Thanks to Lynn over at https://madhatterpoetry.com/ for reblogging!
Tag: #poets
Introverted ©Dawn Minott
Dear World,
I’m introverted
My matter-of-fact stance is often misunderstood
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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On Spillwords — Life Lessons! ©️Dawn Minott
Hey y’all! Guess what?!
My poem’s found a brand-new spot—
Spillwords picked it up, oh yes,
I’m feelin’ proud, I must confess.
If you’ve got a sec to spare,
Click the link and show some care.
https://spillwords.com/life-lessons/!
Drop a heart, a word, a view—
Any literary love from you will do.
Thanks much, Dee🙏🏽🙂🙏🏽
Soul Cry: Hiraeth! ©️Dawn Minott | Loop Poetry with audio
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.
1st published 2021
All rights reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
More Than Enough ©Dawn Minott |with audio
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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In creative solidarity, Dee
The Return—The Bronzes Speak: “Omawale” ©Dawn Minott
Benin City
1897
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.
See my first post “The Wall They Couldn’t See” for more.
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.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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Protest Art ©Dawn Minott |Senryū
Protest—not my form
Pen wield what weapons cannot
Poetry blooms change
A riot is the language of the unheard.
—Martin Luther King
Art is my protest—
Make the world a better place
One word at a time
2025 All Rights Reserved
Images by Pexels
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In creative solidarity, Dee
My Roots, My Crown, My Hair-a-tage ©️Dawn Minott |in honor of National Crown Day, July 3rd
Beforeword: There’s a day for that?! Oh yes there is! Why? FACT—“Black women are 1.5 times more likely to be sent home from the workplace because of their hair”.
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.”
My Roots, My Crown, My Hair-a-tage©
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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The Wall They Couldn’t See ©Dawn Minott
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!
Part 2: “The Return—The Bronzes Speak: Omowale”
Excerpted from The Guardian article: “Story of cities #5: Benin City, the mighty medieval capital now lost without trace”
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In Memory’s Garden ©Dawn Minott
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.
2025 All Rights Reserved
Images by Pexels
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Journey to Excellence ©Dawn Minott
A Spoken Word Tribute to Graduates
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.
2025 All Rights Reserved
Image by Pexels
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In creative solidarity, Dee
God Blesses the Child Who Hurts ©Dawn Minott |with audio
Part I: The Separation
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
He blesses the child who hurts
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Father ©Dawn Minott |an Abecedarian
Happy Fathers’ Day
From A to Z expressing
And God said: let us make man, our character mirroring
Bestow God-likeness in his very being
Create in him the desire for parenting
Design him to be a guardian of his offspring
Ever present, ever loving, he’s to be—
FATHER!
Giver of life, being fruitful, multiplying
Having his quiver full of children he’s enjoying
Involved is he in all aspects of their upbringing
Joyfully attentive, he’s to be—
Kind!
Loving the mother of his children, respecting
Man with a gentle strength embodying
Nurturing is he, of himself always giving
Open, tender-hearted he’s to be—
Provider!
Quality time with his children always spending
Role model he will be, example for the following
Spiritual compass he is, guiding
Training and molding, he’s to be—
Understanding!
Virtuous and loyal, he’s devoting
Wise is he, in his thinking
X-traordinary house-band, always protecting
Yielded to God, fervent he’s to be
Zealous!
2025 All rights reserved
Images from Pexels
Thank you for journeying along.
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Whole Meets Whole (The Nutrients of Love) ©Dawn Minott
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.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Back Home: To You & Me ©Dawn Minott
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—
To find our way
back home
to you and me
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Me And God Got Back Together ©Dawn Minott | with audio video
So me and God got back together.
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.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
In The Frame ©Dawn Minott |Spoken Word Poem
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.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
WELCOME: WHY I CREATED THIS BLOG
Hey there! 💕
Welcome! Thanks for dropping by.
Why I created this blog?
Short answer: To provide a space for my voice to be heard.
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; inspirational reflections in prose, poetry and images; and travel stories where I share less about the places I visit and more about what these places reveal about people, history and identity.
My work has been published in anthologies, magazines and newspapers and in my first book: “Moments: A Poetic Heart Journey”.
You may click here👈 for more about the blog.
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 and 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.
The Turtle, The Moon and The Plane ©Dawn Minott |a Limerick
A turtle once entered a race
With an aeroplane—built for high pace
While the plane soared and flew
‘Twas lost in search of the moon
And the turtle won first place with praise
Afterword: The muse for this limerick is the two images in Sadje’s prompt on What Do You See # 291 June 02, 2025.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Stay Single Till Then ©Dawn Minott
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
Stay single
till then.
2020 All Rights Reserved [republished 2025]
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In creative solidarity, Dee
From His Side ©Dawn Minott
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.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Memorial Day in Gratitude ©Dawn Minott
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
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?
2023 All Rights Reserved
[republished 2025]
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Honoring the Life of George Floyd, 5 Years Later: I Can’t Breathe ©Dawn Minott |with audio
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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In creative solidarity, Dee
darkness ©Dawn Minott for Mental Health Awareness Month| with audio
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
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Daughter ©Dawn Minott
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.
Walk in it.
Afterword: for more on this story, read it here.
2025 All Rights Reserved
Photo by Pexels
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Do You!? ©️Dawn Minott
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.
