On a “Sunny April Afternoon” Poised at the “Edge Of Your Atmosphere” You arrange rhythmic sounds Eclipsing the moon at “Sunset Strip”
Create a fantasy “Fruitloop Daydream” Though “I Am My Father’s Daughter” I was first conceived in the crevices of your womb “Don’t Touch Me While I Am Sleeping” the sleep of rhapsody
The melodic “Bang [of] The Drum” “Knocks Me Out” softly Let me deep-dive into your elixir of “Life in a Bottle” While you unpack heartbreak’s “Tiny Box Of Lies” You, the “Secret Lover”, strum them like a truth serum
When I awake lull me not to the “Life Despite God” But to life with God To produce beauty of form, harmony, expressions of emotion To produce the magic of music
Afterword: This Poetry in Conversation with a Song is set to the titles of Linda Perry’s albums.
There’s a correspondence between heartbeats where words falter yet meanings are understood therein lies a love that transcends language it’s a dance of souls in quietness of whispers
It’s the brush of fingertips on skin the lingering gaze that speaks volumes the shared breath of two souls entwined in a symphony of emotions untamed
It’s the warmth of a sunrise in their touch the gentle caress of moonlight’s embrace a language of gestures, unspoken desires etched by the pressing hands of time
For what is love if not a melody played on the strings of the soul, a song without lyrics, yet understood in the silence that binds hearts as one
2024 All Rights Reserved Credit: Designed by Canva
Beforeword: This poem is a lover’s endearing question: In that other life will your love search for me, find me, love no other but me?
When life turns into eternity’s grasp Will memories of your love firmly clasp? In that ethereal realm, will you recall The love we shared, ‘twas the sweetest of all?
In realms beyond where time has no bounds Will your heart seek mine in whispers and sounds? Amidst cosmic wonders will you yearn for me Finding solace in my love’s celestial rhapsody?
Know, no other soul can ignite this flame It burns too deep, ‘twill forever be the same Through lifetimes and realms our love will endure A bond unbreakable forever and sure
And when life is interrupted by the call of death Will our souls reunite, drawn by each other’s breath? In that other life will your love still survive To search, find me, keep this love alive?
Will destiny guide our souls’ embrace? Across the abyss beyond infinity of space When life turns into eternity’s night I’ll find your love, it will be my light
2024 All Rights Reserved
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Beforeword: This Sabbath inspirational reflection highlights that living a life of faith is being comfortable in living in the space between what is and what could be.
Have you ever found yourself between a rock and a hard place? Feeling as if you’re trapped between two difficult circumstances with no obvious good option or feeling you must act under pressure and uncertainty?
There are moments in life that don’t come with certainty—only that questioning “maybe.”
He was there because an enemy nation had established a garrison blocking in Israel and holding them in fear. Jonathan took action unbeknownst to the King who had taken up a position of passivity under a pomegranate tree with his soldiers.
Because of the enemy’s blockade, the only options before Jonathan to break through were two cliffs. And as if that wasn’t challenging enough, one cliff face was thorny while the other was slippery.
On either side, there was a different kind of challenge. The path was not clear and there was no guaranteed outcome. Yet Jonathan took a decision to move forward anyway.
That’s the tension of a “maybe moment.”
Even when you’re walking in God’s will, it can still feel uncertain, unsteady and even sharp in some instances.
In the story of Jonathan there’s no record that God spoke beforehand to give reassurance or to lay out a roadmap. Yet Jonathan moved. Then God showed up.
Faith often lives in those “maybe” cliffs. Not the ones outside of us, but the ones within—fear, doubt, hesitation, the need for control.
Victory in those moments asks something uncomfortable of us: vulnerability. That is, the willingness to let go off of what hinders our faith so that we can step forward even without full clarity. To trust God when we have no proof or to move even when there are no guarantees.
It was after Jonathan moved that the way to victory was revealed.
That is where a life of faith is lived—in the space between what is and what could be.
Jonathan’s willingness to act, based on his trust in God, sparked the deliverance of his people.
So, if you find yourself in a “maybe”moment today—standing between slippery and thorny ground—don’t wait for certainty.
Trust God and step anyway.
Shabbat Shalom. May God’s peace be with you and guide you through thorny and slippery places.
As a Canadian I’ve long admired Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s leadership—especially his commitment to feminist foreign policy and the bold move to back it with a $300 million investment in the establishment of the Equality Fund—a long-term investment in women’s rights organizations around the world, especially those working at the grassroots level. The kind of work that often goes unseen, underfunded, but changes everything.
But admiration from afar is one thing.
Meeting him, standing in that moment, and sharing directly how those decisions have mattered… that was a whole other level of I-can’t-believe-I’m-in-this-conversation!!
This was a reminder that the work we do travels farther than we see—and sometimes, it brings us face to face with the very people who inspired it.
And with that, I close out birthMONTH 2026—grounded in alignment, walking in fulfillment, and anchored in the knowing that honing what has been entrusted to me—my skills, my talents, my gift—creates access. It opens doors, makes room, and carries me into the spaces I’m meant to occupy.
World unfolds Seven continents Six complete Travel log Australia, birthmonth’s quest Antarctica waits
Pexels.com
Afterword: The world is a globe of borders and of bridges. This birthMONTH I crossed into Australia—and with that step, another continent claimed! Six down, one to go—Antartica is next!
Globally, February is widely known for celebrating Black history, and in Jamaica and across the Caribbean, for celebrating reggae.
Theme: A Century of Black History CommemorationsTheme: Rhythms of Resilience
This year I’ll be writing about bothbecause2026 is a significant year. It marks one hundred years since Black history was formally named and recognized in the United States, and eighteen years of acknowledging reggae music’s impact on culture and global consciousness. It is also no coincidence that reggae legends Dennis Brown and Bob Marley were both born in February—on the 1st and 6th, respectively.
I’ll be writing about both together because they carry shared histories of Africans displaced from the Motherland. Both are rooted in demonstrations of African love, resilience, survival, and the demand for social justice. Both exist to remember out loud our story, struggle, creativity, and endurance. Both became global while remaining connected to their African roots.
And, writing of both side by side show that history is not just about books or dates, but that its a living force in rhythm, language, memory, and the ways we tell our stories across cultures and borders.
In my article Holding Change & Loss I promised to return with more writing and on-the-ground updates from being in Jamaica.
You’ll recall, on October 28, 2025, Hurricane Melissa — a catastrophic Category 5 hurricane with sustained winds around 185 mph (295 km/h) — made historic landfall near Jamaica’s southwest coast. At the time, every major news outlet carried images and stories of devastation; now the world has moved on, but the work of recovery is just beginning and sustained attention, accountability, and action are essential.
With that in mind, I made it to Jamaica. I wanted to be here sooner, but the reality is this: the country will be in recovery for a long time. So arriving now still feels right — not too late.
If you’ve read my other posts about Jamaica, you know how heightened the anticipation of returning home always is for me. I’m always on the lookout for that first stretch of green and coastline which always settles something in me. This time I started filming earlier than usual — not just the landing, but the first sight of land itself.
When the wheels touched down, the usual clapping broke out — the applause of gratitude. Then the flight attendant invited a louder one. We obliged. It felt earned. My lips spoke the sentiments of my heart: “Me reach home!”
But this trip wasn’t just about returning home. It was about the work on the ground, and seeing what’s real beyond the headlines.
