need him to and because he knew you knew he’d be safe to do for you
Stay single till you meet someone who accepts you, not wanting to change the you that you are but who celebrates the essence of you, accepting you in all your quirkinesses and flawsomeness, someone who loves you for you
Wait for someone who is proud of you, celebrates your accomplishments as if they’re his own— your own personal membership to a one-on-one cheerleading squad, wait for the one who’s “got you”
Stay single till you find the person who makes you want to be a better you, who’s worthy to fight for and to fight with ‘cause—face it— love and life will derail fantasies of “happily ever after”, you’ll need someone who’s battle ready
Stay single till your desire to be booed-up is not from a place of brokenness, lack or desperation, but from a healed place, from a place of trust, love and vulnerability
Wait for someone whose words and actions go hand-in-hand; who will say what they mean and do what they say, wait for the one who is intentional about you
Stay single till the one who is for you finds you, and you know you have been found
The first Adam— breathed by the breath of God, stood tall in Eden’s garden, clothed in glory, created from dust infused with divine destiny. And from his side— not his head to rule, not his feet to be trampled, but his side— God pulled forth woman, and matched her bone to his bone, flesh to his soul. And from that union, the human family bloomed.
But, they ate from a tree Then came the fall— from trust, from dominion, from the divine design. Adam sinned, and the authority over the earth slipped from his grip, spilled like blood from pierced hands, and chaos crept in like a thief through one act of disobedience.
Yet Heaven had a plan. The Second Adam stepped in. Not made from dust, but descended from glory, wrapped in flesh to rewrite the story. Jesus—Son of Man, Son of God— walked where Adam fell, stood where sin broke lives, and carried a cross of salvation up a hill of redemption.
And when He died— Oh, when He died— they pierced His side.
Not coincidence. Covenant.
For just as the first woman came from Adam’s side, so now from Christ’s wounded side, the Church was born. Not bricks or steeples, but a living, breathing, blood-washed people. Bound by the bloodline of a Savior who surnamed us—called us family
From His side, we rise. From His pain, we proclaim. From His sacrifice, we unite— not scattered seeds, but one body, one Spirit, one eternal name.
So when you ask who I am, I say:
I am from the side. The pierced place. The precious space. I am born not of man’s will, but of Heaven’s decree.
I am church
From sin set free
Afterword: This poem was inspired by a sermon my pastor preached a few weeks ago, where he drew the spiritual parallel between the creation of woman from Adam’s side and the birth of the Church from the pierced side of Christ—His bride. I had never made that connection before, and it stirred something deep within me. I sat with it, let it take root, and out of that reflection, this piece was born.
Beforeword: “The Chosen” retells the biblical account of a woman who bled for twelve years—likely battling what we now know as endometriosis. Doctors failed her. Society shunned her. But her faith pressed through the crowd and reached for the hem of healing. With one touch, she drew virtue from Jesus. The way this act was portrayed in “The Chosen” tugged at my heart and inspired this poem about a bold, desperate, and unshakeable kind of faith.Mark 5:25–34
Twelve years. Twelve long, leaking, limping years. Not of just blood, but of being bled— by shame, by silence, by systems that said: “You’re unclean.” “You’re unworthy.” “Stay unseen.”
She was hemorrhaging more than her body could bear— her hope dripped slow, like her dignity, into dusty streets that never remembered her name.
But this—this is a story of a woman who reached when religion said “Don’t.” Who touched when culture said “Stay back.” Who dared to believe healing was not just possible— but personal.
She said, “If I but touch the hem…” Not his hand. Not his face. Just the fringe of grace. She didn’t need center stage, just the edge of mercy.
And when her fingers found the thread— Power moved. Time froze. Heaven stood still.
And He said, “Who touched me?”
Not out of rebuke, but revelation.
She came trembling, expecting judgment, but found joy. Expecting condemnation, but got confirmation.
He didn’t call her “woman.” Didn’t say “healed one.” Didn’t say “formerly unclean.”
He called her— Daughter.
And the world shifted.
Because God doesn’t rename without reason. When He calls you something new, it’s not just a title— it’s a territory. It’s the unlocking of destiny. An announcement of assignment. A sign that your suffering was not wasted— it was womb.
Daughter.
That’s not just comfort— that’s commission. That’s “Welcome to the family.” That’s “Your faith just opened a door.” That’s “You have access to more.”
Because every new name in the Bible was a passport into purpose: Abram to Abraham—father of nations. Jacob to Israel—wrestler turned warrior. Simon to Peter—reed to rock.
And now: Unknown to Daughter. Outcast to Heir. Bleeding to Blessed. She didn’t just get healed— She got elevated.
So now, when you feel unseen— When your wounds whisper you’re not worthy— When the crowd calls you forgettable— Remember: Faith rewrites stories. And sometimes all it takes is a reach.
For the God who knows your name is waiting to call you something greater. Something weightier. Something woven in love.
Daughter.
Because your healing isn’t the end— It’s your beginning. Your new domain. Your new name.
Who are you? A mother. A father. A CEO. A pastor. A judge behind the bench, a teacher in the class, A voice in the crowd or the first, not the last.
We throw it around— “Just do you.” Sounds cute, right?! I’ve said it too. Like it’s a mantra. A mirror. A mood. But what if “do you” Is misunderstood?
What if— Your identity’s not in the job, the title, the crew? Not in the flex, or the fame, or the things you do? Your identity— Is rooted in what you give your heart to. And if you gave it to the One who made you, Wouldn’t that shift the whole view?
See— To “do you” You must know you. Not the version crafted by culture and code, But the truth that was spoken Before time even flowed.
Who does God say you are? Not broken. Not lost. Not barely getting by. You— Are a child of the Most High.
But if you don’t see yourself in this divine design, You might be whispering—“Fix me,” Not boldly declaring—“Do me.”
And let’s be real— You can’t fix yourself When you didn’t form yourself. You are not your own creator. So how can you be your own savior?
Truth is, When you know whose you are, You’ll know who you are. And when you know who you are, You won’t just “do you”— You’ll live true. Aligned. On purpose. Brand new.
She’s not the one to chase if you’re still running from yourself if your soul is a question mark if your dreams are still waiting in line for you to claim them if you’re still figuring out relationship goals, lost in a maze of exploration
She’s for when you’re ready— ready to rise ready to strive ready to build something real ready to love not just pass time
Now—
She’s not the one to curse you out but don’t mistake her class for naïveté her elegance for submission her silence for permission her loyalty for weakness
She speaks in measured tones but don’t get it twisted— she will not be subjugated not by what masks as love not by fear not by the weight of someone else’s uncertainty
She’s walked through too many storms to be swayed by a drizzle she’s built too much of herself to shrink into someone else’s confusion
If you’re still figuring out who you are still tracing the outline of a future you can’t commit to? she’s not the one keep walking— but don’t look for her in the shadow of your uncertainty your searching your wandering
It started as a digital tidying But there in the sanctity of my contact list: names to numbers I hadn’t dialed I couldn’t dial anymore Gone. Not lost in a move, not ghosting in silence— but gone. Ashes to ashes Dust to dust Gone.
