Free, not free Liberty’s journey Step by step Bridge the gaps Equality gained for all Independence true
Reflection:
This line from the “Star-spangled Banner”:
“No refuge could save the hireling and slave, from the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave, and the star-spangled banner in triumph we wave, o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave…”
There’s a correspondence between heartbeats where words falter yet meanings are understood therein lies a love that transcends language it’s a dance of souls in quietness of whispers
It’s the brush of fingertips on skin the lingering gaze that speaks volumes the shared breath of two souls entwined in a symphony of emotions untamed
It’s the warmth of a sunrise in their touch the gentle caress of moonlight’s embrace a language of gestures, unspoken desires etched by the pressing hands of time
For what is love if not a melody played on the strings of the soul, a song without lyrics, yet understood in the silence that binds hearts as one
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Beforeword: This poem is a tribute to the beauty of lasting love. It celebrates the choice to keep discovering one another by creating new experiences within familiar spaces rather than searching for excitement elsewhere. Through everyday moments, shared places become landscapes of renewal, proving that love flourishes when we continually reimagine the ordinary together.
In the quiet space of renewal we find each other again, every day a canvas, every touch a brushstroke on the landscape of the history we share
This old place— with walls that echo laughter with windows that frame the seasons of our lives— it’s a testament to the love we’ve built, intention by intention moment by moment
We wander familiar paths, our footsteps guided by memories etched deep into the soil, we carve new trails, seek and hide in the weathered shadows cast by ancient trees
Your hand in mine steady and sure, we explore the forgotten rooms of this love—rediscovering the thrill of firsts—releasing the addiction of the routine
Here—in this sanctuary of us— we create new experiences, we rekindle the fires of wonder, holding steadfast against the temptations of new, finding renewal in the known, beauty in the familiar
Each day, is a promise kept each glance, is a vow renewed we stay, we hold, we grow forever weaving new threads into the tapestry of our endless love
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Beforeword: Love begins as something we seek, becomes something we practice, and ends by revealing it was shaping us all along. The journey comes full circle when we realize we have become the very love we were looking for.The poetic form, loop poetry—where the last word(s) of a line becomes the first word(s) of the next line—is fitting for this soulful full-circle piece.
Heart’s rhythm beats for love For love that protects, create safe space Safe space to be vulnerable, totally free Totally free to be just as you are, completely
Completely a love like poetry in motion In motion flow like ocean, muse creating Muse creating healing for you and I You and I enveloped in the wholeness of love
Love, you, me—broken in different ways, different places Different places synchronized in all the right spaces Right spaces to restore like ancient art Ancient art that restores broken hearts made whole
Whole, we move by love’s essence like Marley’s one love One love the synchronous beats of two hearts Two hearts as one, unexplainable connection Unexplainable connection this love that eclipses logic
Logic, no—
Heart’s rhythm beats for love For love that protects, create safe space Safe space to be vulnerable, totally free Totally free to be just as you are, completely
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Love rules our hearts, it gives us choice No chains to bind, no hurried voice In whispers soft its voice comes through Like a tender guide, pure and true
No iron laws, no harsh decree Love always reigns wild and free It carves no path, but shows the way Guiding heart-to-heart, come what may
In love’s domain, we find our art A masterpiece within the heart It rules with warmth, a glowing flame A guiding star we can’t explain
So let love lead with gentle hand In whispered words and actions grand Love teaches us, it guides the way Directing all we do and say
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A Haiku celebrating the official start of summer in this hemisphere. It will also be the longest day of the year. Happy summer vibes!!!!
Sun reaches zenith Longest day, radiant glow Summer’s beginning
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Beforeword: Juneteenth, celebrated on June 19th, commemorates the emancipation of enslaved African Americans in the United States. It became a federal holiday in the United States in 2021.