In Kingston it’s possible to feel like all is well. That illusion didn’t last long. On the drives west the story changed. There were more than 170 communities severely impacted in the 6 parishes that felt the brunt of the storm. I went to three of them: St. Elizabeth, Trelawny and Hanover.
From a distance, you’d miss the damage.
But, the reminders came fast. Downed light poles. Roofless houses, churches, schools, hospitals, infirmaries. Roads riddled with potholes that are now more like craters. The storm’s imprint cuts clearly through the green — twisted sheets of zincs wrapped around tress so tightly as if that was their natural home and trees precariously leaned to one side, an indication of the effects of sustained winds — all a physical reminder of what western Jamaica endured.
As hills and mountains passed by, what was most evident is that nature was already healing itself.
People tell me that the fresh greenery masks the havoc that stripped trees of bark and leaves and left slopes bare and brown.
What stood out just as much was the response.
People are already helping themselves and each other. Schools shifted to tents. Makeshift repairs are everywhere — zincs repurposed, tarpaulin stretched taut across roofs so that the landscape is dotted with blue. I said it out loud, and the CEO of the foundation I’m volunteering with agreed: she said soon after the hurricane, people were snatching zincs from wherever the wind had blown them to use to protect their homes.
In talking with people, amid the horror of having lived through Hurricane Melissa, what consistently emerged were stories of neighbors rallying around one another. In one case, someone gave a building to a shopkeeper who lost her entire business so she could start again. No waiting. No dramatics. Just movement. That’s the JamaiCAN spirit in action.
Hanover took us further into the hinterland. The drive was painstakingly slow. The hurricane had worsened the roads so severely and one shorter route was still submerged, appearing more like a dam from our view above. Our driver navigated potholes like a minefield as we followed a minivan bobbing and weaving its way through, carrying the more than 200 care packages we were to distribute to families as well as supplies for several small enterprises.
The needs are wide — from safe roofing materials and school supplies to infrastructure support, equipment for small businesses, and psychosocial care.
I chose to focus on schools and female-headed small enterprises, supporting both education and livelihoods while investing in people’s capacity and dignity. Based on advocacy efforts I was able to assist schools with books and, in one case, a tent mobilized through UNICEF that now serves as a gathering space after the school’s roof was completely ripped off. With electricity still not restored, the solar-powered lanterns and power banks were well received.
I was grateful to also be able to speak with people, offering a listening ear and psychological support. One that stood out was a single mother of three children in school who lost her home and everything in it. The only structure still standing is her small shop. Her shop served as a community meeting point—aptly called the “Hilltop Chill Spot”.
In fact, while World Central Kitchen was operating in the area, her shop served as the site where more than 250 meals were prepared and distributed each day. Now that WCK has moved on, the shop has the potential to continue as a community support hub with the right backing. Being part of the shift that allowed her — and another female shop owner — to look forward rather than backward was a privilege. Watching a flicker of hope brighten as practical support came into view is why getting here mattered. Seeing it firsthand matters.
But this isn’t just about Jamaica.
Hurricane Melissa joins a litany of climate-intensified storms that hit Small Island Developing States like ours with disproportionate force. These nations contribute the least to global emissions, yet face more frequent and severe hurricanes, rising seas, and shifting weather patterns that threaten agriculture, infrastructure, culture, and heritage—from livelihoods to historic sites and community roots. SIDS like Jamaica are on the front lines of this global challenge.
Cultural loss, heritage destruction, and community displacement are climate impacts that demand global responsibility. This isn’t a local issue — it’s an issue of climate justice.
Recovery will be long-term, and preparedness alone isn’t enough.
Infrastructural change is needed to build back not just what was lost, but what’s stronger, more resilient, and more equitable. This means supporting micro- and small enterprises — including those owned by women — to rebuild better and more sustainably. It also includes reskilling people in modern farming technologies, AI-driven resilience tools, construction practices that anticipate future climate realities, and ensuring meaningful community engagement at all stages.
Moving around the country, seeing firsthand and speaking with fellow Jamaicans, the national pledge kept coming back to mind and it stopped being just words. The pledge begins with the words “Before God and all mankind,” followed by lines expressing dedication of heart, mind, and body to the service of fellow citizens. Specifically:
Raised on this pledge, Jamaicans embody it. I saw it in action — a people committed to helping one another, rebuilding together.
This article is not to imply that Jamaica isn’t carrying damage, but to show that it also carries resolve.
Jamaicans are resilient, yes, but resilience should not be mistaken for self-sufficiency. They are already rebuilding, but doing so with the same materials and methods risks repeating destruction. Resilience should be met with resources, systems, and sustained commitment — supporting communities, schools, churches and micro- and small enterprises, especially those led by women, to rebuild stronger and more sustainably. Small shops are often run by women and are the heartbeat of their communities: they provide income, social support, and gathering spaces, and their recovery is central to restoring both livelihoods and local life.
I’m here. I listened. I watched. I learned.
Being here allowed me to hold space for what was lost, to learn from what’s being rebuilt, and to bear witness to a country that refuses to yield — a people whose strength is matched only by their resolve to rise again.
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
There is one resolution that will be worth keeping
The gift to ourselves first then to others bestowing
Dedicate the new year to loving ourselves more
Seizing the 365 opportunities the New Year has in store
From my heart to yours sending joy and cheer
For a happy and love-filled New Year!
2025 All Rights Reserved
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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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Came across this wall message and it got me thinking — the rescue plan for our lives start with a determination, a decision to change, now!
Not the perfect version of you. Not the future-you with all the answers. But the present-you who’s had enough. The you who feels the discomfort, who’s no longer okay with “just getting by.” That version of you is your own rescue plan.
The only person coming to save you is the version of yourself that’s tired of your current situation.
The week is long. The weekend is short. Midweek is a good point to recharge to get over the hump.
Laughter is the only emotion that cannot be forced or faked for long.
It bursts forth unbidden, a pure expression of delight, surprise, or shared humanity.
It cuts through tension, lightens heavy hearts, and connects us in ways words alone cannot.
So … take a moment today to laugh. Laugh out loud. Laugh without hesitation. And, let laughter carry you through the rest of the week with a lighter heart.
The week is long. The weekend is short. Midweek is a good point to recharge to get over the hump.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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Sitting here thinking how amazing it is that there is a community that follows and responds to what I write.
It was the early part of the COVID pandemic. Y’all remember that?! Seems so long ago now. The world had gone still—streets emptied, doors closed, and I joined many others in working from home. But inside, my spirit stirred.
With everything stripped back to essentials, I turned inward and found an urge to share—words, thoughts, reflections. All I had was a menu of words—too many to keep locked inside—and with social distancing strictly enforced, there was nowhere to express them out loud.
So I laid a virtual table, set it with truth, care and sincerity and set out to curate a diverse menu of expressed options. Each post was a plate, each sentence a spoonful of something honest. I knew no one in this new digital landscape. But I prepared it anyway. I didn’t know if anyone would come.
And then, slowly, you arrived—readers I’d never met, drawn not by name or face, but by the invitation of something true. You sat, you dined, you stayed. Strangers became companions through comment threads and quiet visits. I had offered my words. You received them. I am grateful.
To be read, a gift. To be known through one’s own words is to be affirmed.
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
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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National Crown Day commemorates the inaugural signing of the first CROWN Act legislation, which passed in California on July 3, 2019. The CROWN Act stands for “Create a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair.”