Each tap of “delete contact” felt like a tremor in my chest. We were the same age range Grew into adulthood side by side, laughed through the recklessness of youth, grew wiser, grew weary, and now some have simply stopped growing.
I stared at their names before letting go— as if one more second on my screen could keep them tethered to this life.
Death It just lingers— in old photos, in stories we still tell, in the echo of their number no longer in service.
And now, my list is shorter. My heart, heavier. Not just for them, but for what it means— that I, too, am walking the edge of a vanishing point: Mortality
Life is fragile. I knew it. But now I feel it— in every deleted name, in every quiet reminder that I am still here and they are not.
Beforeword: We end this journey where all true journeys with God should lead—love. The kind of love that transforms. The kind of love that sees God in each other. The kind of love that doesn’t just stay hidden away in the privacy of our prayers but spills out into our words, our actions, our world. In this final week of April, as I conclude the restorative quest of birthMONTH 2025, I embrace love as choice, action, power!
Join me in making this last week a celebration of the greatest calling we have been given: to love and be loved.
The Shape of Love
Love looks like open hand to hold, console It sounds like laughter shared with no abandon Like forgiveness offered before words come easy
Love wears every color speaks every language holds every story
It is patient in the waiting It is fierce in the protecting It is gentle when the world is harsh
Love is not something we earn— it is Someone Someone we meet again and again until we learn to live as if love is all we have Because it is Because He is
Love is God reaching for us before we knew how to reach back Love chases— pursues the hearts that keep running Like a bridge, it carries over troubled waters
Love is the beginning, the journey, the home.
The challenge: How to participate
In these last days of April, look for small ways to show love—send a word of encouragement, listen deeply to someone, forgive quickly, offer help without being asked, or spend unrushed time with someone who needs it.
Begin each day with a simple prayer: “God, show me how to love today.”
Beforeword: A poetic meditation on the sacred arc of Holy Week. Each poem will capture the essence of a pivotal day—Good Friday’s deep sacrifice, Holy Saturday’s aching silence, and Resurrection Sunday’s glorious salvation. Together, they invite you into reflection, reverence, and renewed hope. May these poems stir your spirit and draw you closer to the heart of the Easter story.
See the cross on the hill? Can you hear it— the echo of nails driven deep, the labored breath, the whispered prayers between the pain?
Darkness gathers, pressing in, watching, waiting, smirking.
Satan leans in close, fingers steepled, smile slow. “This time,” he hisses, “This time, the light goes out for good.” And for a silent Saturday, it seemed like he was right.
His breath—stolen. His body—wrapped. The tomb—sealed. The sky—mute. The earth—still. Mary weeps, John trembles, Peter remembers the rooster’s crow and drowns in regret, The disciples scatter like leaves in the wind, Hope lies buried behind a stone.
But wait. Listen. There’s a rumble in the dark. The grave shudders. Stone grinds against stone. The breathless King— inhales.
And just like that— Death loses its sting. The heartbeat of eternity kicks open the door of death.
And the stone— the stone rolls back like a defeated tide. The grave gasps, Satan stumbles, Heaven’s angels sing, “He is not here. He is risen.”
Do you hear it now? The sound of victory echoing through time? The whisper of mercy rewriting history? The roar of love that death could never hold?
Let the mourning turn to dancing. Let the silence break into song. Let the world know— Sunday speaks. And the grave has no reply.
My poem, “Sunday Speaks” which focuses on Jesus’ resurrection was showcased in a dedicated featured post by Dagmara and the team over at Spillwords. I’m truly grateful.
Please drop by Spillwords and give my work some love!
Beforeword: A poetic meditation on the sacred arc of Holy Week. Each poem will capture the essence of a pivotal day—Good Friday’s deep sacrifice, Holy Saturday’s aching silence, and Resurrection Sunday’s glorious salvation. Together, they invite you into reflection, reverence, and renewed hope. May these poems stir your spirit and draw you closer to the heart of the Easter story.
Saturday Was Silent
Saturday was silent— not a holy hush, but a penetrating, deep silence. A silence that reached the portals of heaven, A silence that echoed in the hearts of men, A silence that rang through the corridors of time, touching the cosmos so that: The sun dimmed its fire. The heavenly hosts hushed, as if afraid to speak out of turn. The song of creation paused, mid-note. The universe—watching still— whispered among itself, “Was this the plan? Is this the end of mercy’s reign?”
The disciples dazed— dreams unraveling. They had seen Him— walk on water, raise the dead, breathe peace into storms— and now? He was the one entombed, sealed behind a stone?
Without the shepherd the sheep scattered like dust in the wind, hope gutted, hearts hollow. Peter still tasting his own betrayal, John clutching pain where once beat a thunderous love, Mary— aching, no more place to collect her tears.
The unfallen worlds leaned in, uncertain now. How could the Author be erased from His own page? What was Saturday supposed to be? A pause? A reset? They had seen the war rage, a third of heaven deposed, but Never the Word silenced. Never the Light buried.
Heaven wept. Counted every rotation of an earth trying to orbit without its center.
And beneath— hell threw its victory party. Satan smiled, a grin too wide, too wicked. Death bowed, received its applause. The grave stood tall. They whispered through cracks the cross made in creation: “This is it. Let the curtain fall. Saturday is silent, forever!”
What they did not know— was that silence isn’t always surrender. Sometimes, God holds His breath before He speaks the loudest word.
But, On that Saturday— the world didn’t know that. On that Saturday, it just hurt. They just wept. They just waited, afraid.
Beforeword: A poetic meditation on the sacred arc of Holy Week. Each poem will capture the essence of a pivotal day—Good Friday’s deep sacrifice, Holy Saturday’s aching silence, and Resurrection Sunday’s glorious salvation. Together, they invite you into reflection, reverence, and renewed hope. May these poems stir your spirit and draw you closer to the heart of the Easter story.
Friday, The Longest Night
The Via Dolorosa—a path of pain Through narrow streets, beneath the jeering crowd He bore the weapon of His demise Each step a testament to enduring love The cross, His burden Our salvation, His aim
This was the hour The great reckoning The weight of a world’s sin pressed into His wounds, wrung from His lips a cry that shook eternity: “Father! My Father! Why have You forsaken me?!