Free, Not Free
The declaration rang out Crashing through Congress halls Reverberating across states Proclamation of liberation Breaking slavery’s stronghold Yet Liberation’s dawn was delayed Silenced for two and one-half years Freedom stalled at the horizon Massa’s grip tightened Freedom declared Yet freedom withheld Free, not free
In the shadows of deception As days turned to months Months turned to years The shackles lingered Around wrists and ankles Of those who toiled on Unaware of the broken chains A paradox etched in the soil Where news arrived late Lingering in untold tales Where some sang jubilant hymns While others knew not the lyrics had changed Free, not free
Juneteenth June 19, 1865 A second birth of Liberty, unobscured The undeterred crawl of truth toward justice Steady as dawn It came Free, not free
Marcus Garvey’s words a beacon: “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery” For chains unseen bind tightest Freedom must be claimed in heart, in mind, in spirit For liberty blooms not only in fields and on flags But in the fertile soil of awakened minds Where seeds of empathy and justice take root Where the harvest of equality awaits A reminder etched in the annals of time Of struggles waged Of victories won Of battles yet to come Free, not free
On this Juneteenth Let us pause to reflect and renew To honor the journey From bondage to liberation A pledge to self to the ongoing quest For a world where freedom rings true for all Free, truly free
For more about Juneteenth, you may like this post here!
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Beforeword: This poem is a collaboration with the folk song “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”from the 1960s which carries a powerful anti-war message. The song poignantly illustrates the futility of war—girls pick flowers, they find partners, the men go to war, and eventually, they return only to graveyards covered in those same flowers. With over 50 armed conflicts raging in our world today, when will we ever learn: all that remains in the end is, loss?!
Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?
Girls with their tender hearts plucked them Bending to the earth, sending dreams towards the sky Gathering the petals of innocence Weaving hope into the garlands of their dreams
Where have the young girls gone, long time passing?
Their laughter lost in the silent fields of grief Their dreams and aspirations woven into the wind, carried on whispers Where hands once clasped in promise Now hold nothing but memories and fading scent
Where have all the young men gone, long time passing?
From the tender embrace of youth, to the stern call of duty They marched in lines, with hearts beating strong Into the fury of battles, into the silence of fields Leaving behind only death, only regret
Where have all the soldiers gone, long time passing?
Their songs now silenced, their dreams laid to rest In the cold embrace of graveyards Where flowers bloom anew, their petals bright and tender Covering the earth with the soft whisper of remembrance
Where have all the graveyards gone, long time passing?
In fields where life begins anew, flowers bloom in their stead The cycle of loss in a dance of futility Girls still pick flowers, men still march to war And flowers still cover the graves in the end
Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?
Gone to graveyards, every one, When will we ever learn, when will we ever learn? That flowers and dreams, loss and tears Are all that remain in the end
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Beforeword: This poem is a lover’s endearing question: In that other life will your love search for me, find me, love no other but me?
When life turns into eternity’s grasp Will memories of your love firmly clasp? In that ethereal realm, will you recall The love we shared, ‘twas the sweetest of all?
In realms beyond where time has no bounds Will your heart seek mine in whispers and sounds? Amidst cosmic wonders will you yearn for me Finding solace in my love’s celestial rhapsody?
Know, no other soul can ignite this flame It burns too deep, ‘twill forever be the same Through lifetimes and realms our love will endure A bond unbreakable forever and sure
And when life is interrupted by the call of death Will our souls reunite, drawn by each other’s breath? In that other life will your love still survive To search, find me, keep this love alive?
Will destiny guide our souls’ embrace? Across the abyss beyond infinity of space When life turns into eternity’s night I’ll find your love, it will be my light
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Beforeword: The muse for this poem was my interaction with a fussy baby girl in the jetway boarding a flight. That interaction reminded me that my greatest joy is found in small things.
I love the way the wind moves through leaves The way sunrise dances across the seas Birdsong breaking the dawn of day Rain tapping rhythms on my window pane
I love the big ripples little pebbles make Snowflakes falling softly on my face The sky’s vibrant colors before day nods goodbye Thunder rolling low across a darkened sky
I love the way small things bring joy A baby’s shy giggle at my peek-a-boo ploy My niece cajoling: “Aunty, let’s dance!” The DJ finding my song, by chance
I love the softer side of nature Low tide breathing slow beside her Cuddly koala bears and star-filled nights Cloud formations dripping in white
I love the small things The quiet joy they bring Things that have no price Small things that pay back, twice
I love The joy Small things Bring
Afterword: The muse for this poem was a beautiful baby girl peeking over her mother’s shoulder, looking squarely at me, tears still staining her cheeks. We were making our way through the jetway onto the plane when I started playing peek-a-boo, hiding my eyes my boarding pass, then peeping out silently mouthing, “peek-a-boo.”