It’s my style It’s the epitome of the expression of self
It’s rooted in my history It’s the connector with my ancestry
It speaks for me It’s the tenet of my collective story
It defines who I am It’s the liberation of my identity
It classifies me It’s the evolving of my destiny
It changes with me It’s the expression of my ideology
It identifies my lineage It’s the preservation of my hair-a-tage
I am my hair My hair is undisputedly, ME
After-word:The Crown Act is a law that prohibits discrimination based on hairstyle and hair texture. Currently 7 states have passed it (including California, New York, New Jersey, Washington). Cincinnati and Montgomery County in Maryland have adopted the law. Nine states are currently considering it (they include Georgia, Kansas, Connecticut, Louisiana). This means it’s legal in most states to discriminate against someone simply because they wear their hair in an Afro, locs, braids, or any other traditionally Black hairstyles.
To act in solidarity against hair discrimination you can use the hashtag #PassTheCrown on social media. And, you can sign the petition—click HERE—to encourage all states to pass the Crown Act and make hair discrimination illegal everywhere.
2022 All rights reserved [Republished]
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She scrolled through her feed, surrounded by messages but feeling unseen.
Loneliness had crept in quietly, even in a world buzzing with connection. Life hadn’t given her a choice in what she was facing, but she realized she could choose who she faced it with.
Fighters have a corner; she needed one too.
She reached out—to a friend from her sorority, a mom from her kid’s class. They weren’t perfect. Conversations were awkward at first. But slowly, honesty grew. They showed up. They listened. They prayed.
A support system isn’t built in crisis—it’s built before, on shared ground. Yes, it’s risky. You might get hurt. But “to hurt is to steal” only when you let it keep you hidden.
She stepped into the light. And there, she found fellowship—not weakness. Just real, messy love from people who chose to go through life with her.
Afterword: We all need a support system—a circle of trust-worthy friends who can see us through the seasons of life.
This piece of prosery (prose story), limited to 144 words by Li over at d’Verse, is based on the line “to hurt is to steal” by U2, from “Mysterious Ways”.
Short answer:To provide a space for my voice to be heard.
Why I write declaration: I will be brave, my voice will not die within me unexpressed and unheard.
This is therefore a brave and intentional space for creative self-expression.
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. Maya Angelou
I am motivated to write from observing what I believe God created-by-design like nature, family, love, and relationship.
The title, “createdbyDEEsign”, therefore signifies the co-creation of the works here by my DaddyGod and me.
THE BLOG CONTAINS a collection of poems about love, life, relationships and nature; inspirational reflections in prose, poetry and images; and travelstories where I share less about the places I visit and more about what these places reveal about people, history and identity.
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.
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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.
George Floyd your life mattered. Your death sparked a movement. We will not forget. (Your sunset: 25 May 2020)
I CAN’T BREATHE His voice reached back over 400 years to the belly of slave ships Summoning the plight of fore-mamas and -papas Black bodies snatched from homeland stacked up for export Crammed in places too cramped for air Constrained. Pressed. Till urine leaked, undignified Shackled and restrained from neck to feet Black bodies stretched out beneath deck, unseen
Too dark to see Too constrained to touch Too dense to be heard Too putrid to breathe in
I CAN’T BREATHE His voice reached back 46 years to the belly of his mamma To summon the space he’s always felt protected, safer Invoking relief from the indignity of shackled wrists Pinned under the knee-weight embodiment of bigotry and racist hatred 8 minutes:46 seconds Breath. Of. Life … deliberately snuffed out, stolen Black body stretched out for the world to view
Too riotous not to see Too palpable not to touch Too loud not to be heard Too blatant not to breathe in
I CAN’T BREATHE Ricocheted off sidewalks from cities and towns around the globe Escaped the lips of mamas, papas, sistas, brothas of every age, color and creed Galvanizing protests undaunted by a pandemic Bodies of all races stretched out, collective voices shout Demanding revolution, transformation, radical alteration
Too multi-ethnic not to see Too seismic not to touch Too forceful not to be heard Too copious not to breathe in
I CAN’T BREATHE Ignite change … too enormous not to see Ignite change … too radical not to touch Ignite change … too disruptive not to be heard Ignite change … too transforming not to breathe-in
Change.
So.
I.
Can.
BREATHE.
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it showed up on a Wednesday after dark—knocked knocked with determination on the entrance entrance of her mind awakened awakened from stupor gathering gathering her wits about her down down the stairs across the hall meandering meandering through the passage way she she peers through the peep hole of the door door to her mind and she sees—it it—is sinister sinister a force forces its way in uninvited uninvited into the deepest recesses recesses of her mind cobwebbed cobwebbed like a closet blacker blacker than the darkest night night formed from childhood hurts grown grown-up disappointments her mind now mildew mildew-stained of if-only-could-o’-been-not-enough-what-if if her mind now molded-grief from loss loss from betrayal from rejection in those those dusty crevices resides a familiar familiar stranger her thoughts redirecting redirecting her emotions orchestrating there there staring right back at her—it it showed up on a Wednesday after dark—knocked knock knock
Afterword: Darkness can be from issues that you dare not let anyone see or know about, the issues you struggle with alone and silently … it’s time to open the door, let in the light, you’re not alone!
First published 2022 All Rights Reserved GIF powered by Tenor
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She disembarked the express train at Grand Central Station, fresh from one appointment and with exactly ten minutes to get to the next — a ten-minute walk away. Which meant she’d be either perfectly on time or inevitably late.
Photo provided by Pexel
She puts on her “don’t talk to me” face — the commuter’s shield — and dove into the current of bodies, weaving through crowds, dodging subway detours, blinders on, purpose clear.
At the top of the stairs, just before the turnstile, she saw him.
Tall. Sharp. Walking with intention. Right toward her.
But with her game face on and a schedule to keep, she didn’t slow down — until his voice cut through the noise.
“I need help—”
She froze.
Her mind spun into its usual fast math: Help him? Keep moving? Hmm… he’s kinda cute…
She turned. Met his eyes.
Oh. He IS cute.
He repeated, “I need help finding an organic…”
Organic what? Store? Juice bar? Directions? Oh God, I’m terrible with directions…
“…growing smile.”
Wait—what?
Oh no, he didn’t. Oh but, he did!
Her mouth rebelled first. A corner twitched. Then lifted. First the smile, then came the laugh — full-bodied, gut-deep, unstoppable — bursting out amid the rhythm and rush of Grand Central.
He’d found what he was looking for.
When her laughter ebbed, she tilted her head, amused. “Good one. Organic.”
Turned out, he was selling something.
Of course he was.
Still — what a pitch, uh?!
She walked on, whispering, “You gotta give a brother credit.”
Late to her appointment. But with an organically grown smile.
First published 3 May 2021 Republished 2025 All Rights Reserved
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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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
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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Most mornings, I run to catch the train—let’s start there.
If I take a leisurely walk, it’s about eight minutes. A brisk pace? Six minutes. Either way, I’d arrive at the station with time to spare, breathing normally like most any other commuter. But no, not me. Almost every morning, I somehow end up with the four-minute option.
That’s the Bolt. As in Usain Bolt.
Yes, it’s a full sprint. In running shoes, no problem. In high heels, dressed for work, pocketbook in tow? A whole different kind of Olympic event.
There are no fellow commuters on this path—just me, tearing through the quiet morning streets. If I’m lucky, a kind passenger will hold the train doors hostage just long enough for me to make my dramatic entrance. I bolt into the last car—that’s as far as my exhausted body can make it. I collapse into a seat, gasping out a barely audible “thank”—GASP—“you” to my door-jamming hero.