2025 All rights reserved
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Power In Quiet Strength ©Dawn Minott — Tribute To My Mom |Quatrain with audio
I have never seen my mother crying
Or hear her utter needless complaining
Though heaven knows, there’s no denying
Life’s given her much cause for whining
***
I have never seen my mother stopped trying
Or see her back down from trials and failing
Got up when she fell, pathways retracing
‘Till she reached the goal she was intending
***
I have never seen my mother not providing
Or not ensured her children were eating
No job too small, if honest, she was working
Late at night or early morning—always returning
***
I have never seen my mother not praying
Or trusting in God for the way making
No mater the cause she’s not worrying
An example she is in persevering
***
I have never heard my mother shouting
Or seen her get her way by conniving
Humility and truth is her way of being
Quiet strength—that’s her power—emanating
1st published 2022
All rights reserved
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She’s Not The One ©Dawn Minott
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
She’s not the one
to wait for maybe
She’s the one
for when you are ready
2025 All Rights Reserved
Images by Pexels
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When the Contacts Go Quiet ©Dawn Minott
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.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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A.P.R.I.L. ©Dawn Minott
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
Contributing to David’s W3 challenge by poet of the week, Di.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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Love ©Dawn Minott |birthMONTH, Week 5
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.”
Thank you for joining this birthMONTH celebration. [Click here for the overview of this journey]
2025 All Rights Reserved
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Dear Mother Earth ©Dawn Minott | a Haibun for Earth Day
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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In creative solidarity, Dee
Intimacy ©Dawn Minott |birthMONTH, Week 4
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.
Thank you for joining this birthMONTH. Click here for the overview of this journey
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In creative solidarity, Dee
The Easter Trilogy: Sunday Speaks—He Is Risen! ©Dawn Minott
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.
Sunday Speaks
[also appears as featured poem at Spillwords]
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.
For parts 1&2 in the trilogy, click through: Friday, The Longest Night, Saturday Was Silent
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Featured on Spillwords: Sunday Speaks©Dawn Minott
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!
Thanks!! 🙏🏽🙂🙏🏽
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Like what you see? To never miss a post click HERE👈 to subscribe & follow the blog. There’s more HERE👈 and on Spillwords, the Writers Club & Facebook.
In creative solidarity, Dee
The Easter Trilogy: Saturday Was Silent ©Dawn Minott
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.
Saturday was silent.
And no one knew
if it would ever end.
For the 1st in the trilogy, click through: Friday, The Longest Night
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Repost: God’s SO Love—Blessed Easter
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.
Oh Jesus, thank You for Your precious blood!
The Easter Trilogy: Friday, The Longest Night ©Dawn Minott
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—
Would it all end with Friday?
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Reblog / Collaborature
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!!
Blood Moon ©Dawn Minott
Red moon cloaked in night
white sliver atop its curve
stars whisper in black
Afterword: This haiku is in response to Sadje’s picture prompt on What Do You See # 284 April 14, 2025.
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Happy Birthday to Me! Dear Younger Me ©Dawn Minott
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.
With love,
Your Older Me
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Restoration ©Dawn Minott |birthMONTH, Week 3
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?
Thank you for joining this birthMONTH celebration. Click here for the overview of this journey!
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In creative solidarity, Dee
HOLY WEEK: The Last Week to Easter
Hi WPers! I’ll be reciting this poem live on April 19th as part of a Easter program. You’re invited to join starting 11 AM EST on this channel:
https://youtube.com/@mountvernonsdaevents?si=E_JQ3EM2k2ts-tEH
Praise ©Dawn Minott |birthMONTH, Week 2
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.
Who’s joining me in lifting up joy—on purpose?
Thank you for joining this birthMONTH celebration. Click here for the overview of this journey!
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Abundance ©Dawn Minott |birthMONTH, Week 1
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.
The challenge: How to participate
Share a moment of abundance in the comments.
Thank you for joining this birthMONTH. Click here for the overview of this journey
Let’s begin this celebration with open hearts, recognizing the abundance already present in our lives.
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birthMONTH Celebration—Overview ©Dawn Minott
April is my birthMONTH!
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.
Click links below for:
Week 1 Poem: “Abundance”
Week 2 Poem: “Praise”
Week 3 Poem: “Restoration”
Week 4 Poem: “Intimacy”
Week 5 Poem: “Love”
So, will you celebrate with me?
Whether you follow along quietly or engage in the conversation, I hope this journey will be meaningful for you as well.
Let’s make April a month of spiritual renewal together.
Thank you for journeying along!
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We Are Golden ©Dawn Minott | closing Women’s History Month 2025
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.
Let the world see us.
Let the world know—
We are golden.
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Images by Etsy
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Imperfectly Perfect ©Dawn Minott
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.
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Image Facebook/unknown source
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Undecided ©Dawn Minott |a Shadorma
Undecided,
purple, white—unsure,
so they asked
Nature’s mom.
She whispered, “Be both, boldly,
dare to blend as one.”
#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.
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In creative solidarity, Dee
God Stopped! Shabbat Shalom ©Dawn Minott
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.
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Poetry: Evidence of Life | World Poetry Day 2025 ©Dawn Minott
Flames rise
Words ignite
Smoke unwinds
Carrying dreams
Flicker, soft, yet bold
Stories etched
Life burns bright
Traces linger
Ashes whisper
From fire’s end
Poetry—
Proof remaining in its wake
Afterword: This poem was inspired by this quote from Leonard Cohen:
Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.