At first, she stayed guarded. Then slowly she softened—a tiny smile, then a giggle, as she tucked her face into the crook of her mother’s neck. That was the moment her mother realized the sudden change in her baby’s mood was the doing of a stranger’s quiet shenanigans.
That small exchange brought me pure joy. It reminded me how often happiness arrives in the simplest moments—unexpected, unpriced, and easy to miss if we are not paying attention.
World unfolds Seven continents Six complete Travel log Australia, birthmonth’s quest Antarctica waits
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Afterword: The world is a globe of borders and of bridges. This birthMONTH I crossed into Australia—and with that step, another continent claimed! Six down, one to go—Antartica is next!
Beforeword: I was born on a Tuesday. 2026, this is the seventh time April 14 lands on a Tuesday since my birth. Seven—full, complete, alignment. The next alignment will be in 2037.
So, today, I return to the beginning—the history that led to my existence through the voice of my mom, through her memory of that day. A day shaped by my birth, as well as the weight of what was happening in the world beyond her. Though we are on opposite sides of the globe today—at 7:38 AM EST on the day of my birth, we met each other for the very first time—me and my mom! This poem draws us back into that moment.
Dawn Rising: A Birth in the Beat of Change [my mom’s poem]
It’s the early dawn on a Tuesday, the 14th day of April I check into the maternity ward of the country’s teaching hospital The pain still mild, the morning humid The nurse at my side doesn’t just comfort— She prays over me, over you, because the world you were entering needed warriors wrapped in prayer
Before you took your first breath outside the cocoon of my womb You were covered in a shield of faith— Because in these times, prayer wasn’t a ritual, It was survival, it was prophecy
Around us, Jamaica’s streets rumbled with unrest Voices rose demanding land, work, dignity The poor cried out for a share of the promise of independence— Government struggled to calm the storm While reggae’s heartbeat began its rise Giving rhythm to resistance Giving melody to the march for equal rights
I fought my own war through contractions crashing like waves. Gripping the bed rails with a mother’s resolve— Knowing that you, my child, were coming into a world Aching for justice Hungry for change
The doctor’s hands caught you at 7:38, as dawn broke the horizon And it was as if Heaven whispered: Dawn is here You cried, fierce and new Your voice piercing the stillness with the song of beginnings
And so you entered this world poised and prayed up To be MAD—to: Make A Difference!
Born in times that shaped you to be A crusader for justice A champion of equal rights For reggae itself was rising as the sound of the people Beating in time with your tiny heart Promising you’d never forget where you came from:
A dawn of hope A dawn of change A dawn of possibility
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: 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
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?
I was walking past a pole one day, when a list caught my eye. I read it aloud, quietly unsure— testing the moment in time.
A voice answered, close and clear, as breath behind my ear: “Take what you need.” I turned. No one there. I was caught in that moment, still.
The list—simple, yet profound. “Take what you need,” it said again, no pause, no hesitating. What you take for you will go outward, to mend the world’s broken pieces.
So I started with love. Then hope. Courage came next— because each day the world seems to need all three without shortage.
Love to mend the brokenhearted. Peace that quiets unrest and war. Courage strong enough to choose what’s right, no matter the cost.
As I held them, something shifted: The atmosphere leaned in, the air, the weight of things lightened.
With urgency I reached for luck, brief in its moment, manifesting its alignment with divine unfolding.
Money—I took with caution, knowing its seductive power to destroy. To be used not for excess, but to level the ground: no empty hands, no divided lives, only dignity in our humanity shared.
And passion— I grabbed with fervor, that fire to keep us faithful to destiny, our purposeful calling fulfilling.
Happiness was last on the list. But I left it right there, for it was already in abundance I could see it everywhere— falling like light, changing us all.
Oh what a dream! Oh could this be? “Take what you need”— a list for all the world to heal.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. didn’t choose comfort. He chose the slow, costly work of justice, knowing resistance would be fierce and progress uneven. He understood that intimidation and discrimination aren’t accidents—they’re tools meant to diminish resolve. This explains why his response was to be persistent.
