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.”
Dear Mother Earth, where do you hurt? Your seas, your hills, your forests — are they tender to the touch? With 8 billion humans treading upon your surface do you tremble at your core? Is it a pain within, is it a pain without? Or is it both?
Mother Earth, we breathe of your air freely, yet live recklessly in your bounty We take and keep on taking while replacing you with so very little Still, from verdant valleys to mountains high your landscapes paint a breathtaking sky Through changing seasons, your cycles dance a consistent renewal waltz
From scars run deep within your glaciers melting, your tears turning to streams that swell Oceans covering places where islands once were Now they are no more
Mother Earth, is this pain too deep flickering flames now metastasizing fires’ rage, fiery tongues lashing Devouring all that could not withstand Turning forests to ash smoke cascading dimming the Skies, obscuring sun’s light from Canada to the USA across borders, a wake of destruction unfurling Embers dancing, fueled by winds’ cruel breath Smoke billowing forth, a somber cloak in the air
Through hazy skies, we get a glimpse of your wounded land A scar etched upon your surface, an anguish etched across your sky
Mother Earth, My heart burns with you, consuming with your fire My tears flow with you, cascading with your storms My body pains with you, thumping with your quakes How many more wake-up calls To cherish your wonders, protect them for all
In understanding Honor Mother Earth’s splendor Time is running out
2024 All Rights Reserved Republished 2025
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Beforeword: This week, the journey turns inward. After exploring God’s abundance, lifting up praise, and making space for restoration, we now lean into intimacy—not as a concept, but as a lived relationship.
Intimacy with God is not about perfection.
It’s not reserved for saints, monks, pastors, imam or priests. It’s available to each of us—right now, right where we are.
How does our friendships grow? It’s through time spent together, honesty, and presence, so does our closeness with God. He longs to walk with us in the details of our days, to hear our laughter, to hold our pain, to speak to us in the stillness, in the mundane.
This week is an invitation to draw closer—to speak freely, to listen deeply, and to rest in the nearness of a God who delights in you and calls you His son and His daughter—heirs!
Unending Conversations
With all there is to say to God— the thanksgiving, the praise, the adoration, the questioning…
the joy, the sorrow, the loss, the longing, the aching…
the wonderings and what-ifs, the near-misses, the could-have-beens—
my prayers become unending conversations.
They unfold with eyes wide open, or tightly closed, while I stand still or kneel low.
Sometimes my hands are folded, sometimes raised— sometimes trembling.
My prayers carry emotion in the shape of tears— tears of joy, tears of grief.
They echo in my laughter, in my sighs, in the silences that say more than words.
Sometimes, they are loud like declarations, sometimes, soft as a whisper.
And sometimes— there are no words at all, just groans, just breath, just presence.
And still, God listens.
The challenge: How to participate
Choose a consistent time each day—morning, midday, or evening—for your “God Time.”
Come as you are: with joy, with questions, with nothing to say. Just come.
Sit in silence, or write a letter to God; take a walk and talk to Him aloud or silently; or listen to worship music.
This week, don’t strive—abide.
Let your intimacy with God be less about doing and more about being. He’s already near. Just draw close.
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.
Reposting this reminder of God’s unconditional love for us:
God SO loved us that He willingly divested Himself of glory, stepped into human flesh, and entered the world as a vulnerable baby—exposed to the frailties and suffering of humanity. He chose death, the ultimate sacrifice, so that we might receive grace and be spared from eternal separation.
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—
Special thanks to Melissa for featuring my piece “Purpose Drops” on her new platform Collaborature. Please head over there in support of Melissa and while you’re there also show my work some love. Thanks!!
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
Orchid mom’s delight: these variegated beauties making my heart and home smile
#Shadorma is a Spanish poetic form consisting of six lines (a sextain) with a syllabic pattern of 3-5-3-3-7-5. It has no set rhyme scheme and often conveys deep emotions or vivid imagery in a brief, structured way.
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.