Leonard Cohen
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Nowruz—Spring’s Arrival ©Dawn Minott
Nowruz arrives like a quiet dawn
Where renewal meets the familiar
Haft-Sin blooms with meaning
a ritual of hope and memory
Upon the table’s gleaming surface
A gathering of symbols—seven
A quiet conversation between past and future
Sabzeh, threads of green sprouting from soil
A promise of life unfolding
Of growth stitched into the fabric of spring
Samanu, thick and sweet
A labor of patience
The taste of fertility
Rich with the warmth of nurture
Senjed, dried fruit cradling affection
It’s scent a whisper of love’s endurance
Softness preserved through seasons
Serkeh, sharp and aged
Bitterness transformed into wisdom
The patience of time distilled
Seeb, red skin gleaming
Health’s crisp offering
Beauty held in the curve of light
Seer, garlic’s pungent strength
A guardian of well-being
Boldness etched into its roots
Somāq, crushed berries of crimson
The tang of sunrise
Spice woven into the essence of life
Seven signs, gathered with care
Each a fragment of completeness
A balance sought in tradition’s embrace
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Stay Surprise-able ©Dawn Minott
Stay surprise-able
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
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
The King On The Edge ©Dawn Minott |with audio visual
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.
https://youtube.com/clip/Ugkx_sg6tWn78Ukd2W7nkMxwDG28NBBr1eA7?si=21lPJZBw6pEKcfZm
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Becoming ©Dawn Minott |Women’s History Month
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.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Planetary Parade ©Dawn Minott |a #Shadorma
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.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Zero Sum Game in Love or Life ©️Dawn Minott | for Women’s History Month
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
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I Can Only Imagine ©Dawn Minott
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
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Black Don’t Crack ©Dawn Minott | Black History Celebration, with audio
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
First published 2024 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
📣 ANNOUNCEMENT 📣 Spillwords Newsletter Feature ©Dawn Minott
Don’t you just love when joy appears,
When good news comes out of nowhere!?
Dagmara sent a note my way— my words will shine on Spillwords’ display!
February’s Newsletter quote, it’s from my poem, “I Am Enough!”
Ain’t that grand?! Ain’t that good stuff?!
Thanks, Dagmara, for this display,
A gift of delight to start the day!
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Midweek Boost: Embrace the Shifts ©Dawn Minott
2025 All Rights Reserved
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It’s In The Way We Know ©Dawn Minott
It’s in the way you know me—
choose me,
listen to me,
console me,
defend me.
It’s in the way you stand by me,
beside me,
holding space,
holding firm.
It’s in the way I know you—
respect you,
trust in you,
admire you,
desire you.
It’s in the way I connect to you,
with you,
in silence,
in song.
Souls cleave,
hearts believe.
Desires rise,
words intertwine.
Affection deepens—
we know, we grow.
2025 (1st published 2021) All Rights Reserved
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Bound By You ©Dawn Minott
My friends all say, and I can see,
You break me down so carelessly.
I know they’re right—I know it’s true,
Yet still, I stay, still drawn to you.
I close my eyes—you reappear,
A ghost of love I hold too near.
You make me laugh, then make me cry,
You pull me close, then pass me by.
You whisper words I long to hear,
A lover’s voice, a siren near.
I turn away, yet spin around,
Lost in the grip where I am bound.
What must I do to break this chain?
To free my heart from love and pain?
Confused, I am, yet still I stay—
Will I escape, or fade away?
Domestic Violence
In this month of love I share this poem, “Bound by You”, to give voice to the internal struggle of women caught in the cycle of domestic violence. The truth is devastating: one woman or girl is killed every 10 minutes by their intimate partner or family member—someone they once trusted, someone who once swore to love them.
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:
- 911
- National Domestic Violence Hotline: Call 800-799-7233 (SAFE) or text START to 88788 for confidential support 24/7.
- StrongHearts Native Helpline (for Indigenous communities): Call 1-844-762-8483 [7NATIVE] or visit strongheartshelpline.org.
- Love Is Respect (for dating abuse support): Call 1-866-331-9474, text LOVEIS to 22522, or chat online at loveisrespect.org.
- Or in your country, the local emergency helpline.
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Wings Held by Grace ©Dawn Minott |with audio
Beforeword: A few of you asked, “Where’s the poem?” after I shared the article on my harrowing flight experience from Toronto to New York. So, here it is in poetic form:
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)
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You! ©Dawn Minott|for Black History Month
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.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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A Prayer of Surrender
Before-word: This is a paraphrase of a psalm penned by my best-Bible-friend, David (King of ancient Israel), as recorded in Psalms 139.
Dear God, investigate my life;
get all the facts firsthand.
I’m an open book to You;
even from a distance, You know what I’m thinking.
You know when I leave and when I get back;
I’m never out of Your sight.
You know everything I’m going to say
before I start the first sentence.
I look behind me and You’re there,
then up ahead and You’re there, too—
Your reassuring presence, coming and going.
This is too much, too wonderful—
I can’t take it all in!
Is there anyplace I can go to avoid Your Spirit?
to be out of Your sight?
If I climb to the sky, You’re there!
If I go underground, You’re there!
If I flew on morning’s wings
to the far western horizon,
You’d find me in a minute—
You’re already there waiting!
Then I said to myself, “Oh, He even sees me in the dark!
At night I’m immersed in the light!”
It’s a fact: darkness isn’t dark to You;
night and day, darkness and light, they’re all the same to You.
Oh yes, You shaped me first inside, then out;
You formed me in my mother’s womb.
I thank You, High God—You’re breathtaking!
Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
I worship in adoration—what a creation!
Like an open book, You watched me grow from conception to birth;
all the stages of my life were spread out before You.
The days of my life all prepared
before I’d even lived one day.
Your thoughts—how rare, how beautiful!
God, I’ll never comprehend them!
I couldn’t even begin to count them—
any more than I could count the sand of the sea.