Honoring Dr. King means resisting the urge to romanticize the past and instead committing to the unfinished work in front of us—justice, equity and equality!
At the beginning of this new year, I reflected on how that word shaped this blog over the past year—because what I write here is always shaped by the world around me and the one within me. From this reflection I came to see how hope was threaded through the themes of the blog—life, relationships, nature, inner growth, and resilience:
1. Personal voice as witness
This blog exists as a platform to speak my truth—to give voice to what I observe and experience. That choice in 2025 was a metaphor for hope: not loud, but intentional and present.
2. Creative expression as survival
Over the year I saw that creativity was less about expression and more about survival—a way to stay present when the days felt heavy and the world unsteady. And, hope appeared throughout the posts almost as writing itself—as a way to endure, to make sense of the disruptions and shifts of 2025.
3. Nature as mirror
In several posts I reflected on what nature kept teaching me—that hope is not urgency, but patience. Rain arrived without apology. Gardens grew on their own timelines. Slow seasons lingered. Quiet days endured. And I captured these shifts in poetry and prose.
4. Resilience in real life
Through poems like “Jamaica Strong” and “A Prayer for Jamaica,” I shared about the devastation of Hurricane Melissa on Jamaica in ways that moved beyond documenting an event. My poems spoke to the emotional toll carried by a nation and its diaspora. They embodied endurance, rebuilding, but more so hope rooted in community and persistence after loss.
5. Inner work as outer change
Reflections captured in poems like “Your Future Is Starving For You” and “Echoes of A Silent City” I was able to show how internal transformation and curiosity are acts of hope—belief in growth even when circumstances stagnate.
6. Memory and renewal
Posts about memory (i.e. “The Taste of Memory” and rest (i.e. “Travelogue: La Quinta, A Retreat for the Soul”) spoke to hope as reconnection to self, to God, to what lasts beyond chaos.
7. Relationship themes
In posts after posts I realize that I repeatedly go to love, timing, silence, and intimacy to inform my work. In 2025 these became markers of hope lived between humans—not in abstraction, but as intentional interpersonal choices.
8. Prayer and spiritual grounding
Prayer has always been my mainstay. So undoubtedly there’d be prayer-centered posts. These posts placed hope in the spiritual—trust, surrender, praise—not as fantasy but as anchor when the world felt unstable.
In looking back on the posts of 2025, one thing became clear: hope was not written to promise ease. It was written to ask for attention. That may not have been my intention, but I showed up again and again—pen in hand, heart open—trusting that small acts of meaning still mattered.
Now we are in a new year. My word for 2026 is FORGET. It comes from the first verse I read in the Bible (using the App YouVersion) on the first day of the year; and, it also happens to be one of my favorite verses:
Happy New Year, WordPress fam!
Here’s praying for a year that brings newness to the places of your life where you need to forget the former things that stole your joy.
There is one resolution that will be worth keeping
The gift to ourselves first then to others bestowing
Dedicate the new year to loving ourselves more
Seizing the 365 opportunities the New Year has in store
From my heart to yours sending joy and cheer
For a happy and love-filled New Year!
2025 All Rights Reserved
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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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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).
Beforeword: I came across this young poet—Cherry Paul Ede’s—powerful rendition of Fragile Dogubo’s poem: “Gucci Cross” which I first posted in 2022. Reposting it now with the lyrics:
“I don’t know who needs to hear this, but Jesus was not crucified on a Gucci cross. He didn’t have on a crown of Versace thorns or Nike shoes on his feet when the nails pierced through. There was nothing bougie about Calvary. That old raggedy wooden cross wasn’t even befitting to hold the carpenter’s son, but there our God hung, held on by His love for us, by His love for all.
It wasn’t the red carpet affair for your favorite celebs. Matter of fact, the only paparazzi was an angry mob as a crowd of witnesses. Once upon a time, I thought the crucifixion was like the Grammys, an award show only for a self-righteous view. But the Bible didn’t mention an ovation – only wrongful accusation, hate speech and boos from fools. The King of Glory came through.