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
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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Beautiful black skin we age with grace Testament to the strength of melanin flowing through our race A positive stereotype about physical appearance While all the time oppression wearing down mental perseverance
Erasure of oppressions in subtle superficial narrative: “black don’t crack” Historical misconceptions, lay weight on black women’s back Superwoman schema, generations of history—a heavy load Cape-like shield, deflect society’s discriminating code
Obliged to show strength, while hiding tears Suppressing emotions, internalizing fears Vulnerability, misconstrued, like foe to resist Success pursued, while resources run amiss
Juggling roles, carrying burdens not her own Strength for all, unrealistic seeds are sown Grounded in racist history, archetype cast The Mammy’s devotion, dangerous legacies that last
At the intersection of expectations, unrealistic Femininity and strength, a delicate balance characteristic The scales tipped her resilient stride “Strong black woman” trope, stereotypes collide
That’s what they say: “black don’t crack” Racist expectation of strength, attack Express no emotion, hide fear, hold back tear “Superwoman” schema, worn as protective gear
Yeah! That part … we dismantling that
For what won’t crack will surely break Unravel, put a whole race at stake So take your label, and take your trope Being black is … well, yeah, it’s dope
I’m a black woman, see this face Beautiful melanin, skin age with grace I’m Educated. I’m Empowered. I’m Motivated. For my strength, for my resilience—loved? Nah, that’s hated
But that’s what haters do Prejudice won’t let love come through You won’t bring me down though, make me feel blue Your hate is your own poison, I ain’t gonna chew
The “strong black woman”, sexist-racist construction We taking back our power, reset the foundation Resilient women of African descent Across the diaspora, beyond the continent
We come in all shades of choc-lit Like fire, we blaze legit, won’t quit Hear us roar, our beautiful is black, back We define our strength, yeah, that won’t crack
Mirror, mirror—what do you see? No masks, no tales, the truth of me. Full lips, proud nose, skin sun-kissed like earth at dusk. Wearing hair-itage like a crown, a symphony of strength and soul.
Let them look— The questioning gaze. You were never made for their approval. You were made to radiate. To take up space. To shift rooms.
No need to chase what already lives within. No need to mold what was meant to be free. You are the art, the standard, the source. Unapologetically the quintessential you.
In shades of blackness, three black women stood By the ocean’s lapping waves, because they could Their skin adorned in shades of black A tapestry of edenic beauty, flashback
In shades of blackness, colors bright They wear a tapestry of strength and light Their hearts yearning thoughts soaring free To Africa, their homeland, across the sea
The water’s shimmer a bittersweet sight A reminder of forlorn journeys in the night When shackles and chains bore heavy weight Yet like their spirit, resilient colors celebrate
In shades of blackness, a tapestry unfolds Stories of strength and courage retold Thinking of Africa their hearts united A land torn from them yet home ignited
In shades of blackness, they stand so tall A triumphant spirit proudly enthrall Their roots deep-seated a heritage divine In their souls, the echoes of ancient rhyme
With every sunset and every dawn They honor the heritage that’s drawn From a distant land, a sacred place Woven in a collective memory space
In shades of blackness they’ve faced stormy days Challenged bias in countless ways Their voices rose above the strife Championing one for all, a better life
In the shades of blackness they’ve come to find The strength and love of humankind Three black women united—a living art In love for community to heal each heart
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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My curls are kinky They coil to the twist of their own internal rhythm So twisted—me and my curls—we had a love-hate thang going ‘Cause others didn’t understand ‘em They couldn’t really teach me to ‘preciate ‘em And ‘cause I wasn’t woke enough to defend ‘em I kinda sorta love-hate ‘em
My curls are wool-like Pulled over eyes, they can be deceptive They’ll coil up tight and shrink to scalp at even water’s sighting They make for a beautiful ‘fro Exposed to the elements for too long though They’ll defy any comb’s attempts to un-kink their flo’
My curls have been terribly misunderstood Their fullness and density been processed to straightness They been pressed, relaxed, texturized, straight-out-flattened Clipped, chopped, colored, razored Braided, weaved, locked, cornrowed And they been greased, greased and mo’ greased
My curls are acrobatic They’ll flip and bounce, changing with my every mood And they’ll totally flip at even the sign of uninvited touch moves Egocentric—yeah, they are—they regard only me Me and my curls now, we got mad chemistry One-hundred-percent-LOVE-only y’all—that’s we
My curls evolved empowered—now they’re unapologetic survivalists Every natural kink in bouncebackability mode Defying every relaxer, every straightening comb They curl unmolested into their resilient-mystique self—whole Conveying cultural, political and social justice opinions In stylish kinky hair expressions
From Madam CJ Walker To Mrs. Michelle Obama My curls are audacious My curls are bold My curls are fully deserving of this— Their very own ode
All rights reserved [first published in 2022, bringing it back for BHM ‘25]
Afterword: Hair was a sacred cultural and spiritual symbol in ancient African societies. Slave traders, as a first step in a process of systemic culture and identity erasure, would shave the heads of all African people they captured. Hair texture and styling played an important role in the survival of enslaved Black people. For instance, in the 1960s, the afro became a symbol of self-empowerment and activism. Black hair is black resistance.