This morning was no exception. Four minutes before the train was due to arrive, my brisk walk turned to a jog-walk then a full-on sprint. Off I go, the usual fiasco playing out—except this time, a driver pulled up alongside me.
Driver: “Beautiful lady—” (Right then, I knew he was Caribbean.) “Is de train yuh a run down?” (Oh, he’s Jamaican!) “Yuh wan’ta ride?!”
Me: (Panting, because by now, I’ve hit the incline—yes, there’s a hill involved in all this.) “No man, we awrite!” I don’t break stride. There’s a train to catch, after all.
Driver: “Awrite, pretty lady.” (Sweet-mouth Jamaican, I thought with a smile in his direction.) And with that, he speeds off.
So, like I said—I’m writing this post from the Metro …finally breathing normally again, swearing I won’t do this again.
…till tomorrow.
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Image by Pexels
‘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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I am honored and grateful to be featured by Spillwords in their “Spotlight on Writers” segment.
It’s a privilege to share my work and passion with readers, and I truly appreciate the platform Dagmara and the editorial team have provided for voices like mine to be heard!
Please drop by Spillwords to read the full interview to get a bit more insight into what motivates and inspires my writing.
And while you’re there, would appreciate your leaving a “like” and/or comment.
THANKS 🙏🏽😉🙏🏽
2024 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
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
In the ceasing of movement by the unintentional pause
In the pulse between heart-break and the intention of soul-care
In all the spaces of the in-between
That’s where you’ll find God
Transforming. Emerging. In the in-between.
Republished 2024 All Rights Reserved
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Give God your today and tomorrows, in Him your plans will last
***
Be encouraged through your struggles
Let go of what you cannot change
New possibilities are abounding
Reset your target-range
***
When you can’t see beyond the pain, and tears your path obscure
Focus on the Almighty’s promises, know His words are sure
Know your steps are ordered, lined-up by His design
Though weapons formed they will not prosper, they’ll be realigned
***
Be encouraged through your losses
Wave sorrow and hurt good-bye
Take pleasure in life’s journey
Through valleys-deep and mountains-high
***
When the enemy comes against you, overwhelming as a flood
Know a banner has been raised, you’re covered by the blood
Lean not on your own understanding, trust God with all your heart
Welcome each new day’s dawning, as your chance to restart
***
Be encouraged through each downfall
The good will outweigh the bad
Count the blessings, not the shortfalls
Then there’ll be no room for sad
2024 [republished] All Rights Reserved
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Four Years strong Words I’ve sown Shared what I’ve known Watched each word blossom Garden of thoughts spoken Of stories, of roots, of growth Each post, a bloom from heart to hand Tending this space where passions expand Four years strong, words I’ve sown, shared what I’ve known
Beforeword: What/who is your muse, your inspiration? What do you do when muse is in a state of absentia? Well, if you’re a poet , you write a poem about it. So, here’s ode to muse!!
In the silence of your absence, my muse My pen, once ablaze, now stands unused Emotions wither, wander, alight Without your presence, inspiration takes flight
Lines once profound now falter, without a trace In your departure, creativity’s lost embrace No stories bloom, no vivid tales unfurl Without your spark, words twist and swirl
No melody in my heart, no words to find No rhyme or rhythm to soothe my mind No chords to weave through verses align In your absence, my heART voice decline
No structure holds these scattered thoughts in place No hooks to captivate, no bridge to chase No heart to pour into these empty lines Oh, my muse, your absence’s sublime
You, who sparked passion like a goddess divine In your absence, this poet’s soul shall pine For without you, my words, they weep and moan Oh, muse, come back and make my heART your home
Remember the Star Trek intro: “Space: the final frontier…. To boldly go where no man has gone before!”?
With the explosion of the fourth industrial revolution and advances in technology, space is no longer the final frontier, it has been explored and so has the depth of the oceans and the core of the earth.
The Pervasive Nature of Technology
Technology has become extraordinarily invasive. It permeates every sphere and facet of our lives. Unless you make a concerted effort to live ‘off the grid’, you leave a digital footprint just about every minute of the day. And now with AI and generative AI, the intrusion is even more intense.
That got me thinking about what of myself I can keep private, protected from scrutiny and judgment.
It’s not my words for once I’ve spoken/written them they are in the public domain and therefore at the whim of others’ opinions, thoughts and feelings to be scrutinized, dissected and even misconstrued.
It’s not my sense of style either because once I step out into the public domain, my style, my fashion choices (or lack thereof🙃), my hair, even my makeup are all open to be criticized or affirmed.
But my thoughts—the ideas or opinions produced in my mind—those are safe as long as they remain protected.
My mind, the protector and incubator of my thought, is its safest place.
Thoughts should be allowed to germinate, to come to maturity before they are birthed into words. For once they are expressed, they are no longer solely mine.
Thoughts Are Powerful
Everything that constitute the universe started with thought. From the beginning, where there was void and nothing had form and darkness abounded, God thought.
God thought: I’m going to make Me a universe—space, time, matter and energy, the cosmos, galaxies, planets, and stars arranged in constellations. And everything God thought of that was to make up the universe, once He spoke them, they existed.
In other words, God spoke what He thought, and what He thought is what it became.
As an example—before there was light in the physical realm, light was undefined. It was a thought incubated in the womb of God’s mind of what it would be and how it would function. When the thought matured and was ready to be birthed for its intended purpose, God spoke:
“Let there be light and there was light” (Genesis 1:3).
And what He thought light to be, that’s what light became. Traveling at 186,000 miles per second, light separated the darkness.
As it is with God’s thoughts, so it is with ours.
Our thoughts are also powerful enough to create.
For, it is what we think in our minds that we become in our lives.
The mind is the breeding ground for our consciousness, perception, imagination, intelligence, judgment, emotion, instinct and thinking.
Because our thoughts become a reflection of who we really are, why then would we not allow our thoughts to ‘hang out’ with these other faculties of the mind and germinate before they are released?!
Imagine a thought saturated and infused with imagination, judgement, emotions and instinct and only then is it given wings on words to soar.
Would there be less conflict, less war, more love? I think so.
When contemplated in this way, I surmised that thoughts in their purest form—devoid of technological intrusion—are the final frontier of our personhood. That, if allowed to germinate fully/complete/whole would serve us well at the individual, familial, community, societal, national, regional, and global levels.
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In an era where we have access to more knowledge than ever before, why do we find ourselves so short on true understanding? The answer lies in the lost art of listening.
The Importance of Listening
Amidst the overwhelming noise of information, the essence of true understanding is often overlooked. Listening is becoming a lost art, yet it is the key to comprehension. The discerning ear of wisdom can gather understanding beyond the mere accumulation of facts and data.
Why Listening Matters More Than Ever
If we would but listen more and listen better, there’d be no violence in our homes, there’d be no violence in our societies, there’d be no wars.
The ability to listen, absorb, and distill the essence from the relentless stream of knowledge is the hallmark of a wise mind.
Wisdom in the Words of Legends
Jimi Hendricks said it best — knowledge speaks, but it is indeed wisdom that listens.
However, “knowledge isn’t free, you have to pay attention.” (Richard P. Feynman)
Conclusion: Embrace the Art of Listening
In today’s fast-paced world, let’s not lose sight of the importance of listening. By embracing the art of listening, we can foster understanding, reduce conflict, and build a more peaceful society.
Let’s pay attention, for it is in listening that we truly learn and grow.