The Innocent condemned The Creator crushed The King dethroned The sky wept The sun turned its face as if the heavens themselves could not bear to look The unfallen worlds held their breath— watching, waiting, as Love was lifted high
Above, the hosts of heaven stirred— Hands on hilts Wings poised for flight Their hearts burned to intervene, to descend with righteous fury, to rescue their Lord from mortal anguish Yet the Father’s silent command restrained For the cup must be drained, the sacrifice must be completed
And below, The serpent coiled at the foot of the cross Hissing triumph, spitting scorn: “Look at Him now! Powerless. Forsaken. Is this your mighty God?”
Pierced hands stretched wide between judgment and mercy
A gasp. A groan. A final breath, torn from a broken body expelled three words of finality— “It. Is. Finished.” Words that rolled from time’s beginning They shuddered the earth, It quaked They gripped the temple veil, It tore But still, He chose to hang there— Extended Silent Still Life slipping away
And then—nothing.
The air grew thick with mourning The heavens dimmed The earth held its grief Angels turned their faces, unsure, uncertain, for the first time afraid
No voice from heaven. No chariots of fire. Just silence. Just darkness. Just death.
The body wrapped. The stone sealed. The tomb cold. He laid.
Could this be it? Was this the end?
And all of creation asked the question that no one dared answer—
Beforeword: Today, I reached back for my younger self.
Standing at the threshold of change, on the edge of something new, there are things I need her to remember.
She’s walked this road before and this time, I needed to reassure her—we’ll be okay—so I wrote her this reminder in poetry:
Hey little one— You’re only two, wide-eyed, standing at the door of the world, Taking it all in, piece by piece, Not knowing yet the weight of the questions That will settle on your shoulders— Where do I belong? Who am I? And whose am I?
Somedays, you’ll feel lost, Caught between here and there, Between this and that, Betwixt and between— Displaced in your emotions Like a traveler with no map, Like a song missing a beat.
But listen— You will find yourself. You will find your way. You will find your voice. You will find your strength.
Fast forward— You’re on your way to university now. And girl, this is where the spark ignites. The fire in your belly will burn for justice, For voices unheard, for lives unseen. You’ll stand tall, speaking truth, Championing the fight against violence, Lifting up those who thought they had no wings.
It won’t be easy. The challenges will be mountainous, But you, my love, we were built to climb. And when they call the top achievers at graduation— Guess who’s standing tall? Yeah, that’s you. Top of your class. Unstoppable. Unbreakable.
You, my dear, you are a seeker, A wanderer with purpose. The world is calling, and you will answer. Your dreams will take you across oceans, Through cities humming with stories And villages whispering wisdom. And everywhere you go, you will leave footprints Not just on soil, But on hearts.
But before you go too far, Listen up. I don’t want you to ever forget. There are lessons I learned that you need to carry in your heart’s pocket:
One: Never, ever take your relationship with God for granted. He’s your anchor in the storm, your light when the night feels endless. Pray first. Move after.
Two: Trust your instincts. Take risks. Fall down, get up, laugh, repeat. Be gentle with yourself—you are stronger than you know. And baby girl, you’ve got bounce-back-ability.
Three: Forget fitting in—you were made to stand out. The tallest girl in the room, rocking four-inch heels like a queen. Own it, flaws and all.
Four: Live by what sets your soul on fire. Not by status quo, not by what they say you should be. Write. Speak. Empower. Be the force only you can be. Let no one put a price tag on your worth.
Five: Choose your tribe wisely. You won’t be the girl with a lot of friends. But the ones you have. They’ll be ride or die. Hold on to them. They’ll catch you when you fall, celebrate you when you rise.
And just as she was about to leave I wanted to be sure she heard me on this — so I pulled her into a tight hug and in her ears I whispered deep:
Life will challenge you. Some days will feel like a storm, But sunshine will always break through. You will smile more than you cry, You will gain more than you lose, You will love, And oh— You will be loved.
Go, Live loud, live bold, With fire, with love, be brave. And when you look back, You’ll see— Through it all, You were always gonna be, okay.
Beforeword: Welcome to week 3 of my birthMONTH journey — a sacred pause, a time to reflect, to renew, and to realign heart. This week is restoration. You don’t have to travel to a tropical island to be renewed (though it doesn’t hurt!). God invites us to experience deep healing and soul-refreshing restoration wherever we are.
Restoration means allowing God to meet us in our broken, tired, or weary places—and trusting that He is making all things new.
Restore Me Again
Restore me again, O Breath of Life— where I’ve been running on empty, where days seem like one long night, where the spark has dimmed, and joy feels like distant memory too far to reach.
Yeah … meet me there.
In the middle of the mess. In the depths of my spirit. In the quiet that screams louder than noise. Meet me in the hush where healing takes place.
Restore me— not to who I used to be, but to the me You dreamed when You first said, “Let there be.”
Pour peace into places I didn’t even know were bleeding. Shower mercy into the cracks I’ve tried to hide. Let Your love rebuild what I thought was lost— not back to before, but forward into what is to be.
Take the broken pieces, the bruised hopes, the delayed dreams— and breathe new meaning into them.
Make beauty rise where ashes lay. Make purpose bloom where doubt once sway.
Restore me again. And again. And again— until I shine with the glow of Your purpose, until I walk in the unconditionality of Your love, until my rest becomes Your testimony in me.
Restore me again, O Breath of Life.
The challenge: How to participate
This week, take intentional time each day to create space for restoration. That might mean
sitting quietly with God for 10 minutes,
journaling about a place where you need healing,
walking in nature,
or even taking a restorative nap without guilt.
Restoration is an act of surrender. It invites God to do the work of healing while we rest in a “soul vacation” in Him—right where we are—giving Him access to our tired hearts.
Who’s ready to make space for wholeness this week?
Beforeword: Praise is more than celebration—it’s surrender, trust, and presence. When we choose to praise, even in difficulty, we shift our hearts toward God’s faithfulness.
Praise reverberates from grateful heart A song that rises when words fall short It’s more than melody, more than a rhyme— It’s choosing joy in the uncertain time
It’s the quiet thanks in the busyness of the day The whispered hallelujah when cloudy is the way It’s lifting our eyes when we’d rather look down And finding our voice when sorrows abound
Praise is a posture, humble and true It’s a way of saying, “God, I trust You” It’s dancing on the ashes, singing through the pain Believing that sunshine still follows rain
I will praise in the breaking Praise in the bloom Praise in the silence Praise in the gloom Where answers are absent, or there is fear This I know—God is still worthy year after year
The challenge: How to participate
Be intentional about living in a state of gratitude—being in awe and appreciation no matter what’s happening.
Let’s fill the week with gratitude that flows into praise.
Beforeword: True abundance isn’t measured by what we have but by how we see. Abundance in gratitude is a shift from a mindset of lack, opening our eyes to the richness of God’s provision all around us.