Oh, let me rise in the morning and live always with You!
Investigate my life, O God,
find out everything about me;
Cross-examine and test me,
get a clear picture of what I’m about;
See for yourself whether I’ve done anything wrong—
then guide me on the road to eternal life.
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In creative solidarity, Dee
I Am Enough! on Spillwords ©Dawn Minott
I’m pleased to share that my piece, “I Am Enough!” was published by Spillwords. My special thanks to Dagmara, Chief Editor, and the team!
I’d appreciate if you’d follow this link to Spillwords and show my work some love over there as well:
Thanks WP fam!!!
2025 All Rights Reserved
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Images by Spillwords
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Shades of Black ©Dawn Minott | Black History Month
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
All Rights Reserved [republished]
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Overcome: Love Lives Loud ©Dawn Minott |a Dectina Refrain
What’s Super Bowl gotta do with love?!
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
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Da Curls In My Hair ©Dawn Minott |Black History Month |with video
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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In creative solidarity, Dee
In Her Memory, We Live ©Dawn Minott
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)
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
If These Walls Could Talk ©Dawn Minott
If these walls could talk,
Their voices would crack like the floorboards beneath your feet,
Worn down by years of footsteps
that carried love and loss in equal measure
They’d tell of love,
The kind that lingers in the scent of Sunday dinners,
The faint echo of a lullaby,
The creak of a rocking chair swaying long after the baby’s grown
They’d hum with the rhythm of life—
Pulsating with the heart-drum of a family piecing themselves together,
one imperfect day at a time
They’d whisper of quarrels,
loud as thunder at the time,
but now softened like rain,
falling gently, nourishing the roots of forgiveness
Voices raised, slamming doors,
but always opening again
with hands reaching, arms wide, inviting—
“Come back, sit down, let’s talk”
Broken-down boards,
their edges splintered but still holding steady
Leaking ceilings,
stubbornly letting light drip through the cracks
Rusted shingles,
their jagged edges like scars,
each one a story of resilience
Stripping paint,
layers peeling back to reveal
every shade of life lived inside—
a kaleidoscope of memory
And yet—
Inside regales of a beauty that still blooms
Faded wallpaper like the backdrop of dreams
Grandma’s patchwork quilt draped over the couch
Stitched together from cloths of generations past
Created by hands that believed in warmth, in home, in staying
If these walls could talk,
they’d tell you this:
Even in decay,
there is grace
Even in ruins,
there is history
And even when the frame sags under its weight,
a house holds its beauty in the love it has sheltered
So listen—
To the silence that speaks volumes
Listen to the cracks that echo strength
listen to the walls that have always stood,
not for themselves
but for the stories they protect
If only these walls could talk
You may also like: “If These Lips Could Talk”
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Life Lessons ©Dawn Minott
Nothing is forever in this world
Nothing is forever in this world,
not even our problems
They come and go like storm clouds
Like shadows passing over
All working together, in time, for your good
The most lost day in life
is the day we don’t laugh
The most lost day in life
is the day we don’t laugh—
A day wasted
Like chasing rainbows with your head down
Missing the brilliance arching over you
To truly laugh
You must take your pain and mold it
Shape it into art
Turn it into a weapon against despair
Walking in the rain, so no one can see me crying
I love walking in the rain
Hiding my tears in its rhythm
Letting it wash the salt from my cheeks
No one sees them—
My tears
In the rain—
A secret dance with my sorrow
A cleansing no one needs know
Six best doctors in the world
Six best doctors in the world
Let me count them for your hearing—
One: the sun that kisses your skin
Two: rest that cradles your weary bones
Three: exercise that awakens your spirit
Four: a diet that fuels your fire
Five: self-respect that builds your fortress
And, six, the best of them all—friends
Their laughter, their love, their healing hands, a sanctuary in a chaotic world
Life is a play that does not allow rehearsals
Life is a play that does not allow rehearsals—
You step on the stage raw
Your heart your script
Your conscience your guide
God by your side
Live, love, laugh out fully
Because the hands of time move forward, never back
Imagination means nothing without doing
Imagination means nothing without doing
Without stepping into the wild unknown
Without turning dreams into reality
We think too much and feel too little
Our hearts trapped behind cages of reason
But the heart is a compass
Its beat a map to the dreams we’re too afraid to speak out loud
Nothing is forever in this world
Nothing is forever in this world
But,
Today
We are here
And that is enough
Afterword: Charlie Chaplin, a silent screen actor whose gestures and expressions spoke louder than dialogue ever could. Yet, when he did use words, they carried weight. Today’s post is inspired by his profound words and a testament that the quietest voices can echo across generations.
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Martin Luther King Day ©️Dawn Minott
Like Martin Luther King: “I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear”.
His words are oh so relevant in these times:
“I’m concerned about a better World. I’m concerned about justice; I’m concerned about brotherhood and sisterhood; I’m concerned about truth. And when one is concerned about that, he can never advocate violence. For through violence you may murder a murderer, but you can’t murder murder. Through violence you may murder a liar, but you can’t establish truth. Through violence you may murder a hater, but you can’t murder hate through violence. Darkness cannot put out darkness; only light can do that”.
Taken from MLK Jnr., “Where Do We Go From Here” speech.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
This Old House, This Old Year ©Dawn Minott
Beforeword: Like an old house, the past year holds cracks, scars, and beauty—reminding us to embrace resilience, cherish love, and build hope in the year ahead. My word for 2025 is HOPE!
Happy New Year WPers!
The old year stands like an aged house,
its frame leaning from the weight of time,
its walls etched with the marks of joy and struggle.