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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
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Image credit: Facebook
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
Nothing is forever in this world, not even our problems They come and go like storm clouds Like shadows passing over All working together, in time, for your good
The most lost day in life is the day we don’t laugh
The most lost day in life is the day we don’t laugh— A day wasted Like chasing rainbows with your head down Missing the brilliance arching over you To truly laugh You must take your pain and mold it Shape it into art Turn it into a weapon against despair
Walking in the rain, so no one can see me crying
I love walking in the rain Hiding my tears in its rhythm Letting it wash the salt from my cheeks No one sees them— My tears In the rain— A secret dance with my sorrow A cleansing no one needs know
Six best doctors in the world
Six best doctors in the world Let me count them for your hearing— One: the sun that kisses your skin Two: rest that cradles your weary bones Three: exercise that awakens your spirit Four: a diet that fuels your fire Five: self-respect that builds your fortress And, six, the best of them all—friends Their laughter, their love, their healing hands, a sanctuary in a chaotic world
Life is a play that does not allow rehearsals
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
Imagination means nothing without doing
Imagination means nothing without doing Without stepping into the wild unknown Without turning dreams into reality We think too much and feel too little Our hearts trapped behind cages of reason But the heart is a compass Its beat a map to the dreams we’re too afraid to speak out loud
Nothing is forever in this world
Nothing is forever in this world But, Today We are here And that is enough
Afterword: Charlie Chaplin, a silent screen actor whose gestures and expressions spoke louder than dialogue ever could. Yet, when he did use words, they carried weight. Today’s post is inspired by his profound words and a testament that the quietest voices can echo across generations.
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.
Beforeword: The image of this old Jamaican house popped up in my Facebook feed. Well, it begged to be my muse and so this poem was birthed—“This Old House, This Old Year”.
Like an old house, the past year holds cracks, scars, and beauty—reminding us to embrace resilience, cherish love, and build hope in the year ahead. My word for 2025 is HOPE!
Happy New Year WPers!
The old year stands like an aged house, its frame leaning from the weight of time, its walls etched with the marks of joy and struggle. The floorboards groan with the memory of steps— some hesitant, some bold, each one carving its place in the story.
The roof, patched, imperfect, shielded through storms, even as the rain seeped in through cracks. Shingles rusted, paint stripped away, layers of who you were laid bare, revealing not ruin, but resilience.
Yet, inside, beauty remains. The faint warmth of a fire long extinguished, the soft hum of voices carried by the breeze. Here is where love lingered, where family gathered, where arguments burned hot but always cooled into peace.
The old year reminds you: every crack tells a story, every scar a survival. What wore you down also built you up.
As the new year rises, like a fresh foundation waiting to be laid, remember this: Mend the broken places, but don’t erase their history. Invite the light in, even if it exposes your flaws. Forgive the storms, for they shaped you. Celebrate the strength in what still stands.