2023 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Image from The Minds Journal
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Us— Me, you Paradise Basking in love Hearts as one connecting Standstill in moments cherished As setting sun frozen in time Strolling on the edge of paradise Holding hands the way lovers often do
Holding hands the way lovers often do Strolling on the edge of paradise As setting sun frozen in time Standstill in moments cherished Hearts as one connecting Basking in love Paradise Me, you— Us
Afterword: The poetry form, Etheree, consists of 10 lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 syllables.
The experience of flying into Jamaica never gets old. There’s an indescribable feeling that washes over me between the pilot’s announcement of descent and the first glimpse of land.
My flight into Jamaica is always meticulously planned, starting with securing a window seat over the wing because where I sit on the plane matters, as you’ll soon see.
For most of the flight, I remain calm, occupying myself with a movie, a book, or some writing. However, once the pilot announces the descent, everything is set aside. My focus sharpens, ready to capture the moments leading up to our landing.
Pilot: “…we’ve just begun our initial descent….”
That’s my cue. iPhone in hand, eyes peeled, searching for the first sight of land.
There it is …
… Home sweet home.
By now, a myriad of emotions flood in, with excitement at the forefront. This is the feeling I experience every time I return home to Jamaica.
As the pilot continues the descent, I take more pictures.
However, I’m always ready to switch to video mode. And this is the moment: as the plane’s engine aligns with the sea, it feels as if we might land in the water …
… but then as if out of nowhere, land appears, and we glide in for the touch down.
As soon as the wheels hit the tarmac there’s a sound. It’s the vibration of clapping hands ricocheting throughout the cabin as we all burst into what seems like orchestrated applause and engage in exuberant chatter. That spontaneous ritual never gets old.
One other picture I always take is this one:
This is taken at the top of the ramp as I make my way to the arrival hall.
And in that moment my heart finds its rest at home.
Grateful for another safe landing and the time spent in beautiful Jamaica—Jah-mek-yah!
2024 All Rights Reserved Created with Canva Image Credit: Me
Beforeword: This week I continue with posts about love. I started with Eros (romantic love), then Agape (unconditional love attributable to God). This week I will focus on Philautia which is the love of oneself.
Self-love can be healthy, promoting self-care and self-respect (or unhealthy, manifesting as narcissism).
This week I’ll focus on healthy self-love characteristic of self-acceptance, self-compassion, and a balanced sense of self-worth. This healthy love of one’s self also comes from God for God IS love, and we love because He first loved us.
I’ve written a lot about self-love. I’ll bring back some oldies and add some newbies for your poetic enjoyment. I hope you’ll enjoy this leg of the love journey!
Beforeword: Because God love us some much, His unconditional love was manifested in this way:
The Word (God the Son) becoming flesh (human) took up residence (tabernacled or pitched His tent) among us. Those who saw Him observed His glory and saw that He was the one and only God the Son, full of grace and truth. Yet He was man. John 1:14 (Holy Bible)
He was so human He could touch people
So mighty He could heal them
So human He spoke with an accent
Yet so heavenly He spoke with authority
***
He was so human He could blend in unnoticed for thirty years
So mighty He could change history and remains unforgotten for over 2,000 years
So human He was wounded, bruised, chastised
Yet so mighty He could heal from those stripes
***
He was so human He thirst and hungered
So mighty He is living water and bread of life giver
So human He humbled Himself to a sacrificial cross
Yet so mighty He gives salvation to all at no cost
***
He was so human He became sin
So mighty He could forgive sin
So human He’s like a brother
Yet so mighty He is the Savior
***
He was so human He was given a name—Jesus
So mighty His name is above all names, it saves
So human He was all-man
Yet so mighty He was and is and for always will be all-God
2023 All Rights Reserved
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if I took off the mask fully unveiled me opened up my heart revealed the real me the me no one else sees could You really love me? love me just as I am unconditionally?
if I let go of the hurt frailty from the brokenness within trusted you with all of me loosened my grasp letting go and letting you would You really love me? love me just as I am unconditionally?
i’m scared, afraid, unsure but I want no more of this pain if I surrendered gave up what sustained me turned my heart over to You could You really accept me? accept me just as I am unconditionally?
the fear of being rejected that You too would refuse me constrained me kept me from receiving Your love now that I’m reaching for Your embrace would You really accept me? accept me just as I am unconditionally?
now I know how it feels when You console me like being cradled against Your heart each heartbeat reverberates— “I love you, you’re my girl” it feels like strong yet gentle arms encircling all my doubts and fears are erasing confident am I in knowing I am loved by You unconditionally
All rights reserved 2024 Credit: Designed by Canva
Afterword: an Epistolary poem is written in the form of a letter.
Exploring Greece brought me face-to-face with the mesmerizing beauty of peacocks, both vibrant and ethereal.
From a zoo in Cyprus to the ancient grounds of Knossos in Crete, these encounters left a lasting impression, blending natural wonder with historical splendor. And for the first time I saw these elegant creatures outside the confines of the “box” of a TV screen.
My first encounter was at the zoo in Cyprus (well, I guess that’s a different kind of “box”).
I waited what seemed like forever for the peacock to display its stunning, iridescent plumage.
When it finally did, the unfolding of its long, colorful tail feathers fanned out into an array of eye-catching patterns—a vibrant mix of blues, greens, and golds. The distinctive “eyes” on the feathers were mesmerizing, and I understood then why the peahen couldn’t resist its allure.
But not all peacocks are colorful. I saw a peacock with pure white feathers, like a bleached version of the typical vibrant aesthetic. Its ethereal beauty left me spellbound.
According to Treehugger, this is not albinism but rather a color mutation of the Indian blue peafowl caused by a genetic mutation called leucism.
As if a Greek god wanted to gift me with a peacock sighting outside the “box,” I encountered an elegant peacock roaming freely on the grounds of the monumental Palace of Minos in Knossos (Heraklion, Crete). It appeared just as I entered the palace, adding to the magic of the moment.
This peacock seemed to flirt with me, shaking his tail feathers a couple of times, but never fanning them out completely.
I could hear peafowl distinctive loud calls off in the distance, a signal he was not alone. The call seemed to beckon him. He walked away, leaving me wondering if there was soon to be an elaborate courtship display that I’d miss seeing.
These captivating moments with one of nature’s most elegant creatures, their stunning displays and the unexpected surprises along the way added to making my trip to Greece magical.
Last year, my hydrangeas didn’t bloom. That was disheartening for a new gardener—wondering what I did or didn’t do. I shared this with you and received suggestions on what to do differently. I followed your advice and made the necessary changes.
As spring began unfolding this year, I watched the hydrangeas like a hawk. When the first flower heads appeared, relief washed over me—affirmation that my attention to their care at the start of the season was worthwhile.
And now, for your viewing pleasure, here are the first set of hydrangeas that skipped blooming last season. Enjoy!
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Beforeword: The UN Charter, signed on 26 June 1945, was a response to the devastations of WWII. One of the key commitments of the Charter is maintaining global peace and security. In this poem, “In The Name of Peace,” I draw upon the Charter’s commitment to peace as a reminder of its enduring relevance in our world where over fifty armed conflicts still rage today. We need peace.