The floorboards groan with the memory of steps—
some hesitant, some bold,
each one carving its place in the story.
The roof, patched, imperfect,
shielded through storms,
even as the rain seeped in through cracks.
Shingles rusted, paint stripped away,
layers of who you were laid bare,
revealing not ruin, but resilience.
Yet, inside, beauty remains.
The faint warmth of a fire long extinguished,
the soft hum of voices carried by the breeze.
Here is where love lingered,
where family gathered,
where arguments burned hot
but always cooled into peace.
The old year reminds you:
every crack tells a story,
every scar a survival.
What wore you down also built you up.
As the new year rises,
like a fresh foundation waiting to be laid,
remember this:
Mend the broken places,
but don’t erase their history.
Invite the light in, even if it exposes your flaws.
Forgive the storms, for they shaped you.
Celebrate the strength in what still stands.
Fill this new year with love so fierce
it becomes the shelter you need.
Open your doors to joy,
your windows to hope.
And when this year, too, becomes weathered,
may it stand proud—like this old house,
a testament to how well you lived it.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
New Chapter ©Dawn Minott
Beforeword: New Year is a New Chapter of 365 opportunities to make a difference in the spaces where purpose meets the pulsating of fresh start.
In the quiet unveiling of one year’s end
A new one emerges, a cosmic unveiling
Darkness surrenders to the dawn’s soft glow
The dawning of a year, another chance to step into the uncharted
Pages turn, not with the creak of binding
But with the silent rustle of unseen potential
Each day, a leaf in the unfolding narrative of possibilities
365 chapters yet unwritten in the book of life
No rhyme to dictate the rhythm of this journey
No predetermined cadence to constrain my steps
With each sunrise, a new chance to redefine
To shape my story unscripted, line upon line
Time, a steady heartbeat, echoes opportunity
In the quiet hum of moments purpose beckons
A call to craft meaning in the tapestry of existence
365 chances to breathe life into dreams
So, as the sun rises, 365 days stretch like an unwritten book
I’ll bravely embrace the new chapters
For in every sunrise, a promise is whispered—
365 days, 365 opportunities to live with purpose
2024 All Rights Reserved
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‘Twas The Days After Christmas ©Dawn Minott
‘Twas the days after Christmas, and all through the towns
Hearts turning grey, like winter, cast down
Stockings stuffed heavy, now dangling bare
All they contained distributed with care
Gifts quickly losing their “must have” splendor
Owners eyeing the next “thing” to give ‘em pleasure
Twinkling lights and all their shimmer
Turned off, unplugged, leaving spaces dimmer
Trees stripped down, discarded on curbs
Christmas packed away, leave undisturbed
‘Till next year’s frenzy, forgetting the reason
Is Jesus left behind, till next Christmas season?
2022, republished 2025, All rights reserved
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Christmas—Out of the Ordinary ©Dawn Minott
It was an ordinary night
the kind where stars whisper and the earth gently exhales
A stable, no different than any other
smelled of hay, sweat, and animals—
not a palace, not a temple, just a room for the overlooked
An ordinary girl barely more than a whisper
young, tired
her heart swelling with both fear and faith
An ordinary man
steady, unsure
trying to make sense of a divine plan that didn’t seem to make sense at all
Shepherds
ordinary men with dirt under their nails
watching their flocks
used to the dark and the humdrum of silence
never expecting the heavens to tear open with jubilation
And yet—
in the ordinary
extraordinary light broke through
A star, brighter than reason
daring to blaze where no star had blazed before
An angel joined by a heavenly host declaring the birth of
the extraordinary
Wise men
called from distant lands
following whispers of destiny written in the skies
Gold, frankincense, myrrh—
gifts fit for a King, cradled in a manger
The extraordinary gift of salvation
wrapped in the fragile skin of a newborn
the hope of eternity
cradled by hands still learning their strength
And now,
we stand on the edge of the same choice—
to stay in the ordinary
the safe, the unnoticed, the blend-in-and-fit-in life
Or to step into the extraordinary
the blaze-your-trail-walk-on-water-rise-above-the-noise kind of calling
Extraordinary is our design!
How then can we fit in and stand out at the same time
Step into the gift of being set apart
Dare to dream beyond the dust
to reach for the stars
to bring heaven closer to earth
Christmas
reminds us that
the One who shattered the ordinary
called us to the
extraordinary
2024 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Don’t Die Before You’re Dead ©Dawn Minott
Don’t die before you’re dead.
Don’t let the grind of days steal the breath from your spirit
Or the weight of worry cement your feet in place
When death finds you
Let it find you alive
Let it find you with fire in your eyes
With laughter tangled in your lungs
And songs swelling in notes to the skies
Live.
Live with joy like it’s a rebellion
A refusal to let the darkness win
Smile wide enough to crack the walls of your fears
Let your curiosity roam untamed
Chasing the edges of the horizon
Like a child who believes the ocean is endless
Be audacious.
Speak louder than the silence that tries to hold you
Dare to dream when the world says, “Be small”
Dance, even when the music is only in your head
Run toward the things that scare you
Because courage is not the absence of fear—
It’s choosing to live fully in spite of it
Speak out.