Abundance is the morning light, spilling through my window, a whispered promise in the quiet like mercy, it comes again.
Abundance is the breath I breathe, easy, unworried, full and free, pulse of grace— the gift unearned yet freely given to me.
Abundance is the laughter shared, the hand outstretched, the love that stays, the meal made warm, the prayer made whole, the kindness woven through my days.
It isn’t wealth, it isn’t store— not counted coins nor things possessed, but how my heart receives in simple joys, in peace, in rest.
Here I stand with open hands, not grasping tight but ebb and flow, for what God gives is always full— enough to take, enough to sow.
And this year, I’m celebrating in a special way—by stepping back from the hustle and bustle of life. Instead of just marking another year, I want to embrace this month as a sacred pause, a time to reflect, renew, and realign my heart.
And I want to invite you to join me in this journey.
I will be guided by five words—one for each week—that form an acrostic:
Abundance – Shifting focus from scarcity to sufficiency.
Praise – Living in gratitude.
Restoration – Being open to healing and renewal.
Intimacy – Deepening connections.
Love – Living in and through love.
Each week, I will share a poem inspired by the theme and a challenge to help us embody it in our daily lives.
We are whole— Strong. Unshaken. Shaped by history’s hands, fired in the kiln of time. But when the weight of patriarchy pressed too hard— Cracks appeared.
What does the world do with women it tries to break? It tries to—
Dismiss them. Silence them. Bury them.
They say once something fractures, it can never be the same again. That the scars will always tell a story of loss, of defeat, of what can never be reclaimed.
But they are wrong.
Because struggle is not the end. The fight is part of the becoming.
Kintsugi—golden repair— Not to erase the cracks, Not to hide our place in HIS-story, but to illuminate our legacy— our resistance, our resilience, our power. To honor our voices. To make them art.
So let us treat our pain that way. Let every crack of injustice, every fracture of oppression, every attempt to silence us be transformed—not hidden, but held.
What if… our wounds weren’t wounds at all, but spaces waiting to be filled with something precious?
What if… our struggle wasn’t our ruin, but our revolution?
What if we take this pain, these centuries of resistance, this history soaked in defiance, and forge something new?
What if like seeds, we grow Piercing through, defying the -isms of oppression
What if we melt down discrimination into gold, pour it into the cracks, and let it bind us together— not in spite of our struggle, but because of it?
We do not bow. We do not break. We rise.
We are not just survivors. We are warriors. We are visionaries. We are unstoppable.
Mirror, mirror on the wall not for vanity at all but for reflection’s call Now the whispers grow louder, not from the world, but from within.
It was never just about beauty. Not the tilt of your chin, or the grace in your walk— but the fire in your voice when you finally stopped asking for permission.
You look back not with regret, but with awe at how far you’ve come. Bearing the stories of survival, You thrive Not confined to the borders drawn by others.
They can stare. Let them. Their curiosity can’t contain you. Their silence can’t stop you.
You are light, and shadow, and the spectrum in between. You are allowed to take up space. To be loud. To be seen. To simply be— the imperfectly perfect you.
2025 All Rights Reserved Image Facebook/unknown source
In the beginning, before the rush, the grind, the deadlines, before the calendars filled themselves like storm clouds, before work became a badge of worth, God stopped.
He shaped the world with words, spoke light into being, breathed life into dust, separated waters, stretched out the heavens— and then, He did something radical. God rested.
Not because He was tired. Not because He ran out of ideas. Not because He needed a break before the next big thing. But because stopping was part of the design.
God stopped working. Not to be more productive later. Not to maximize efficiency. Not to hustle harder tomorrow. But to see, to savor, to call it good.
And yet, here we are— worn thin like paper pressed too hard, calling exhaustion ambition, calling busyness purpose, calling depletion devotion.
But what if stopping was sacred? What if rest wasn’t a luxury, but a law written into our bones? What if we weren’t made for the race, but for the rhythm— work and then cease, create and then breathe, to remember that we are not the sum of what we produce?
God stopped working. And maybe, just maybe, we should too.
Let joy sneak up on you Like the first breath of spring after a long winter Like an old song you forgot you loved
Let wonder catch you off guard Like a child chasing fireflies Like laughter spilling out at the wrong moment
Loosen your grip on what must be Let the unplanned The unexpected The beautifully uncertain Reshape what you thought you knew
Not everything needs an explanation Not every step needs a map Some of life’s best moments arrive unannounced, wrapped in the ordinary, waiting to be noticed
Let life interrupt your plans Turn left when you expected right Not every answer is yours to hold Some things are best discovered in the space between knowing and not knowing
So open your hands Open your heart And, Stay surprise-able
Facebook reminded me of this post I made on that platform in 2019!!!Different platform, different dates, but the sentiments of the message remains the same — stay surprise-able!
Heaven is not still. Not now. Not when the hourglass is down to its last grains of sand.
The throne room pulses, electric with anticipation, the atmosphere thick with expectancy. The angels shift in place, their coronation songs echo in celestial halls. They know their next cry will not be soft, but a trumpet blast so fierce it will shake graves open, call sleeping saints from their slumber, and send the living skyward their burdens abandoned in the wind.
And there—on the edge of His throne— Jesus leans forward. One foot planted in the courts of heaven, the other pressing against the rim of the earth. His gaze is locked on a world unraveling, His hands grip the armrests, His voice a whisper beneath His breath: “Father, is it time?”
Heaven holds its breath.
Guardian angels stand at attention, hearts pounding with urgency Rehearsing the stories they will soon tell— of unseen battles, of near-death moments turned miracles, of the countless times they blocked, protected, shielded, intervened, and whispered: “Hold on just a little while longer.”
Below—chaos is raging.
The earth is squirming in agony— its bones fractured by quakes, its lungs scorched by fire, its veins flooded by tsunamis and storms. Cities are crumbling, nations are falling, war drums thundering, famine spreading, and the air is thickening with the stench of genocide, infanticide, suicide.
Men’s hearts failing them for fear— fear of the unknown, fear of the inevitable, fear that the darkness is winning. Lawlessness rises like smoke, murder stains the streets, red Despair grips the souls of the broken.
And hell? Hell is unhinged.
Demons are moving amidst the earth without restraint, their assault — reckless their attacks — relentless because they know their time is just about… up.
And heaven? Heaven is about to move.
A white horse stands ready. Its rider breathes in the last moments of waiting. He’s about to exchange His ministering gown for Kingly robes, clothed in righteousness, His eyes ablaze with justice, His name inscribed for all to see: King of Kings! Lord of Lords!
No manger this time. No wooden cross. No crown of thorns pressed into his brow.