Jesus “felt every nail, felt every whiplash, every rib crack. It was for you that He embraced the pain.
Jesus was placed in the tomb, but then He showed up on the third day like, ‘I’m good, and you are, too’ — one with the Father, my blood makes you brand new. So what other proof do you need that God loves you?
So when the serpent comes to the ring – hissing, whispering deceitful accusations speaking in passive tongues. This is clapback season. Declare: fully my sins are forgiven.
I do not know who needs to hear this, but Jesus was not crucified on the Gucci cross. It doesn’t matter your age, gender, race or net worth – only that you have been made holy.”
I’m grateful for the old rugged cross and the blood that saves!
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.
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:
And Hezekiah prayed to the Lord: ‘Lord, the God of Israel … open your eyes, Lord, and see; listen to the words Sennacherib has sent to ridicule the living God…. Now, Lord our God, deliver us from his hand, so that all the kingdoms of the earth may know that you alone, Lord, are God.’”
When King Hezekiah received a threatening letter from the Assyrian king, he didn’t let fear dictate his next step—he took the letter straight into the temple and laid it before God.
His prayer teaches us to bring our threats—whether words, circumstances, or fears—directly into God’s presence. It’s a reminder that deliverance isn’t just about removing danger; it’s about making God’s name known in the process.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Deliverance
Lord— You are God over all kingdoms, all powers, all voices that rise against me.
You made the heavens and the earth; there is nothing beyond Your reach.
Hear me now. See the weight I carry, the threats that echo in my mind, the situations that mock my faith.
I lay them before You— not to tell You what You don’t already know, but to remind my own heart that You are still in control.
Deliver me, Lord. Not just so I can breathe easier, but so the watching world will know— You alone are God.
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.
Oh, that You would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, that Your hand would be with me, and that You would keep me from evil, that I may not cause pain! And God granted what he asked.
This prayer is just one verse tucked away in a long list of genealogies—you could easily miss it, but when you read it — it’s impossible to forget. Jabez, whose name means “because I bore Him in pain”, makes a bold, faith-filled request for MORE. He asked God for expansion beyond “things” to a greater sphere of influence; for God’s presence to guide and protect; and for deliverance to reverse the label placed on him so that he would not cause pain.
And perhaps the most compelling part? “And God granted his request.” A reminder that God listens, and He answers.
What makes this prayer powerful isn’t its length or eloquence—it’s the courage to ask God for more and for being gracious to others while living in the blessings.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: More
Oh God, my Father— Bless me… Not in the small ways I can imagine, but in the wild, immeasurable ways only You can design.
Stretch me beyond my borders. Push back the walls of my comfort zone until my life spills into territories I never thought I could walk, places my feet have never dared to tread.
Let Your hand be heavy on me— guiding, covering, steadying my steps when the ground feels like it’s breaking beneath me.
Keep me from harm, Lord. Not just the harm I can see coming but the hidden snares, the silent traps, the pain that would leave scars deeper than skin.
Let my story be a testimony of love, not a tale of wounds I caused.
Oh God, my Father— do this, and I will know it wasn’t luck, it wasn’t chance, it was You.
And like You did before, grant me my request. Not because I am worthy, but because You are faithful.
Some think I’m distant or aloof, others say I’m intimidating
Nothing is further from the truth
It’s likely that I’m deep in thought
Or that I’m observing the environment around me
My life compass—it’s a never ending 3-60-degree focus
Always listening, always planning, envisioning or writing
The endless balancing of mind’s up-down climb on the decision tree of “what ifs”
Shy, I’m not, reticent though—that would be quite fitting
I’m likely not the first to speak, or may not speak at all
When I speak it’s a decisive choice, a point most necessary for the making
Adding value, adding integrity, moving the needle on what’s being discussed
By the time I’ve made a decision there’s been a hundred thoughts ahead
Give me quiet spaces, time alone to just be
This is how I gather energy
Don’t mistake, then, my reservation for lackluster
I’m introverted and that’s just that
Sincerely, an Introvert
2023 All Rights Reserved
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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
Hiraeth: “A deep homesickness; an intense form of longing or nostalgia; an unaccountable homesickness for a place you have never visited”.