In the name of peace we the peoples, united in hope vowed to save generations from the scourge of war to reaffirm faith in human dignity in rights, in justice, in freedom
Yet, this is a world that has become unable to make peace
In lofty halls and inked parchments, we set forth our purposes: to maintain the fragile thread of peace to quench the fires of aggression to settle disputes by words, not weapons to foster friendship where enmity grew
Yet, this is a world that has become unable to make peace
Nations large and small bound by principles of respect promised to refrain from force to seek justice through dialogue to build a tapestry of cooperation woven with threads of empathy and understanding
Yet, this is a world that has become unable to make peace
In the quiet chambers of mediation in the solemn court of justice we pledged to resolve our conflicts to arbitrate, to reconcile to heal the wounds of discord to harmonize our actions for common good
Yet, this is a world that has become unable to make peace
From the Syrian deserts to the Yemeni valleys in Ukraine’s fields, in Myanmar’s streets in Ethiopia’s shadows, in Libya’s ruins in the cries of Gaza and Haiti, in the whispers of Kashmir over fifty armed conflicts scar the globe while the bodies of women and girls have become battlegrounds— scarred by sexual violence and the blood of innocents flows testament to our broken promise
For, this is a world that has become unable to make peace
In the shadows of our promises the echoes of ancient feuds resound the specters of power and pride linger the scars of betrayal and mistrust fester and the dream of peace ever so elusive, fades like mist at dawn where the ink of our charter dries where our words of unity falter where the silence of despair grows
Yet, still
We the peoples hold on to hope that in the name of peace we can mend our fractured world to save succeeding generations to finally fulfill our sacred vow
Afterword: I echo the sentiments of my poem-matriarch, Maya Angelou, as laid out in her poem, “A Brave and Startling Truth”, written to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the United Nations.
You are the love that didn’t last A fleeting flame, a fading ember’s glow The muse that won’t inspire A canvas blank, untouched by strokes The poem that won’t be authored Words trapped betwixt stanzas, lost
You are the lyrics lips won’t sing A melody confined to whispered dreams The chords fingers won’t play Notes suspended in air, set adrift The beat hearts won’t take, a rhythm-less rhyme A symphony pulsing dance in empty chests
You are the cause and cure, a paradox for sure Affliction and salvation, intertwined The horrors of screams, haunting heart Ricochets off pain, refusing to take flight The sensations of dreams, desires unmet Entwining reality and fantasy, setting heart afire
You are the love that won’t let go—tethered A ghostly presence, heart living in the past The emotions that won’t soothe, a roaring tempest trapped A whirlwind of feelings—unresolved The memories that haunt, a tapestry of what was The echoes of laughter, the blur of tears—bittersweet
You are the love lost, a closed chapter but not in vain Within ache and longing, cherishing lessons we gain In the depths of what once was, find strength, move ahead Even love that fades, leaves traces on paths once tread Cherish, then, the fragments of pieces abound Embracing the journey of love lost and the lessons to be found
Afterword: I first wrote this poem “Love Lost” as a tercet (3 lines forming a stanza).
Republished 2023 All Rights Reserved
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On 3rd October 2021 the page opened the words landed on a digital scroll sent into the void connecting two views received
Through the months the postings grew a ripple in still water voice finding resonance in this shared space of blogging
From two to twenty a flicker of light to a hundred, to a thousand a gathering in the World Wide Web seeking, sharing, seeing
By 11 June 2024, a chorus— fifty thousand strong a multitude of moments captured in words each click a connection in each view a gift
Gratitude flows to each who paused, to read, to feel, to be THANK YOU for your eyes, your time for making a voice heard for the journey from two to fifty thousand views
In my deepest thought, I seek to grasp God, as King, oft in splendor basked Debonair, distinguished, quite dignified Air of authority about Him that can’t be denied
Universe creator, in His authority sways He works purposefully in all our days Yet, in my musings new visions come to be The free-spirited God, who dances over me
The God who rejoices, His heart set aglow With every step t’ward me, Love’s rhythms flow The God who runs in pursuit of my soul Drawing me close, making me whole
Prodigal daughter, many times I’ve strayed Love’s embrace I’ve oft times betrayed In my rebellion, I’ve wandered afar Yet He chases me down, erase every scar
With sandals snug and His robe held high He dashes to me, no distance can deny Arms open wide in a Father’s embrace Pulling me close, in His boundless grace
Now, I reimagine scenes of a Father so dear Hiking His robe, drawing near, oh so near In a mad dash of love, His arms He extend Best embrace ever—Abba’s love without end
With you I am leaning into the gentler, softer side of love learning to pause to breathe to cradle the wounds to sit in the quiet spaces between the sobs and the sighs
Your softness teaches me that strength isn’t always in the march forward but sometimes in the stillness the embrace the tender touch that says, “Stay awhile, let the world wait”
Yet in your eyes, I see both the gentle rain and the raging sea for love, too, has its stormy side a fierce tempest that sweeps through the soul demanding unyielding a fire that consumes and leaves its mark upon heart’s tender flesh
We dance this intricate dance—you and I a balance of fury and peace a testament to love’s complexity a duality that speaks of love’s vast expanse its capacity to destroy and to create to burn and to soothe to break and to mend
And in this dance we find ourselves whole each step a testament to the lessons learned to the strength found in softness to the passion tempered with grace
For love is both the gentle hand and the roaring flame a union of opposites that binds us that teaches us that shapes us into something new something resilient something true
Beforeword: To experience love, one must embrace vulnerability. The true strength of love lies in the conscious choice to uplift when the fragility of another is laid bare.
There is a love that loves complete There is a love that knows complete Capable of exploiting vulnerability Yet a choice to be strength and reliability
You can unravel threads of weakness Yet, you choose to stitch the mantle of strength A conscious defiance of frailty’s call A choice to be the pillar, not the fall
Beyond the ebb and flow of emotions Beyond the absence of weaknesses Love is a conscious, deliberate choice To be the refuge, the shelter, a supportive voice
Together, love makes the choice Embracing flaws, cherishing scars Committing not to erase vulnerability But to empower each other with a resilient love laced in acceptability
There is a love that choses strength and trust In each other, the choice to receive A refuge in life’s storms, still it abides Embracing flaws, there is a love that guides
First published 21 December 2023 All Rights Reserved Designed by Canva
Beforeword: The complexities of love, and the enduring ache experienced in the waiting.
Love waits, lingers like ghost in the shadows A cacophony of wonderings in the stillness of uncertainty In the space between heartbeats, hurt takes root A stifling companion in the waiting
A tapestry of emotions woven with delicate threads A canvas painted of hope washed away by the hues of longing Dreams suspended in liquid promises Rising as bubbles, ephemeral in passing
Time, the patient witness to silent yearnings Moments on moments laiden with unspoken desires Missteps echo through the corridors of the heart The ache mushrooms, a subtle undercurrent surfacing
Hope, a fragile ember, dying A flicker in the midst of ambiguity It’s in the shifting timelines of anticipation Heart bears the weight of hurt, entangled in waiting
First published 2023 2024 All Rights Reserved Designed by Canva
A couple of years ago, I was flipping through a travel magazine when I stumbled upon pictures of pristine white buildings crowned with startling blue domes, set against an azure sky.
Yes, like this building, except I took this picture!
At first, I wondered if it was a painting. It looked too beautiful to be real—more like a work of art suspended somewhere between dream and imagination.
But if it was real, I needed to know: Where is this place?
Sure enough, the magazine revealed the location: Santorini. Oia, to be exact.
And just like that, a seed of wanderlust was planted.
Being a hodophile with an insatiable case of wanderlust, I immediately began planning my trip to Greece, with Oia on the must-visit list.
And let me tell you—it did not disappoint.