Fill this new year with love so fierce it becomes the shelter you need. Open your doors to joy, your windows to hope. And when this year, too, becomes weathered, may it stand proud—like this old house, a testament to how well you lived it.
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Image credit: Facebook
Beforeword: New Year is a New Chapter of 365 opportunities to make a difference in the spaces where purpose meets the pulsating of fresh start.
In the quiet unveiling of one year’s end A new one emerges, a cosmic unveiling Darkness surrenders to the dawn’s soft glow The dawning of a year, another chance to step into the uncharted
Pages turn, not with the creak of binding But with the silent rustle of unseen potential Each day, a leaf in the unfolding narrative of possibilities 365 chapters yet unwritten in the book of life
No rhyme to dictate the rhythm of this journey No predetermined cadence to constrain my steps With each sunrise, a new chance to redefine To shape my story unscripted, line upon line
Time, a steady heartbeat, echoes opportunity In the quiet hum of moments purpose beckons A call to craft meaning in the tapestry of existence 365 chances to breathe life into dreams
So, as the sun rises, 365 days stretch like an unwritten book I’ll bravely embrace the new chapters For in every sunrise, a promise is whispered— 365 days, 365 opportunities to live with purpose
‘Twas the days after Christmas, and all through the towns Hearts turning grey, like winter, cast down
Stockings stuffed heavy, now dangling bare All they contained distributed with care
Gifts quickly losing their “must have” splendor Owners eyeing the next “thing” to give ‘em pleasure
Twinkling lights and all their shimmer Turned off, unplugged, leaving spaces dimmer
Trees stripped down, discarded on curbs Christmas packed away, leave undisturbed
‘Till next year’s frenzy, forgetting the reason Is Jesus left behind, till next Christmas season?
2022, republished 2025, All rights reserved
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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
2024 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
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.
Heart’s rhythm beats steady for love For a love that shields, creating a safe space— Unafraid to be vulnerable, wholly free To exist just as we are, completely
You and I—broken in different ways Fragmented pieces from separate days Yet together, we synchronize in all the right places Restoring like ancient art, our brokenness erases
A love created like poetry in motion Like rivers conjoined, flowing to the ocean A journey crafting healing for you, for me Reconciled in the embrace of love’s harmony
We move by love’s essence, a force so pure— Healing in its touch, a bond that will endure Endure through time, a rhythm unexplained A love that eclipses logic, heart over brain
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.
Heart beats fast, room leans in, strangers drawn close
Afterword: This poem (a dectina refrain), is inspired by my first public reading outside my usual circle. It reflects the nervous anticipation and vulnerability of sharing deeply personal work with strangers. It was at the iconic Bowery Poetry Club (NYC) known for its vibrant and welcoming atmosphere. That night was no exception—there was an electric energy in the room as my voice found its place among an audience that leaned in and affirmed a moment of connection through words.
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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
Not going somewhere to happen, not chasing the next … For purpose, on purpose, in the now to invest Not bound by tomorrow, nor haunted by past But rooted in moments that matter and last
Each breath is a choice, stepping into your own The journey unfolds, though the path stays unknown No waiting for destiny to knock at your door Live in the fullness of now, nothing more
The future will come, but today is your stage To live without worry, unchained by the age For purpose, on purpose, each second a gift Stand in the present, poised for the shift
So here in this moment, rise and shine Live with purpose, embrace the Divine Tomorrow’s not promised, there’s no guarantee This moment is all to be all you must be
In the ceasing of movement by the unintentional pause
In the pulse between heart-break and the intention of soul-care
In all the spaces of the in-between
That’s where you’ll find God
Transforming. Emerging. In the in-between.
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In stillness and surrender, I find my way Where numbness wraps me, there God will stay In moments weak, when shadows fall His presence lifts, embracing all
Perfection is Not My Aim
Not a chase for perfect, not a polished being But in my flaws, my truth is seen To manage imperfection, to embrace it all Owning my flawsome, without a flaw
Transformation is Selfish and Hard
The path to change is hard and steep To let old selves die, to lose and weep For the woman I’m becoming, I will strive In selfish toil, I keep alive
The Author
God holds the pen, He writes this tale of mine He scripts and re-scripts, line upon line With bravery bold, my truth I will carry A vision, though delayed, know it will not tarry
For the vision is yet for an appointed time; But at the end it will speak, and it will not lie. Though it tarries, wait for it; Because it will surely come, It will not tarry.