This time, He rides in power! This time, He comes in glory!
The sky is about to shatter like glass, The heavens will soon roll back like a scroll, and the sound of His name will shake the foundations of the earth.
Every knee will bow— willingly or by force. Every tongue will confess— in joy or in terror.
And in that moment, when heaven and earth collide, eternity will kiss mortality, sorrow will be swallowed up in defeat, the grave will lose its victory and the King will gather His own— Thundering the words they have longed to hear: “It is finished! Welcome home!”
Hold fast. The King is on the edge. The command—“Go! Go get My children!” That time is almost… now.
To the woman that you were— I see you. Standing in storms that tried to break you, yet you bent like the willow, never snapping, never folding. You held your ground, turned pain into power, turned silence into voice, turned fear into fuel. I admire your resilience, your unshaken resolve, your quiet strength when the world tried to tell you to hush.
To the woman you are— Your journey is not complete. But oh, how far you’ve come! You walk now with wisdom earned in fire, scars that no longer bleed but blaze— reminders that you lived, that you learned, that you are still here. You hold space for growth and grace, shed doubt like autumn leaves, rooted deep in lessons you once feared. You are the bridge between who you were and the promise of who you will be.
To the woman you’re becoming— You are a whisper of dreams realized, a vision not yet fully seen, but I know you’re there, waiting. A phoenix rising, a story still unfolding, a force stepping boldly into her becoming. You carry all that was, but you are free to be. No chains, no fear, no limits— only the boundless sky ahead.
Beforeword: Whenever multiple planets become visible to the naked eye, it is often referred to as a planetary alignment. On the other hand, a planetary parade describes the breathtaking phenomenon where planets appear to form a “straight line,” as if marching in unison across the night sky. This cosmic event is usually of 4, 5 or 6 planets but 7 is quite rare. On 28 February 2025, 7 planets perfectly aligned, displaying the grandeur and harmony of the universe, a fleeting spectacle that connects us to the vastness beyond our world.
This shadorma captures the essence of this rare cosmic dance across the February 28th night sky.
Planetary Parade
Mercury
Plus Mars, Jupiter,
Uranus
Neptune joined
Rare—seven planets aligned
Venus, Saturn too
#Shadorma is a six-line (sextain) poetic form with a syllabic pattern of 3-5-3-3-7-5.
The zero-sum game in love is always lose-lose, never win-win. 100% or nothing.
Love measured in fractions isn’t love at all because —
Love demands presence, not pretense; commitment, not calculation.
When one must lose for the other to win, both hearts bear the cost.
True love, like true success, multiplies rather than divides, expands rather than contracts.
The moment love becomes a competition, it ceases to be love and becomes a transaction—one where everyone walks away empty-handed/hearted.
The same is true in life—the zero-sum game in life is always lose-lose, never win-win. 100% or nothing.
Progress in life, built on someone else’s loss is not progress at all because—
True advancement uplifts rather than undermines.
When one person’s success comes at the expense of another’s dignity, opportunity, or well-being, it is not progress—it is exploitation disguised as achievement.
This is the fallacy that fuels resistance to gender equality: the mistaken belief that when women gain, men must lose.
But gender equality is not a competition—it’s a collective advancement.
A world where women thrive is a world where everyone benefits.
Stronger economies, healthier families, more just societies—these are not prizes won at someone’s expense but shared victories that uplift us all.
True equality doesn’t divide; it multiplies.
The only real win is one we build together.
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Beforeword: This piece was commissioned by a bride who was renewing her wedding vows and wanted a piece to cover her walk down the aisle. It was to start with visualizing her love relationship with God, then the love relationship between her and her husband and culminate in imagining what it would be like to have a face-to-face encounter with God.
When a piece is commissioned I usually consult with the client to get the backstory to create a piece that is personal and reflective of the context the client wishes to convey. In this case the client gave me a song as muse. On the day, the piece was narrated to that song: “I Can Only Imagine”.
Although You have proven Yourself to be true
And there is nothing else You will ever have to do to show Your love, to prove Your faithfulness
To reassure me that You are love, you are faithful, that You hold nothing from my past against me—in You I’m forgiven, renewed
What manner of love is this?
A love that loves me, restores me, completes me
Now I stand at the beginning of a path to walk
To walk in whole-completeness
In His perfect love
Fear casted out perfectly
Perfect love remains resolutely
And me—I remain in Him
Whole—a state of being
I could only imagine
And you, who are you?
Who is this man that I will walk to?
I see in you the embodiment of Christ
His on-earth love to me personified
A glimpse, a manifestation of His in-glory love for me
But I will not mistake His place for you
In my life, He comes first
For it is He who first loved me
Before you, He engraved me in the palm of His hands
Before you, He emptied Himself of everything
He gave Himself for me, for you
I walk in His love to recommit my life to you
Can you imagine?
I imagine you, my arrival awaiting
Like the church, His bride, expecting His returning
I imagine you, me, wondering what we may feel, anticipating
Will our feet allow us to dance?
Or our voices allow us to speak?
Standing still or prostrate falling?
Dumbfounded or shouts of hallelujahs exclaiming?
What will our eyes see?
What will our thoughts be?
You and me, His majesty beholding
Nothing will compare
Check the reference, if you don’t believe me:
1st book to the Corinthians, in the 2nd chapter and the 9th verse you’ll read—
No eyes have seen, no ears have heard, nor has it even entered within any heart to conceive
In the splendor of His grace
We’ll stand together, husband and wife
To behold Him face to face
I can only imagine
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Today, millions will watch as two teams battle for supremacy on US football’s biggest stage—the Super Bowl. It’s a contest of strategy, resilience, and sheer willpower, where overcoming the opponent is the ultimate goal. But beyond the field, another battle rages—the fight to overcome the noise, pollution, war, hypocrisy, and fear that permeate our world.
Love cannot simply exist passively in the atmosphere
I was struck by fellow blogger Yassy’s poem that challenged the well known adage “love is in the air” by, in essence asking: or is it?! She does so by painting a stark, unfiltered picture of current reality. A reality where the air seems to be permeating with everything but love. It’s a poignant reminder that love cannot simply exist passively in the atmosphere; it must be cultivated, lived, and made tangible.
I was also struck by a verse from the Bible which happened to be something I read today as well. In a world so aptly described in Yassy’s poem, the Bible offers this antidote: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12:21). And other religious texts contain similar message about overcoming evil with good.
Love must rise louder than the chaos
Just as teams fight to outplay their opponents, we are called to outlive, outshine, and outlove the darkness around us. Love must rise louder than the chaos, transforming not just hearts but the very air we breathe.
If love is in the heart, then it must also be in our voices, actions, and presence—overcoming hate, fear, and injustice. Love is not silent. It does not retreat. It sings, shouts, and clears the air.