Photo taken by me in Oia!
I decided to visit in April—my birth month. The weather was just right: warm but not scorching, and the crowds far thinner than during the peak summer season.
Because it was just before tourist season, I got a firsthand glimpse into why Santorini always looks so impossibly pristine in photos. Everywhere I went, hoteliers and homeowners were busy painting, whitewashing walls and steps, and polishing windows to perfection.
I stayed in a charming boutique Airbnb—Seven Suites—complete with a whirlpool and infinity pool just outside my bedroom.
Whether under a canopy of stars at night or in the quiet hush of dawn as sunlight pierced the horizon, I took advantage of the pool, gazing into the distance, lost in wonder.
Relaxed start to the day— watching the sun rise (one of my fav nature phenomenon to witness)
My exploration began in the village of Imerovigli, where whitewashed homes cling dramatically to the edge of a 400-meter (1,312-foot) caldera on the western side of this semi-circular volcanic island.
Photo credit—me!
From Imeroglivi I trekked to Fira (or Thira), the capital, winding my way through narrow, zigzagging footpaths, passing those iconic spots that many an ecstatic tourist, like myself, captured in photos and posted with hashtags galore.
But there was one photo I wanted above all else:
A flying dress photo.
Clad in a glamorous dress with a feather-light train made for the perfect windblown effect, I climbed stairs, scaled rooftops, and challenged my fear of heights in pursuit of the shot.
Every step upward came with a little self-talk:
“It’s okay.”
“You’re okay.”
“Don’t look down.”
“Think of how stunning these pictures will be!”
And somehow—miraculously—I made it to the rooftop and got a few shots I absolutely loved.
After conquering a rooftop, though, you just gotta get a blue dome shot:
Thank you to Santorini Dress for helping a dream come true!http://www.santorinidress.com!Not our ship but this scene was too idyllic not to photograph. This beauty was docked in Fira.
With only three days on the island before my Greek Isles cruise began, I finally made my way to Oia—the place that had lived in my imagination for so long.
And she did not disappoint.
Oia, Santorini’s postcard-perfect village, is often considered the island’s most picturesque destination, known for its whitewashed beauty, iconic blue domes, and breathtaking sunsets.
The windmills.
The remains of an old Venetian castle.
The sweeping caldera views.
This is what wanderlust fulfilled looks like.
The windmills of OiaRemains of an old Venetian castle
From the village, beginning near the Venetian castle, I trekked down nearly 300 steps—278 to be exact—to Ammoudi Bay.
1st of 278 steps toward Ammoudi BayLooking up from Ammoudi Bay! See the remains of the old castle all the way up?
I descended on foot, but you could rent donkeys. Already challenging my fear of heights by just looking down from the castle to the bay, I decided against going down on the back of an ass (pun intended).
Ammoudi Bay is stunning—a tiny cove with crystalline waters and fishing boats bobbing gently in the sea. Undeniably one of the most picturesque corners of Santorini.
Along the waterfront, fish taverns line the shore, offering fresh seafood and front-row seats to the rhythmic soundtrack of waves meeting the Aegean Sea.
And yes, I fully leaned into the experience at Sunset Ammoudi, a restaurant renowned for its exceptional seafood and unforgettable setting.
There may not be beaches at Ammoudi Bay, but that certainly did not stop me from getting into the water. Well… not fully.
At the very least, I had to dip my feet into the cool, crystal-clear waters of the Aegean Sea.
And of course, what’s a trip to Santorini without fully embracing those iconic white buildings and blue domes?
Not painted white but this is the John the Baptist Catholic Cathedral so it had to make the list
And last, but by no means least—Greek cuisine.
As someone who loves good food, Santorini fed both my appetite and my soul.
Creative seating outside a souvlaki eatery!
In a heartbeat!!
That is my resounding response to: Would you go back to Santorini?
Voice uttering words that assure Assure it’s gonna be okay, you’re loved, secured—connecting
I miss the look in your eyes
The intensity of your stare seeing Seeing beyond what eyes see, to know—connecting
I miss the way you listen
The way you listen to hear without Without words, to attend to what needs not be spoken—connecting
I miss the beat of your heart
The way your heart beat mimics Mimics the beat of mine—connecting
I miss the whisper of your breath on my cheeks
The depth of your exhale release Release your life force to my inhale—connecting
I miss the feel of your arms
The intentionality of togetherness encasing Encasing the distance o’er the time-space continuum—connecting
***
When I say I miss you
I mean
I miss connecting with the part of me that you are
First published 25 April 2023 2024 All Rights Reserved Designed by Canva Photo by Pinterest
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I don’t want fireworks love— fireworks shoot high, a burst of color against night sky, then fade, drift, turn into smoky grey streaks falling fast to the ground
I want a love that is steady, like the tide that kisses the shore, then pulls away softly, a rhythm as ancient as time
I want a love that is steady, like the old oak in the backyard, roots deep, branches that sway but never break, sheltering us through every storm
I want a love that is steady, like a candle in the window, its light small but unwavering, guiding you to me through the darkest nights
I want a love that is steady, a melody played over and over, each note familiar, each chord a comfort, binding us in an endless refrain
No fireworks, no bursts of temporary glory— just give me that quiet, steady pulse of a heart that beats in time with mine, day after day, year after year, until the end of forever
I wanna love that says “I see you” Beyond body mass to the soul of my existence See the essence of me, spiritually An interconnected kind o’ love, love I comprehend you
I wanna love so close, its communication transcends words It exudes across a crowded room: “I’m with her” only She belongs to me, I belong to her An only-space-for-two kind o’ love, love I am with you
I wanna sensual love A love that caresses without touching Disrupting innards, central part of essence pulsating A whisper-light-as-breath-on-ear kind o’ love, love I feel you
I wanna love that seduces with words Touching senses in ways I never imagined Directing, illuminating my path A compass—navigating-you-to-me kind o’ love, love I read you
I wanna love that connects to the love in me A love that redefines my be-ing and existing A soul-mate-love-at-first-sight kind o’ love, love —Pray-to-God-up-above love —Live-and-die-for kind o’ love —Best-friend-for-life love —A Barry White “can’t-get-enough-of-your-love” kind o’ love —Interdependent, secure, no-matter-what-I-got-you love … you know that, —Push-come-to-shove love? —Because-you-see-me-I-am-here kind o’ love?
Yeah …
I wanna love like THAT love
2024 All rights reserved First published 13 August 2021 Designed by Canva Photo by Pexels
When I think of love, it’s more than passion’s fire It’s a gentle warmth, a hug that won’t tire Companionship, a bond that’s ever true Through joys and sorrows, side by side we grew
When I think of love, it’s exploring the unknown Hand in hand, an adventure all of our own With laughter and smiles, our hearts aligned The beauty of living life, in each other we find
When I think of love, it’s a partnership for two we embark Steadfast, a North Star illuminating paths of dark Supporting dreams, nurturing each endeavor A team of two, lifting each other up for forever
When I think of love, I think of home, a haven of care A place where love’s embrace will always be there In each other’s arms, we find solace and peace Love’s protective sanctuary, where worries cease
Love, a tapestry woven with threads divine A masterpiece of emotions intertwine A feeling that’s boundless, forever free When I think of love, I think of you and me
2023 All Rights Reserved First published 30 July 2023 Designed by Canva
“I wish that I’d have noticed all those cracks in your smile. I wish you told me how you felt that night. But you’re conditioned to believe it only makes you weaker. ‘Til it chokes you and you’re barely breathing. But you’ll always be part of me.”