Give God your today and tomorrows, in Him your plans will last
***
Be encouraged through your struggles
Let go of what you cannot change
New possibilities are abounding
Reset your target-range
***
When you can’t see beyond the pain, and tears your path obscure
Focus on the Almighty’s promises, know His words are sure
Know your steps are ordered, lined-up by His design
Though weapons formed they will not prosper, they’ll be realigned
***
Be encouraged through your losses
Wave sorrow and hurt good-bye
Take pleasure in life’s journey
Through valleys-deep and mountains-high
***
When the enemy comes against you, overwhelming as a flood
Know a banner has been raised, you’re covered by the blood
Lean not on your own understanding, trust God with all your heart
Welcome each new day’s dawning, as your chance to restart
***
Be encouraged through each downfall
The good will outweigh the bad
Count the blessings, not the shortfalls
Then there’ll be no room for sad
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Sometimes being strong is just surrendering beneath the weight of it all letting go of the armor we’ve worn for too long allowing the tides to carry us unresisting, into the unknown
Strength isn’t in clenched fists but in open hands palms upward, accepting the rain that falls the winds that howl without warning
Surrendering to the fragility of flesh the vulnerability of hearts to whisper yes to the darkness trusting in the stars hidden behind clouds
It’s in the moments of release that we find our authentic selves unencumbered by the need to control to dominate to stand unyielding
Strength is the breath we exhale when the storm presses close the quiet embrace in acceptance of what we cannot change the silent nod in surrender to the mysteries of life
Sometimes being strong is just surrendering to the passing of time to the ebb and flow of emotions to the gentle acceptance of our place in this vast, uncharted thing called “life”
Four Years strong Words I’ve sown Shared what I’ve known Watched each word blossom Garden of thoughts spoken Of stories, of roots, of growth Each post, a bloom from heart to hand Tending this space where passions expand Four years strong, words I’ve sown, shared what I’ve known
Mental health encompasses our emotional, psychological, and social wellness, impacting our thoughts, emotions, behaviors, and influencing our stress management, relationships, and decision-making.
Threads of thought convene
Labyrinth of mind and soul
Inner world whispers
Afterword: A haibun is composed of two stanzas. The first stanza is a prose paragraph, and the second stanza is a haiku.
Beforeword: What/who is your muse, your inspiration? What do you do when muse is in a state of absentia? Well, if you’re a poet , you write a poem about it. So, here’s ode to muse!!
In the silence of your absence, my muse My pen, once ablaze, now stands unused Emotions wither, wander, alight Without your presence, inspiration takes flight
Lines once profound now falter, without a trace In your departure, creativity’s lost embrace No stories bloom, no vivid tales unfurl Without your spark, words twist and swirl
No melody in my heart, no words to find No rhyme or rhythm to soothe my mind No chords to weave through verses align In your absence, my heART voice decline
No structure holds these scattered thoughts in place No hooks to captivate, no bridge to chase No heart to pour into these empty lines Oh, my muse, your absence’s sublime
You, who sparked passion like a goddess divine In your absence, this poet’s soul shall pine For without you, my words, they weep and moan Oh, muse, come back and make my heART your home
Afterword: Written for W3 prompt. Thanks to David for hosting and Sarah Whiley for the direction: the word is soar, the form is Elfje.
An ‘Elfje’ counts as five sentences in only 11 words. This is how you do it:
Line 1: One word. This word symbolizes a colour or feature. The word symbolizes the atmosphere.
Line 2: Two words. These are something or someone with this colour or feature.
Line 3: Three words. Giving more information about the person or the object. You describe where the person or the object is, who the person or what the object is, or what the person or object is doing. This sentence usually starts with the word ‘he’, ‘she’ or ‘it.’