Don’t bear the agony of an untold story, not told
Your voice dying within you, unheard
Don’t sit still, pregnant with potential
Never to give birth to your purpose
Speak the truth etched on your soul
Let your words carve pathways for others
Let your gifts see the light of day
A buried dream is a tragedy the world can never mourn
When the clock ticks
Don’t just count the hours—
Make them count
When the seasons shift—
Don’t mourn the leaves that fall,
Celebrate the seeds you’ve sown
So when death comes knocking
Let it find you alive
Not half-lived or worn down by regret
But shining with the audacity of a life fully embraced
And the joy of knowing you left no moment unlived
Don’t die before you’re dead
Afterword: The inspiration for this poem stems from: the proverb, “When death finds you, may it find you alive,” and Maya Angelou’s powerful words, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” These are part of my life motto and together they form the foundation of my “Why I Write” declaration, driving me to live fully and to ensure my voice is heard.
2024 All Rights Reserved
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One Another ©Dawn Minott |a Cento
Love one another with brotherly affection (Romans 12:10)
Bear one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2).
Encourage one another and build one another up (1 Thessalonians 5:11)
Live in harmony with one another (Romans 12:16)
Forgiving one another as God in Christ forgave you (Ephesians 4:32)
Outdo one another in showing honor (Romans 12:10)
Be at peace with one another (Mark 9:50)
Through love, serve one another (Galatians 5:13)
Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ (Ephesians 5:21)
Let us stir up one another to love and good works (Hebrews 10:24)
Bear with one another in love (Ephesians 4:2)
Confess your sins to one another, pray for one another (James 5:16).
Do not grumble against one another (James 5:9)
Welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you (Romans 15:7)
Love one another, just as I have loved you (John 13:34)
Clothe yourselves in humility toward one another (1 Peter 5:5)
Teaching and admonishing one another in wisdom (Colossians 3:16)
Do not speak evil against one another (James 4:11)
But exhort one another daily, while it’s called today (Hebrews 3:13)
And above all—
Let us love one another, for love is from God (1 John 4:7)
Afterword:
One of the greatest blessings of holidays like Christmas is how they bring us together, reminding us of the power of community and connection. But what if we extended this spirit of togetherness throughout the year? Would our homes, communities, and world be filled with more love? Would we see peace on earth and goodwill truly extended to all people?
The Bible is rich with “one another” statements—guiding principles that call us to live in harmony, serve with humility, and love unconditionally. These statements remind us that we are not meant to navigate life alone; they can only be fulfilled with… one another.
This cento weaves together these timeless “one another” verses. Though written over two thousand years ago, their message remains strikingly relevant today, offering a blueprint for unity, love, and hope in our lives and our world.
2024 All Rights Reserved
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Finesse ©Dawn Minott | a Senryu
She dances with leaves
Cascading, serenading
Dripping in finesse
Afterword: This is another R&B collab, this time is Bruno Mars, “Dripping in Finesse”.
2021 All Rights Reserved (republished 2024)
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Purpose Drops ©Dawn Minott
“Purpose drops in our laps
as if the heavens threw it by accident”
like a star slipping out of orbit
like a word spoken out of turn
yet somehow exactly what was meant to be said
It falls—
heavy as a stone in still water
light as a feather floating on the wind
carrying weight and ease
in equal measure
We don’t always know what to do with it—
this gift disguised as a burden
this question wrapped in the skin of an answer
Do we cradle it like glass,
fragile and precious?
Or do we let it burn our palms,
carving its truth into our skin?
The heavens may play coy
but there are no accidents here
Purpose lands exactly where it is supposed to—
in trembling hands
in restless hearts
in the laps of those
who thought they were sitting still
but were actually waiting all along
It whispers:
“Carry me, even if you stumble.
Shape me, even if you break.
Live me, and I will make you whole.”
Purpose drops in our laps
as if the heavens threw it by accident
Afterword: A speech by Deshauna Barber delivered at an alumni event at the University Maryland global campus was the muse for this piece, inspired from this line: “purpose drops in our laps as if the heavens threw it by accident.”
You may also like: “For Purpose, On Purpose”
2024 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Friends Net Worth ©Dawn Minott |a Dectina Refrain
Friends—
Net worth
Tallied in
Memories made
Not diamonds or gold
Bonds built through joy, through strife
Stories exchanged through the years
Laughter that echoes through tears
Time invested, no wealth could replace
Friends—net worth tallied in memories made
Friends—net worth tallied in memories made
Time invested, no wealth could replace
Laughter that echoes through tears
Stories exchanged through the years
Bonds built through joy, through strife
Not diamonds or gold
Memories made
Tallied in
Net worth—
Friends
Afterword:
In my home country, Jamaica, this entire poem is captured in this proverb—“Good friends better than pocket money”.
2024 All Rights Reserved
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Love Rolls On (after Nikki Giovanni) ©Dawn Minott
I loved you long before I met you
the sound of your laughter
like the wind whispering through trees
Love is the rain we chase in summer
the sound of bicycles rolling
on cobbled streets
a rhythm steady, like breathing
You are my confession
my memories pressed
in the pages of time
We are the poem that never ends
the spark to light the night
There is no yesterday without you
no tomorrow without us
Afterword: Prolific autor and poet Nikki Giovanni passed away today (December 10, 2024). She’s been a voice of change in the black power and black art movements. This tribute poem is based on her New York Times best seller “Bicycles: Love Poems”. It’s not quite a cento (I needed more time to write that) but it borrows from her work mainly on love—my favorite muse! Though she’s gone, love rolls on.
2024 All Rights Reserved
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Commemorating 16 Days of Activism: A World Without Fear ©Dawn Minott
Women’s Bodies, Contested Spaces
In a world we all know too well
Women’s bodies bear violence—scarred
A contested space, a battleground
Where autonomy is a forlorn wish
Where choice, stripped away and silenced, becomes
A ghost of it’s once true self
Where home is where the harm is
How can love unfurl its wings?