Hiraeth!
Hiraeth! Something irretrievably lost, beckons
Beckons my soul from deep
Deep within, this unexplainable, unattainable longing
Longing—intense yearning, reminiscing for a place
A place I’ve never been but somehow
Somehow I know
I know it’s home
Home before I was born
Born into this displaced world
World of sickness and suffering and death
Death that’s foreign to my soul
Soul born to live
To live for forever
Forever, now irretrievably lost, so
So deep—it echoes, ricochets off the walls of my soul
My soul yearning for home, calling
Calling deep unto deep, the roar of Your waterfalls sweep
Sweep over me, the depth of my soul opens
Opens up and drinks, for I thirst
I thirst for Your presence Oh …
Oh God, like a deer panting
Panting for streams of waters I thirst
I thirst for You
You, Oh God, You are my home
After-word: How can you be homesick and nostalgic for a place you’ve never been? Because God built a desire for Himself in our souls—our very DNA yearns for Him. And the deep of our need inherently calls unto the deep of His fullness; and vice-a-versa, the deep of His fullness calls unto the deep of our need. Between our emptiness and God’s all-sufficiency there is a great divide and so deep calleth unto deep—our souls cry: hiraeth (Psalm 42:7).
Shabbat Shalom. May you find completeness in the deep mercy of God’s fullness.
The number 7 in the Bible—it’s replete through and through This ode is the coming together of 5 and of 2 5 and 2 when placed in the hands of the Divine Gifts thought to be too small, with big destiny realign
It occurred after the disciples toiled in ministry all the long day Wearily returned to the Master, so much they wanted to say Excited to tell of bodies healed, of minds they saw set free The excitement trumped the weariness, but their loving Master sees
Compassion swelled His heart, seeing their full depletion All He wanted do was improve their weary disposition “Come away with me”, He invited, then turned and bid them follow They had no clue His invite would change their every tomorrow
Enthralled with the thought of together time with their Master It was enough to buoy their bewildered spirits higher Incessant talking, stories exchanging, changed their frame of mind Oblivious to the growing multitude gathering far behind
Everywhere the Master went, the crowds were known to come after This time they followed Him to a desolate place, there was no food, no water The Master taught, while all the time diseases He was healing Before too long, the day wore on, the masses needed feeding
Five thousand men plus women plus children, equalled ‘bout 15 thousand That’s a lot to feed, especially if you’re out on a deserted mountain “Send them away”, the disciples advised, “there’s nothing we can do” “Oh no”, said Christ, “they will be fed and it will certainly be through you”
“If you won’t send the crowd away, then would you bid us leave To the nearby towns so we can supplement the little we’ve received” “What’s that you have in hand”, the Master then inquired “Just 5 and 2, hardly enough for what this multitude required”
“Place your 5, place your 2 in my hands”, dear friends “Watch God multiply beyond what you will comprehend” Turning toward His Father, eyes cast up t’ward heaven Blessings He pronounced, multiplied their five and two—seven
What is the 5, what is the 2 you have in gifts and talents? It’s not too small when entrusted to the God who is so gallant Your 5 plus 2 will be multiplied for the purpose you were chosen For God has more than enough ways, He can multiply your 7
***
Afterword: Oftentimes we appraise ourselves as less-than the tasks at hand and look to others to sure-up what we think is too small. But you are enough, and you have more than enough. God has equipped you for the purpose for which you were born. This story in the gospels (which can be read here: Matthew 14:13-22) is to remind us—on our own, our gifts may seem small, but when entrusted to God we can do all things for in Him our 5 and 2 is more than enough for what we’ve been called to do!
2023 All Rights Reserved Republished 2025
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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.
National Crown Day commemorates the inaugural signing of the first CROWN Act legislation, which passed in California on July 3, 2019. The CROWN Act stands for “Create a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair.”