This reflection inspired my poem, using the #Dectina Refrain form:
Love Lives Loud
Heart Beating Love resounds Drowning out hate Piercing the darkness Cutting through hopelessness Rising beyond warplanes and lies Spreading joy, light, displacing fear Truth cleansing air, shifting atmosphere Heart beating, love resounds, drowning out hate
Heart beating, love resounds, drowning out hate Truth cleansing air, shifting atmosphere Spreading joy, light, displacing fear Rising beyond warplanes and lies Cutting through hopelessness Piercing the darkness Drowning out hate Love resounds Beating Heart
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Before-word: On the morning of 1st February my phone rang. My heart knew instinctively it was no ordinary call—but I was not prepared for this: “Betty passed.”
Elizabeth “Betty” Talbert, Country Representative for the United Nations Population Fund, Caribbean Subregional Office. May her soul rest in eternal peace.
In processing life’s highs and its lows, I often turn to words. This time was no exception—not just to mark the passing of a life, but to offer a reminder to those of us left behind.
Serving as international civil servants is no small feat. It takes its toll on our bodies, our families, our lives—and yet, amid it all, there is life.
This is not just a tribute to a life lost, but a call to live fully in each moment, to honor the gift of time, and to remember that even in death, we are reminded to cherish living and life.
In Her Memory, We Live
Life is fragile— A delicate thread stretched too thin, woven with moments that slip through our fingers like grains of sand too swift to grasp. The pulse, the breath, so sure in its rhythm one second, then faltering the next.
Death—in its physical form— a stillness that steals the breath, leaving nothing but the echo of a once beating heart. It doesn’t ask permission— it simply arrives, uninvited, claiming the space we once occupied and leaving us with nothing but memory to carry the weight of what was.
But there is a death— one that creeps in unnoticed, the slow fading of light, the quiet erosion of self— the death of the spirit when the spark of divinity is dimmed, and the soul wanders in a vast, empty place where prayers fall silent and even faith grows tired.
Then there is a death— a withering of joy, a loss of hope, a weight of sorrow that bends the spirit and the heart beats only because it must. You stand in the ruins of yourself, facing a reflection you no longer recognize, and wonder when you became a ghost in your own life living in emotional death.
The end of connection, the severing of bonds that once held you close. A love that once bloomed now wilts under the weight of words unspoken, of wounds too deep to heal. When the silence between you grows louder than anything you ever shared, and the phrase “you’re dead to me” lays the foundation for relational death. It’s a slow farewell to everything you once built.
Death, in all its forms, takes what it pleases, but it also leaves the quiet aftermath where nothing is ever truly the same.
Still, in the ashes of loss, there is the possibility of rebirth. For even in the deepest shadows, there is the promise of light, the faintest glow on the horizon, the hope that tomorrow, we rise again.
For the truest death is not the one that steals breath, but the one that robs life of living, the one that leaves us standing still, afraid to move toward the light that still calls us home. It is the death of hope, the quiet surrender of our dreams, the moment we forget to reach beyond the shadows that loom o’er the only true life— the courage to keep moving, toward what is yet to come.
“When death finds you, may it find you alive.” (an African proverb)
Before-word: At the start of Black History Month (USA), this is a declaration of self-worth—unapologetically claiming space and authenticity in a world that rushes to erase difference. In a time of deliberate pushback against rights, equality, diversity, and inclusion, this piece stands as an affirmation: We are enough. Whole. Complete. We belong. And we are undeniably deserving of the rights that are inherently ours—by virtue of being human.
I am enough. Not almost. Not maybe. Not if only. Not someday. I am already—enough!
I have enough of what I need to be the exceptional me Not a watered-down, shrink-to-fit version But the bold, distinctive, unstoppable me
I am enough! Worthy of love that doesn’t come with conditions Worthy of acceptance that doesn’t ask me to edit myself to fit someone else’s visions
I am enough! Every piece of me—flaws and all—God-stitched Created in brilliance Imperfections sculpted into strength I’m not here to erase or to apologize
I am enough! I won’t fade into the background Or try to fit into someone else’s selfie when I was made to standout in my own spotlight— That’s why I won’t dim my shine
And when the world tries to measure me by numbers, by titles, or by expectations I will remind it:
I am not defined by the weight of opinions or the shifting tides of approval
I am not a sum of my scars a reminder of my mistakes or a static product of my past
I am the story still unfolding the light that keeps shining the melody that won’t fade
I will not apologize for the way my laughter echoes like a song too bold to be silenced or for the way my body, my presence take up room I will not wait for permission to own my voice, to own my space, to own my destiny
I am enough! Enough is not the bare minimum— It is abundance It is power It is truth It is waking up whole even on the days I feel broken It is standing tall even when my knees tremble
So here I stand—out: Unapologetic. Proud. Unshaken. No more proving. No more waiting. No more asking permission.
As I stand As I breathe As I be I am enough—just as I am The effervescent, quintessential Me
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If these walls could talk, Their voices would crack like the floorboards beneath your feet, Worn down by years of footsteps that carried love and loss in equal measure
They’d tell of love, The kind that lingers in the scent of Sunday dinners, The faint echo of a lullaby, The creak of a rocking chair swaying long after the baby’s grown
They’d hum with the rhythm of life— Pulsating with the heart-drum of a family piecing themselves together, one imperfect day at a time
They’d whisper of quarrels, loud as thunder at the time, but now softened like rain, falling gently, nourishing the roots of forgiveness Voices raised, slamming doors, but always opening again with hands reaching, arms wide, inviting— “Come back, sit down, let’s talk”
Broken-down boards, their edges splintered but still holding steady
Leaking ceilings, stubbornly letting light drip through the cracks
Rusted shingles, their jagged edges like scars, each one a story of resilience
Stripping paint, layers peeling back to reveal every shade of life lived inside— a kaleidoscope of memory
And yet— Inside regales of a beauty that still blooms Faded wallpaper like the backdrop of dreams Grandma’s patchwork quilt draped over the couch Stitched together from cloths of generations past Created by hands that believed in warmth, in home, in staying
If these walls could talk, they’d tell you this: Even in decay, there is grace Even in ruins, there is history And even when the frame sags under its weight, a house holds its beauty in the love it has sheltered
So listen— To the silence that speaks volumes Listen to the cracks that echo strength listen to the walls that have always stood, not for themselves but for the stories they protect If only these walls could talk
Like Martin Luther King: “I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear”.
His words are oh so relevant in these times:
“I’m concerned about a better World. I’m concerned about justice; I’m concerned about brotherhood and sisterhood; I’m concerned about truth. And when one is concerned about that, he can never advocate violence. For through violence you may murder a murderer, but you can’t murder murder. Through violence you may murder a liar, but you can’t establish truth. Through violence you may murder a hater, but you can’t murder hate through violence. Darkness cannot put out darkness; only light can do that”.