How can dreams find light when darkness lingers
Where safety should sing?
For one in three women—intimacy’s touch turns violent
Every 10 minutes—for one woman—intimacy’s touch turns turbulent
As love’s promise becomes the cold hand of death
With no right to say no, no right to say yes—
When to bear life or when to hold it close
Their own bodies betrayed by laws and customs, imposed
Written by hands that will never know
The weight of their words, death sentence proposed
Rape—A Weapon of War
In conflicts that rage beyond borders
Male invasion, rape—a weapon of war—a tool, a tactic
Conquering women’s flesh like spoils
While in the hollow halls of the United Nations
Resolutions inked by men with pens, spill
Like blood, staining sheets
Emptying hearts of life’s own source
Yet, still, governments choose steel and flame
Investing in war machines, no peace to gain
Conflicts on women’s bodies play out, the ultimate price paid
Uprooted!
Uprooted! from their soil
Women and girls drift like leaves falling from withering trees
Their homes lost to gunfire, to flood, to flame
Their world, quaking, shifting beneath their feet
Displaced by war, exiled by climate’s rage
They wander borderless, unanchored
Carrying memories of lands once called home
Searching for safety in a world, fractured
No longer their own
New Dawn, Reborn
But now, imagine a dawn
Reborn
A world rebuilt from root to sky
Where hands that hold are only gentle
Where bodies, once haunted, are fully free
Imagine a world where choice is sacred
Where every woman’s voice rings clear
Her body is her sovereign land
A place of power, of life, of joy
Imagine girls, unafraid to play
With futures bright as the skies above
And women, unbroken, now as rooted as trees
No longer the spoils of collateral damage
No longer bent beneath a burdened silence
No longer survivors, but whole
Free to choose, to create—
They thrive
A World Beyond Fear
A world beyond fear, a world that is just
Where equality stands as tall as the sequoia
And equity flows as long as the river of the Nile
Here, love needs no pen to promise, no ink to spill
Every woman, every girl
In freedom walks, unbounded—
Potential fulfilled, a force unchained in change
Afterword: This poem commemorates the 16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence (November 25–December 10). In it I reflect on the injustices faced by women and girls globally, from violence in their homes to the denial of autonomy. It envisions a future of safety, equality, and justice, calling for action to uphold their rights and dignity. This is my life’s work!!
2024 All Rights Reserved
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In creative solidarity, Dee
December Already?!©Dawn Minott |a Haiku
Where did the year go?
January blinked—now frost,
December’s chill reigns
Afterword:
Is it just me or does the year feel like January … December?
Yet, this is all the energy I have left for the year!
2024 All Rights Reserved
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FREEdom ©Dawn Minott |a Dectina Refrain
Hope
Restored
Free at last
The die is cast
Time of tears fades
Love triumphed o’er hate
Justice walks sacred ground
From mountaintops, valleys vast
We held the dream, we bore the cost
Through trials steep, the shadows have passed
Hope restored, free at last, the die is cast
Written for W3 Poetry Prompt. Sarah Whiley, Poet of the Week, challenges us to write a poem inspired by the theme—free using the Dectina Refrain form. When I think of FREE-dom, one speech comes to mind: MLK’s “I Have a Dream”. This iconic speech was delivered on August 28, 1963, during the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.
This poem is in tribute to FREEdom—that it’s not just a dream but the reality for every person, everywhere.
2024 All Rights Reserved
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Eclipsed By Love ©Dawn Minott
Heart’s rhythm beats steady for love
For a love that shields, creating a safe space—
Unafraid to be vulnerable, wholly free
To exist just as we are, completely
You and I—broken in different ways
Fragmented pieces from separate days
Yet together, we synchronize in all the right places
Restoring like ancient art, our brokenness erases
A love created like poetry in motion
Like rivers conjoined, flowing to the ocean
A journey crafting healing for you, for me
Reconciled in the embrace of love’s harmony
We move by love’s essence, a force so pure—
Healing in its touch, a bond that will endure
Endure through time, a rhythm unexplained
A love that eclipses logic, heart over brain
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Even The Adult In The Room Cries ©Dawn Minott
Beforeword: A colleague with whom my friend co-chaired an internship program for students for over 25 years suddenly passed away. Now, standing before her students, their sad eyes looking back at her, she finds herself comforting them, holding back her own tears because, as she told me, she needed to be the adult in the room. Unable to be there to console her in person, I wrote and read this poem for her, hoping it offers some comfort from afar.
Read along and listen to: “Even The Adult In The Room Cries”:
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Strength: Tribute to My Mom ©Dawn Minott #Senryu
Strength, my mother’s gift
Quiet grace in all she does
Her love, firm and true
The Skeptic’s Kaddish:
W3 Prompt #133:
1. Form: Write either 1) a haiku, 2) a tanka, or 3) a senryu;
2. Must include: the word “strength”
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Autumn’s Breath ©Dawn Minott #Haiku
Autumn breathes crisp air
Whispers of new beginnings
Leaves dance in the breeze
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Unleashed ©Dawn Minott
To live in regret
is to live within the length of a leash
that connects to the past—
a chain that binds dreams
holds joy hostage
and tightens with every memory replayed
How long will you stay caged in
the could-have-been
the should-have-done
the moments you let slip
through your hands?
How long will you wear the past like a collar
like a weight that pulls you back
like a shackle that stifles breath
makes you small
makes you stay?