It’s my style It’s the epitome of the expression of self
It’s rooted in my history It’s the connector with my ancestry
It speaks for me It’s the tenet of my collective story
It defines who I am It’s the liberation of my identity
It classifies me It’s the evolving of my destiny
It changes with me It’s the expression of my ideology
It identifies my lineage It’s the preservation of my hair-a-tage
I am my hair My hair is undisputedly, ME
After-word:The Crown Act is a law that prohibits discrimination based on hairstyle and hair texture. Currently 7 states have passed it (including California, New York, New Jersey, Washington). Cincinnati and Montgomery County in Maryland have adopted the law. Nine states are currently considering it (they include Georgia, Kansas, Connecticut, Louisiana). This means it’s legal in most states to discriminate against someone simply because they wear their hair in an Afro, locs, braids, or any other traditionally Black hairstyles.
To act in solidarity against hair discrimination you can use the hashtag #PassTheCrown on social media. And, you can sign the petition—click HERE—to encourage all states to pass the Crown Act and make hair discrimination illegal everywhere.
2022 All rights reserved [Republished]
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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.
Short answer:To provide a space for my voice to be heard.
Why I write declaration: I will be brave, my voice will not die within me unexpressed and unheard.
This is therefore a brave and intentional space for creative self-expression.
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
Maya Angelou
I am motivated to write from observing what I believe God created-by-design like nature, family, love, and relationship.
The title, “createdbyDEEsign”, therefore signifies the co-creation of the works here by my DaddyGod and me.
THE BLOG CONTAINS a collection of poems about love, life, relationships and nature; and midweek motivational boost and inspirational reflections in prose, poetry and images.
Whether you landed in this space by choice or curiosity, I hope being here inspires you to be brave and to use your voice and your mode of creative expressions to show up fully and influence the spaces you occupy.
I appreciate your choosing to meet me here and to interact with my thoughts/words/creative expressions.
To never miss a post click HERE👈 to subscribe & follow the blog. I love hearing from you, so remember to “like” & comment. For more content start HERE👈
In creative solidarity, Dawn
PLEASE NOTE: Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without the express and written permission from me as this site’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Permission may be requested through a comment to which I will reply granting or denying permission. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dawn Minott @ http://www.createdbyDEEsign.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
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.
In the liberty of freedom’s delight Lest we forget your dedicated fight Leaving all behind, a sacrifice profound To go to distant lands, lay all on battleground
While the horrors of war persists Amidst the devastation, courage exists For the lives lost from divisions and corps Am I worth the sacrifice they bore?
For every soldier, a heartfelt debt owed Your bravery speaks in sacrifice bestowed My duty will forever be clear— Honor your sacrifice, hold freedom dear
I took this picture of the plaque at the Pearl Harbour National Memorial bearing this prayer-poem Eleanor Roosevelt kept in her pocket during WWII:
Dear Lord, Lest I continue my complacent way, help me to remember somehow out there a man [or woman] died for me today. As long as there be war I then must ask and answer: am I worth dying for?
George Floyd your life mattered. Your death sparked a movement. We will not forget. (Your sunset: 25 May 2020)
I CAN’T BREATHE His voice reached back over 400 years to the belly of slave ships Summoning the plight of fore-mamas and -papas Black bodies snatched from homeland stacked up for export Crammed in places too cramped for air Constrained. Pressed. Till urine leaked, undignified Shackled and restrained from neck to feet Black bodies stretched out beneath deck, unseen
Too dark to see Too constrained to touch Too dense to be heard Too putrid to breathe in
I CAN’T BREATHE His voice reached back 46 years to the belly of his mamma To summon the space he’s always felt protected, safer Invoking relief from the indignity of shackled wrists Pinned under the knee-weight embodiment of bigotry and racist hatred 8 minutes:46 seconds Breath. Of. Life … deliberately snuffed out, stolen Black body stretched out for the world to view
Too riotous not to see Too palpable not to touch Too loud not to be heard Too blatant not to breathe in
I CAN’T BREATHE Ricocheted off sidewalks from cities and towns around the globe Escaped the lips of mamas, papas, sistas, brothas of every age, color and creed Galvanizing protests undaunted by a pandemic Bodies of all races stretched out, collective voices shout Demanding revolution, transformation, radical alteration
Too multi-ethnic not to see Too seismic not to touch Too forceful not to be heard Too copious not to breathe in
I CAN’T BREATHE Ignite change … too enormous not to see Ignite change … too radical not to touch Ignite change … too disruptive not to be heard Ignite change … too transforming not to breathe-in
Change.