Taken from MLK Jnr., “Where Do We Go From Here” speech.
It was an ordinary night the kind where stars whisper and the earth gently exhales A stable, no different than any other smelled of hay, sweat, and animals— not a palace, not a temple, just a room for the overlooked
An ordinary girl barely more than a whisper young, tired her heart swelling with both fear and faith An ordinary man steady, unsure trying to make sense of a divine plan that didn’t seem to make sense at all
Shepherds ordinary men with dirt under their nails watching their flocks used to the dark and the humdrum of silence never expecting the heavens to tear open with jubilation
And yet— in the ordinary extraordinary light broke through A star, brighter than reason daring to blaze where no star had blazed before An angel joined by a heavenly host declaring the birth of the extraordinary
Wise men called from distant lands following whispers of destiny written in the skies Gold, frankincense, myrrh— gifts fit for a King, cradled in a manger
The extraordinary gift of salvation wrapped in the fragile skin of a newborn the hope of eternity cradled by hands still learning their strength
And now, we stand on the edge of the same choice— to stay in the ordinary the safe, the unnoticed, the blend-in-and-fit-in life Or to step into the extraordinary the blaze-your-trail-walk-on-water-rise-above-the-noise kind of calling
Extraordinary is our design! How then can we fit in and stand out at the same time Step into the gift of being set apart Dare to dream beyond the dust to reach for the stars to bring heaven closer to earth
Christmas reminds us that the One who shattered the ordinary called us to the extraordinary
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Don’t die before you’re dead. Don’t let the grind of days steal the breath from your spirit Or the weight of worry cement your feet in place When death finds you Let it find you alive Let it find you with fire in your eyes With laughter tangled in your lungs And songs swelling in notes to the skies
Live. Live with joy like it’s a rebellion A refusal to let the darkness win Smile wide enough to crack the walls of your fears Let your curiosity roam untamed Chasing the edges of the horizon Like a child who believes the ocean is endless
Be audacious. Speak louder than the silence that tries to hold you Dare to dream when the world says, “Be small” Dance, even when the music is only in your head Run toward the things that scare you Because courage is not the absence of fear— It’s choosing to live fully in spite of it
Speak out. Don’t bear the agony of an untold story, not told Your voice dying within you, unheard Don’t sit still, pregnant with potential Never to give birth to your purpose Speak the truth etched on your soul Let your words carve pathways for others Let your gifts see the light of day A buried dream is a tragedy the world can never mourn
When the clock ticks Don’t just count the hours— Make them count When the seasons shift— Don’t mourn the leaves that fall, Celebrate the seeds you’ve sown
So when death comes knocking Let it find you alive Not half-lived or worn down by regret But shining with the audacity of a life fully embraced And the joy of knowing you left no moment unlived Don’t die before you’re dead
Afterword: The inspiration for this poem stems from: the proverb, “When death finds you, may it find you alive,” and Maya Angelou’s powerful words, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” These are part of my life motto and together they form the foundation of my “Why I Write” declaration, driving me to live fully and to ensure my voice is heard.
Love one another with brotherly affection (Romans 12:10) Bear one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2). Encourage one another and build one another up (1 Thessalonians 5:11) Live in harmony with one another (Romans 12:16) Forgiving one another as God in Christ forgave you (Ephesians 4:32)
Outdo one another in showing honor (Romans 12:10) Be at peace with one another (Mark 9:50) Through love, serve one another (Galatians 5:13) Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ (Ephesians 5:21) Let us stir up one another to love and good works (Hebrews 10:24)
Bear with one another in love (Ephesians 4:2) Confess your sins to one another, pray for one another (James 5:16). Do not grumble against one another (James 5:9) Welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you (Romans 15:7) Love one another, just as I have loved you (John 13:34)
Clothe yourselves in humility toward one another (1 Peter 5:5) Teaching and admonishing one another in wisdom (Colossians 3:16) Do not speak evil against one another (James 4:11) But exhort one another daily, while it’s called today (Hebrews 3:13) And above all— Let us love one another, for love is from God (1 John 4:7)
Afterword:
One of the greatest blessings of holidays like Christmas is how they bring us together, reminding us of the power of community and connection. But what if we extended this spirit of togetherness throughout the year? Would our homes, communities, and world be filled with more love? Would we see peace on earth and goodwill truly extended to all people?
The Bible is rich with “one another” statements—guiding principles that call us to live in harmony, serve with humility, and love unconditionally. These statements remind us that we are not meant to navigate life alone; they can only be fulfilled with… one another.
This cento weaves together these timeless “one another” verses. Though written over two thousand years ago, their message remains strikingly relevant today, offering a blueprint for unity, love, and hope in our lives and our world.
“Purpose drops in our laps as if the heavens threw it by accident” like a star slipping out of orbit like a word spoken out of turn yet somehow exactly what was meant to be said
It falls— heavy as a stone in still water light as a feather floating on the wind carrying weight and ease in equal measure
We don’t always know what to do with it— this gift disguised as a burden this question wrapped in the skin of an answer Do we cradle it like glass, fragile and precious? Or do we let it burn our palms, carving its truth into our skin?
The heavens may play coy but there are no accidents here Purpose lands exactly where it is supposed to— in trembling hands in restless hearts in the laps of those who thought they were sitting still but were actually waiting all along
It whispers: “Carry me, even if you stumble. Shape me, even if you break. Live me, and I will make you whole.”
Purpose drops in our laps as if the heavens threw it by accident
Afterword: A speech by Deshauna Barber delivered at an alumni event at the University Maryland global campus was the muse for this piece, inspired from this line: “purpose drops in our laps as if the heavens threw it by accident.”
I loved you long before I met you the sound of your laughter like the wind whispering through trees
Love is the rain we chase in summer the sound of bicycles rolling on cobbled streets a rhythm steady, like breathing
You are my confession my memories pressed in the pages of time
We are the poem that never ends the spark to light the night
There is no yesterday without you no tomorrow without us
Rest In Power Nikki Giovanni
Afterword: Prolific autor and poet Nikki Giovanni passed away today (December 10, 2024). She’s been a voice of change in the black power and black art movements. This tribute poem is based on her New York Times best seller “Bicycles: Love Poems”. It’s not quite a cento (I needed more time to write that) but it borrows from her work mainly on love—my favorite muse! Though she’s gone, love rolls on.
In a world we all know too well Women’s bodies bear violence—scarred A contested space, a battleground Where autonomy is a forlorn wish Where choice, stripped away and silenced, becomes A ghost of it’s once true self Where home is where the harm is How can love unfurl its wings? How can dreams find light when darkness lingers Where safety should sing?