Line 4: Four words. Here you are writing something about yourself in relation to the person or the object. This sentence is your conclusion.
Line 5: One word. This word is called the ‘Bomb.’ It is the essence of the poem.
A Dectina Refrain is a poetic form written with your syllables going: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10. The 10th line is comprised of the first four lines all together as one stand alone line which may/may not be in quotation marks.
Wait—time stills, shadows fade, hope takes its place.
A Dectina Refrain is a poetic form written with your syllables going: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10. Your 10th line is comprised of your first four lines all together as one stand alone line which may/may not be in quotation marks.
Time. Frozen, Shared wonder— Child meets duckling Exuberance joins Golden-hue spectacle Feathered curiosity Post-rain puddles playtime joy found Memories created for the first Time. Frozen, shared wonder—child meets duckling
A Dectina Refrain is a poetic form written with your syllables going: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10. Your 10th line is comprised of your first four lines all together as one stand alone line which may/may not be in quotation marks.
Beforeword: I took the picture of a sign I saw alongside a highway because its profundity struck me. It reads: “A society that gives up freedom for safety will lose both”.
It inspired this Tanka:
Safety or freedom Choosing one we lose them both— In chains of our choice Urgent call of liberty Silenced in our hollow hearts
Afterword: Tanka is a Japanese form of five lines with 5, 7, 5, 7, and 7 syllables—31 in all.
My love looks better on you Like my favorite summer dress, fitted and true You always smiled in pure delight When I wore it on our many date nights
But the seasons, they changed way too fast Autumn’s chill claimed you at last Now the dress lies empty and cold Haunting stories in the memory it holds
In the whispers of the evening breeze I hear your laughter through the trees The way you wore my love, so well It echoes from where your spirit now dwells
Though you’re not here, your love remains A soothing balm for all my pains I see it in the stars above For my love looks better on you, my love
In my dreams, you wear it still, I know My love, like my dress, in memory flow The memories of how your hand clung to mine Feels like they’re escaping on wings to the Divine
My love looks better on you Even now, in skies of blue And when the night begins to fall I’ll feel your presence through it all
Until we meet where time is none And all that’s lost is once more won I’ll hold this thought so pure and true: My love was always better on you
2024 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Image source: Facebook Nod to Alicia Keys’s song of the same title
If can’t bend, you’ll surely break Rigid trees in storm’s fierce wake See the willow, how it sways In placid winds, it gently plays
Roots deep, won’t snap or fall Flexibility, bending, is its call When life’s storms come, don’t fear Bounce back, persevere
Afterword: Lisa over at Tao Talk is hosting Monday Quadrille at D’Verse Poets Pub. She chose the prompt word “Bend”. A quadrille is a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title.
You may also like my previous post that informed this quadrille: “Be Like A Tree”.
There, by the silence of the tomb His friend, laid low A brother in the cold embrace of death His heart overflowed with human sorrow
Jesus wept
He’s seen and known sorrow A man acquainted with grief This death ushered in a darkness too deep Burdening His soul, strangling his heart
Jesus wept
His tears fell, mingling with the earth In that moment, the world grew still As if creation itself held its breath Receiving the tears of the One who spoke it into being
Jesus wept
In His tears, a revelation unfolds— That the Almighty shares our burdens That Divinity knows our pain That sorrow, too, and grief are sacred
Jesus wept
For every tear we cry For every loss that breaks our hearts For the moments when faith wavers And the nights when hope feels afar
Jesus wept
When your heart is heavy And your cries seem unheard His compassion weeps with you His compassion stands with you
Jesus wept
In His tears is the seed of resurrection power A whisper of the dawn that follows the darkest night For He is the Light that no darkness can extinguish The Life that conquers all death
And so— Jesus wept
From “The Chosen”, Season 5.This scene portrays Jesus overwhelmed with compassion as He witnesses the deep sorrow of Mary and Martha over the death of their brother, Lazarus, His beloved friend. With the weight of His own impending crucifixion and knowing what awaited both Him and humanity down through the ages, nestled in the arms of His mom, Jesus wept.