The past is nothing but a paper tiger—
it has no growl, it has no bite
If you but move t’ward the light
feel the warmth on your skin
each step a defiance
each breath a reclaiming
Regret may whisper
but you are louder, still
You are
the breaking of chains
the choosing of joy
the walking away
You are bound only to the future—
where you run free
where you rise
where you live life,
Unleashed
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Leaves’ Fire ©Dawn Minott
As autumn deepens—
night stretches its long fingers
pulling darkness over daylight
ushering in longer, colder spells
inviting leaves’ hidden hues
once veiled to blaze forth
in defiant, spectacular display they
reveal splendors previously cloaked by summer’s green grasp
a kaleidoscopic spectrum of colors
unmasked
as if they had swallowed sunsets
waiting for their moment
to exhale
fire
Afterword: I’m a big fan of David Attenborough. This poem is influenced by one of his recent posts and associated photograph.
More details/photos here: https://bit.ly/3VZdEHb
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In creative solidarity, Dee
What’s Old Is New ©Dawn Minott
This poem was published on Spillwords. So grateful to Dagmara and the team for selecting this piece.
Please drop by Spillwords to read the full poem and show your love there as well. Thanks WP-fam!
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In creative solidarity, Dee
The First Time ©Dawn Minott
Heart
Beats fast,
Room leans in,
Strangers drawn close
Words find breath—rising
Electric energy
Spark among unknown faces
Voice ricochets off the stillness
Line on line catching, lifting—release
Heart beats fast, room leans in, strangers drawn close
Afterword: This poem (a dectina refrain), is inspired by my first public reading outside my usual circle. It reflects the nervous anticipation and vulnerability of sharing deeply personal work with strangers. It was at the iconic Bowery Poetry Club (NYC) known for its vibrant and welcoming atmosphere. That night was no exception—there was an electric energy in the room as my voice found its place among an audience that leaned in and affirmed a moment of connection through words.
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In creative solidarity, Dee
No Regrets ©Dawn Minott
Help me, Most High, to live each day, so I can truly, humbly say:
I loved You with my whole heart
And followed the path You set apart
I chased my dreams with fearless stride
Rising each time I stumbled or cried
I won some battles, lost a few
Never settled for less than what was true
I was kind to all I met
Gave my best, without regret
I was loved, and I loved well
Laughed in joy, in gratitude dwelled
May my joys outlast my sorrows
And my triumphs light tomorrows
If I closed my eyes, then woke to find
Life had slipped, like sand, through time
I pray I’d lived a life rich and deep
No regrets, my soul in peace will sleep
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In creative solidarity, Dee
…Even There ©Dawn Minott
If I climb the highest heights of hope
If I reach for stars in skies unknown
There you are, a love steady and true
Even there, I am not alone
If I sink to depths I cannot bear
If I’m lost in valleys, bruised and weak
Still your love is deeper still—
Even there, your comfort heals
If I drift beyond the furthest shore
Where waters stretch and wild winds blow
Your hand will guide, Your voice will call—
Even there, I’ll find my way
If shadows fall, and darkness swells
If fear tries hard to block my view
Still, the dark is bright as day—
For even there, I’m held by you
So where, my God, could I ever flee
From a Love that’s fierce, unbound, and near?
In every place, in every breath—
Even there, you conquer all fear
Afterword: Psalms 139:10 was my muse for this poem!
Psalms 139:10
…even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Nevertheless ©Dawn Minott |with audio
I don’t know the end,
the path ahead, unclear,
but I will trust You, God,
for You are always near.
In the silence, or the storm,
when shadows seem to press,
I’ll walk in faith, not by sight,
and trust You—nevertheless.
When doubt whispers lies,
and fear clouds my view,
I’ll cling to all You’ve promised,
for I know Your word is true.
When the world around me shifts,
and I’m tempted to digress,
I’ll anchor in Your love, oh God,
and hold firm—nevertheless.
For You are the beginning,
the faithful, guiding light,
Though now I see through glass, darkly
I know You’ll make it all, right.
In victories and trials,
in joy and deep distress,
I’ll lift my eyes to heaven,
and praise You—nevertheless.
So even in the tarrying,
when answers seem delayed,
I’ll rest within Your timing—
I’ll no longer be afraid.
I surrender all my striving,
and leave behind the guess,
I’ll follow where You lead me,
Lord, trusting—nevertheless.
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In The Park ©Dawn Minott
In the quiet park, I sit and breathe
A goose glides by, casting its shadow beneath
The river flows with high tide’s rise
Reflecting the blue of endless skies
A wedding unfolds near the evergreen trees
Laughter and vows carried by the breeze
Sun rays dance on faces aglow
Warming the scene with a golden show
Parents and babes, love tenderly shown
In their own worlds where dreams have grown
I watch it all in quiet delight
The park turns tranquil as day turns to night
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In creative solidarity, Dee
Hope ©Dawn Minott
Hope is joy—
the kind passed down like heirlooms,
a quilt of belonging,
a patchwork of sacrifice
stitched with hands that remember
Hope is laughter—
the sound of breaking cycles,
the release of generational restraints
off children who grow strong
under the instructions
of those who came before
Hope is political—
a movement, a pulse
the fight for more than survival
it’s claiming the right to thrive,
for equality in power
where power means change
Hope is social—
woven through our communities
a collective will to lift each other
to build bridges across time
and dismantle the walls
of what was once thought impossible
Hope is me, you—
vessels of dreams untold
a reflection of ancestors’ prayers
carrying their strength in our bones
we are the bridge, the builder,
the keeper of this flame
that lights the way
for those yet to come
Hope is the affirmative action of generational wealth—
more than money,
it’s memory, it’s possibility,
it’s dreaming in color, releasing
hands that will build futures
far beyond the limits of the past
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