For one in three women—intimacy’s touch turns violent Every 10 minutes—for one woman—intimacy’s touch turns turbulent As love’s promise becomes the cold hand of death With no right to say no, no right to say yes— When to bear life or when to hold it close Their own bodies betrayed by laws and customs, imposed Written by hands that will never know The weight of their words, death sentence proposed
Rape—A Weapon of War
In conflicts that rage beyond borders Male invasion, rape—a weapon of war—a tool, a tactic Conquering women’s flesh like spoils While in the hollow halls of the United Nations Resolutions inked by men with pens, spill Like blood, staining sheets Emptying hearts of life’s own source Yet, still, governments choose steel and flame Investing in war machines, no peace to gain Conflicts on women’s bodies play out, the ultimate price paid
Uprooted!
Uprooted! from their soil Women and girls drift like leaves falling from withering trees Their homes lost to gunfire, to flood, to flame Their world, quaking, shifting beneath their feet Displaced by war, exiled by climate’s rage They wander borderless, unanchored Carrying memories of lands once called home Searching for safety in a world, fractured No longer their own
New Dawn, Reborn
But now, imagine a dawn Reborn
A world rebuilt from root to sky Where hands that hold are only gentle Where bodies, once haunted, are fully free Imagine a world where choice is sacred Where every woman’s voice rings clear Her body is her sovereign land A place of power, of life, of joy
Imagine girls, unafraid to play With futures bright as the skies above And women, unbroken, now as rooted as trees No longer the spoils of collateral damage No longer bent beneath a burdened silence No longer survivors, but whole Free to choose, to create— They thrive
A World Beyond Fear
A world beyond fear, a world that is just Where equality stands as tall as the sequoia And equity flows as long as the river of the Nile Here, love needs no pen to promise, no ink to spill Every woman, every girl In freedom walks, unbounded— Potential fulfilled, a force unchained in change
Afterword: This poem commemorates the 16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence (November 25–December 10). In it I reflect on the injustices faced by women and girls globally, from violence in their homes to the denial of autonomy. It envisions a future of safety, equality, and justice, calling for action to uphold their rights and dignity. This is my life’s work!!
Written for W3 Poetry Prompt. Sarah Whiley, Poet of the Week, challenges us to write a poem inspired by the theme—free using the Dectina Refrain form. When I think of FREE-dom, one speech comes to mind: MLK’s “I Have a Dream”. This iconic speech was delivered on August 28, 1963, during the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.
This poem is in tribute to FREEdom—that it’s not just a dream but the reality for every person, everywhere.
Beforeword: A colleague with whom my friend co-chaired an internship program for students for over 25 years suddenly passed away. Now, standing before her students, their sad eyes looking back at her, she finds herself comforting them, holding back her own tears because, as she told me, she needed to be the adult in the room.Unable to be there to console her in person, I wrote and read this poem for her, hoping it offers some comfort from afar.
Read along and listen to: “Even The Adult In The Room Cries”:
How long will you stay caged in the could-have-been the should-have-done the moments you let slip through your hands?
How long will you wear the past like a collar like a weight that pulls you back like a shackle that stifles breath makes you small makes you stay?
The past is nothing but a paper tiger— it has no growl, it has no bite If you but move t’ward the light feel the warmth on your skin each step a defiance each breath a reclaiming
Regret may whisper but you are louder, still You are the breaking of chains the choosing of joy the walking away You are bound only to the future— where you run free where you rise where you live life, Unleashed
As autumn deepens— night stretches its long fingers pulling darkness over daylight ushering in longer, colder spells inviting leaves’ hidden hues once veiled to blaze forth in defiant, spectacular display they reveal splendors previously cloaked by summer’s green grasp a kaleidoscopic spectrum of colors unmasked as if they had swallowed sunsets waiting for their moment to exhale fire
Afterword: I’m a big fan of David Attenborough. This poem is influenced by one of his recent posts and associated photograph.
Help me, Most High, to live each day, so I can truly, humbly say:
I loved You with my whole heart And followed the path You set apart I chased my dreams with fearless stride Rising each time I stumbled or cried I won some battles, lost a few Never settled for less than what was true
I was kind to all I met Gave my best, without regret I was loved, and I loved well Laughed in joy, in gratitude dwelled May my joys outlast my sorrows And my triumphs light tomorrows
If I closed my eyes, then woke to find Life had slipped, like sand, through time
I pray I’d lived a life rich and deep No regrets, my soul in peace will sleep
I don’t know the end, the path ahead, unclear, but I will trust You, God, for You are always near. In the silence, or the storm, when shadows seem to press, I’ll walk in faith, not by sight, and trust You—nevertheless.
When doubt whispers lies, and fear clouds my view, I’ll cling to all You’ve promised, for I know Your word is true. When the world around me shifts, and I’m tempted to digress, I’ll anchor in Your love, oh God, and hold firm—nevertheless.
For You are the beginning, the faithful, guiding light, Though now I see through glass, darkly I know You’ll make it all, right. In victories and trials, in joy and deep distress, I’ll lift my eyes to heaven, and praise You—nevertheless.
So even in the tarrying, when answers seem delayed, I’ll rest within Your timing— I’ll no longer be afraid. I surrender all my striving, and leave behind the guess, I’ll follow where You lead me, Lord, trusting—nevertheless.
In the quiet park, I sit and breathe A goose glides by, casting its shadow beneath The river flows with high tide’s rise Reflecting the blue of endless skies
A wedding unfolds near the evergreen trees Laughter and vows carried by the breeze Sun rays dance on faces aglow Warming the scene with a golden show
Parents and babes, love tenderly shown In their own worlds where dreams have grown I watch it all in quiet delight The park turns tranquil as day turns to night
the kind passed down like heirlooms, a quilt of belonging, a patchwork of sacrifice stitched with hands that remember
Hope is laughter—
the sound of breaking cycles, the release of generational restraints off children who grow strong under the instructions of those who came before
Hope is political—
a movement, a pulse the fight for more than survival it’s claiming the right to thrive, for equality in power where power means change
Hope is social—
woven through our communities a collective will to lift each other to build bridges across time and dismantle the walls of what was once thought impossible
Hope is me, you—
vessels of dreams untold a reflection of ancestors’ prayers carrying their strength in our bones we are the bridge, the builder, the keeper of this flame that lights the way for those yet to come
Hope is the affirmative action of generational wealth—
more than money, it’s memory, it’s possibility, it’s dreaming in color, releasing hands that will build futures far beyond the limits of the past
A collection of writing by Dominic Riccitello — intimate conversations, personal essays, and poetic reflections on relationships, loss, and self-discovery.
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