So.
I.
Can.
BREATHE.
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it showed up on a Wednesday after dark—knocked knocked with determination on the entrance entrance of her mind awakened awakened from stupor gathering gathering her wits about her down down the stairs across the hall meandering meandering through the passage way she she peers through the peep hole of the door door to her mind and she sees—it it—is sinister sinister a force forces its way in uninvited uninvited into the deepest recesses recesses of her mind cobwebbed cobwebbed like a closet blacker blacker than the darkest night night formed from childhood hurts grown grown-up disappointments her mind now mildew mildew-stained of if-only-could-o’-been-not-enough-what-if if her mind now molded-grief from loss loss from betrayal from rejection in those those dusty crevices resides a familiar familiar stranger her thoughts redirecting redirecting her emotions orchestrating there there staring right back at her—it it showed up on a Wednesday after dark—knocked knock knock
Afterword: Darkness can be from issues that you dare not let anyone see or know about, the issues you struggle with alone and silently … it’s time to open the door, let in the light, you’re not alone!
First published 2022 All Rights Reserved GIF powered by Tenor
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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.
Abundance begins in the hush of dawn The sun lingers, lower now Casting longer shadows like memories on the backs of budding trees The wind, a whisper, to honor the end of April Leans in, to pause. Morning dew clings to blooms like beads of sweat anticipating April’s warm exhales, It’s breath perfumed with lilacs’ fragrance
Praise ricochets off the fluttering wings of birds Resounding off rain drip-dropping on thirsty ground Restoration creeps in with the light of morning Tender and sure as a heart beating into Intimacy, rising in the stillness of twilight The ache of what’s leaving dulls in the hope of what’s remaining— Love. Love does not vanish; it transforms with the turning And I, like the season, return to abundance
Video and images by me, complements of the NY Botanical Garden
Contributing to David’s W3 challenge by poet of the week, Di.
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
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
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
Women who stay in abusive relationships often hear the same questions: “Why don’t you leave?” “Why do you go back?” But leaving isn’t always simple. The ties that bind are deeper than what the eye can see—woven from fear of retaliation, financial dependence, isolation, and the emotional manipulation that distorts reality.
Help is Available
If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, you are not alone. There is help. In the US:
The flight took off through snowstorm’s might We trusted the forecast, we trusted the flight But when time came for landing, the winds took their stand As if the enemy determined, “They won’t safely land”
The engines groaned, the wings bowed low City lights flickered, dimmed to a glow A whispered prayer, a held-back scream— A battle raged beyond what can be seen
I believe God stood, firm in the darkened sky “Their purpose remains, they shall not die” Plane nose dipped down—the runway clear The wheels reached out, the ground drew near
But darkness grinned, the crosswinds rose And up we climbed—the landing closed Four times the storm would toss and turn Four times the pilot’s skills would burn
Yet heaven’s hand refused to sway “Not on My watch, not now, not today” Guardian angels wove through the steel A hush of peace the soul could feel
The winds did howl, the tempest rise But God still reigns beyond the skies “My child, hold on, for I am here Your time’s not up—give not in to fear”
Back to the start, though shaken still Weary, yet heart with gratitude is filled To breathe, to rise, to see the dawn— A life preserved, a journey drawn
Now I stand on solid ground With grateful psalms, my praise resounds For what was spared, for what’s in store For battles ahead and victories more
Afterword: As I pondered how to capture that night in poetic form, I was reminded of a powerful quote from one of my favorite spiritual writers, E.G. White, in The Great Controversy:
“If the veil could be lifted, and we could see the struggle of the angelic hosts with the powers of darkness, and the efforts of our guardian angels to protect us from the snares of the evil one…”
Reflecting on that night (6 Feb 2025) I cannot help but see it as a battle between good and evil—each attempted landing thwarted by the winds as a struggle for the souls aboard that small aircraft. But through it all, my good-good Father prevailed. Even now, I’m still in awe of His protection.
2025 All Rights Reserved Image by me (from plane window of return flight to NY)
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
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
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)
A collection of writing by Dominic Riccitello — intimate conversations, personal essays, and poetic reflections on relationships, loss, and self-discovery.
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