Rain—nature’s self-care, nature made Drop by drop, earth’s hurt is stayed Sometimes it falls from skies with grace A tender touch, a soft embrace
At other times skies fierce cry Winds will howl, and sea will sigh As lightning splits the darkest night So too does pain, with blinding might
Each drop of tear revives the heart As sorrow fades and grief depart It washes wounds, it mends the pain In every tear, there lies a gain
For tears and rain are much the same They cleanse the soul, they cool the flame In stormy nights and darkest fears We find our strength in rain and tears
So let them fall, both tears and rain For in their flow, we break our chains A gift from clouds, a gift from eyes Nurtured in stormy skies and cries
Afterword: This poem is a reflection on the connection between tears and rain—both born of nature, both born to nurture.
Beforeword: This poetry-music collab is inspired by renowned gospel artist, Kirk Franklin, who is known for blending gospel music with contemporary sounds. Here’s to some of his most popular foot-tapping-body-moving-hands-lifted-high songs usingthe literary technique: parataxis.
Imagine me igniting a Revolution as I Stomp my way to Brighter Days where I can’t help but Smile ‘cause “…even when I hurt, see” I Smile for I made it through The Storm [and it] is Over Now and I got me a Blessing in the Storm that makes me Wanna Be Happy and sing all kinds of Hosanna praises like Melodies from Heaven rolling off my tongue and I bow prostrate proclaiming: “Now Behold the Lamb” for there’s Something About the Name Jesus, that name is the reason Why [I] Sing—it’s my Love Theory—and that makes me wanna Stomp all over again starting another Hosanna praise dance to the assurance that He Reigns, this Awesome God who tells me I Can and I dance the more in praises till I’m so high, so close to my DaddyGod I can hear Him whisper: “Lean on Me” and so Before I Die this is my Declaration: You, God, are My Life, My Love, My All
2024 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva All words in bold are titles of Kirk Franklin songs
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Hello Everyone! I haven’t had the time to post over the past few days or to engage with your posts as I’d like to. I had a lot to say but not a lot of time to spare to say it, so bringing back this piece to quickly say: “Time Won” yet AGAIN!
What a week! What a work week
There was no time for the solace I seek Not even a wee bit of time with friends to speak
Deadlines on deadlines piled up to a peak Each day the prospects of blogging grew bleak
It’s like time was playing hide and go sneak I lost every round, it was on a winning streak
Crept up from behind, smacked me dead on the cheek
I won! I won! Like time did speak
You’re the loser again this week
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If I closed my eyes, then opened them and life had passed by I hope my joys exceeded the sorrows My laughs superseded the tears My successes outshined the failures I hope I’d lived a life so full, there’d be no cause for regrets
I loved God with all my heart Followed in His prescribed path I pursued my dreams Got up when I fell And tried and tried again
I won some and I lost some Settled for nothing but the best I was good to my fellowmen I gave fully of myself I was loved and I loved
If I closed my eyes, then opened them and life had passed by I hope I’d lived a life so full, there’d be no cause for regrets
2024 All rights reserved
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Before you were formed Before the light first touched your eyes You were known, by God Before your first breath Before the world shaped your name You were set apart, by God
God meant for you to be different To walk paths no one else would see To dance to beats of rhythms only your heart hears No one thinks the way you do A mind weaving thoughts to a unique purpose No one speaks in the rhythm you carry A voice carrying a distinctive resonance
You were not meant to fit in To blend into the mediocrity of sameness You were created to stand out Your colors painted to shine bright In a world of echoes, you are a distinct refrain In a sea of stars, you are the main sequence You were born to be— Unmistakably you Eternally known Eternally set apart
God said: Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart … (Jeremiah 1:5)
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Heart Seizing Arresting Redirecting Decisive beating Forces uncontested To new location destined Purposefully recreated Commandeered in transit awakened Heart hijacked by your love to love for love
A collection of writing by Dominic Riccitello — intimate conversations, personal essays, and poetic reflections on relationships, loss, and self-discovery.
Poems & More 