2024 All rights reserved Designed by Canva
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A few posts in draft waiting for the right moment of alignment to complete some are just sentences fragments of thought that never grew into their full form
None are their complete self shadows of ideas cast in the glow of what could be
Unfinished writing projects—for now these drafts linger potential whispering in the quiet spaces of my mind
They wait—patiently for the right breath of inspiration to fill their hollow bodies for the moment when everything aligns and they can become whole
The elements of political, educative, spiritual ceremonies
It was the source of entertainment
The lyrics of love songs and dance of chants
It was the conveyor of prayers
The receptacle of stories and historical recall
It was the instructions for everyday living
From the Nile to the Volta River valleys
From Pyramid to Griot court writings
Long before colonial conquest
Poetry was
2024 All Rights Reserved Designed by Canva
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Afterword: Up until the end of the Civil War, more than 200,000 ads to recapture enslaved people who walked away from slavery were published in American newspapers.
I said walked away and not run away.
Why?
It’s about the state of mind.
Running away from a situation is not having the courage or resolve to address it. Walking away from a situation is to think through and coming to an informed conclusion that you cannot change someone’s thought, opinions or beliefs and you choose to walk away.
I chose this ad because the slave owner’s name is Burke. My family name is Burke.
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This marks the anniversary of Africans in America 400 plus 5 years Let the story be told in full of ancestral lineage—Kings and Queens till slavery interferes
August of 1619 the record declares: “20 and odd” Africans kidnapped, sold, stripped of their rights Forced-exile, from African land, so began resistance fight
Let this be clear—1619, that is America’s true founding The greatest story, never told, its truth is now unfolding
The treatment of enslaved Africans divided this nation North versus South, civil war gained only partial emancipation
Enslaved people “shall then, thenceforward, and forever be free” But, this long awaited proclamation didn’t free all from slavery
Freedom road paved with hard-won gains broke Galveston’s stronghold “Jubilee Day” birthed Juneteenth—African American holiday to nationally behold
Decades of slavery’s brutality bred a racist legacy The reconstruction period fueled white supremacy
First there were 13 then 15 constitutional amendments made Slavery’s official end and partial voting rights were gained
As African Americans won elections to ascend to seats of power So did terrorism to intimidate, to suppress, and disempower
Jim-crow, segregation, separate but equal under law Pursuit of education was self-improvement path foresaw
Or should they return to Africa build a country of their own? Garvey’s Black Star Line ideas eventually overthrown
No—Stay! Fight! Determined! Resolute resistance! Writers wield pen’s might to stir cultural renaissance
Freedom rides, sit ins, marches all demonstrating “If we must die let it not be like hogs”, Claude McKay’s mantra resonating
From Tubman’s Underground Railway created to be free To Malcom’s inspired Black Power movement for justice and equality
LISTEN … Say their names together: Rodney. Ahmaud. Breonna. George. And so many others
The clarion call; Black Lives Matter— Time to end violence against our sisters and our brothers
Starting the marathon for a political seat at the table too Shirley Chisholm runs for President in 1972
Jesse Jackson, he picked up the mantle in 1984 The power of the black vote galvanized and opened wide the door
In comes Barack Obama, first Black President elected in 20-0-9 Next Kamala Harris, Black and woman Vice President—for the very first time
It’s been centuries after centuries fighting always to restore Our rightful place as Kings, Queens, Prince, Princesses like ancestors before
No tide of racism is high enough to impede rights-based education Black history now a critical theory in schools’ curriculum foundation
Martin Luther the King of nonviolent civil action Let it be known—our collective strength emerged to shape the identity of this nation
“Surely been rebuked, surely been scorned But still my soul is-a heaven-born
If you don’t know that I been redeemed Just follow me down to Jordan’s stream”
This is what it’s all about — Echoes of liberation we will shout:
Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!
2024 All Rights Reserved
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From inventing the sanitary belt for women—liberating to the steel pan for musicians—playing to peanut as smooth as butter—spreading
Yeah … black history’s way too creatively expansive for this poem’s attempt to contain it or even fully convey it
black history IS, bombastic—it vaults the Biles o’er racist typologies
It runs Bolt-fast, dismantling discrimination o’er tracks and in fields …
Whether cotton or tobacco … whether on sidewalks, in cars or in beds …
Whether with the noose or whatever weapons they choose
Black lives being snuffed out, we shout…with the intellectual prowess of Timbuktu’s Bamba to the oratory genius of King-Marley-Gorman
We challenge isms and schisms to achieve justice, to experience one-love, to find light in the never-ending shade
black history IS, me—I am my history interdependently connected
It’s too beautiful for me not to value my worth—regardless of what others think or how they feel about me—my history says: I matter!
It’s too deeply misunderstood not to be activist
It’s too compassionate not to be treated with care, to be protected, to be loved unequivocally, no questioning
It’s too artistic in rhythm, in harmony, in melody to not sing it or dance it, orate it or play it—in all ways, though, to honor it
It’s too matriarchal not to tell her-story—from Mama Africa to children of the diaspora—separate, yet together, equal
black history IS, all-encompassing, intersectional
It’s been hurt enough to empathize with other’s stories
It’s too linked to be conceived as separate or sovereign
It’s too panoptic to not be a shared humanity
It’s a collective human story
black history IS, because we are
All Rights Reserved (1st published 2022)
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As you venture into this new year, here’s a reminder that though others may bet against you, in the end every decision about you and your life is from God. The Bible says:
The lot is cast into the lap, but its EVERY decision is from the Lord.
Gifts carefully selected, wrapped, topped off with bows
Placed under trees anticipating the glee they’ll bestow
Menu of your favorites selected, guest list in tow
It will be a celebration, fingers crossed—there’ll even be snow
***
You left without a warning, there were no clues
You checked out of life, broke my heart in a million twos
Every year will be a blue Christmas without you too
No hugs or kisses lavished, forever gone the YOUnique you
***
Gifts wrapped in love, left unopened under the tree
Like the sorrows that plagued your heart, too deep, I couldn’t see
You smiled and laughed, you danced with me
All the while masking the darkest parts of thee
***
Those on the outside looking in, contemplative wonder
You seemed to have it all, what could have been the matter?
All is incomplete when it’s devoid of the Master
Empty longings run deep, gifts are but a temporary plaster
***
In the shopping, the decorating we’ve nearly forgotten too
He’s the reason for this season, like at His birth, too little ado
The meaning of life lost outside of the One who created you
It will always be a blue Christmas—Jesus—without You
Afterword: On the eve of Christmas, this tribute poem was influenced by the reality that the holidays are the hardest when you’ve lost loved ones.
2022, Republished 2023 All Rights Reserved
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Before there was a tick or a tock, before there was time, before there was a present-past-future continuum, before there was coming or going, before there was where or when, before there was this or that, the ageless One who always IS–was.
Before there was a beginning, before there was “it” to create, before there was a first day, before the rising of the sun or the setting of the same. Before there was a moon illuminating the night skies, before there was a star in the cosmos’ replies, before there was anyone to acknowledge Him as God—God was.
The God referred to here is the omniscient One, the auspicious One, the everlasting One, the One who has all power. This all-sufficient God is known by many names. Some cultures refer to Him as the El Shaddai or the Adonai. Others know Him as the Prince of Peace. He is the everlasting One.
The One who sits on the circle of the earth so that heaven is His throne and earth His footstool (Isaiah 66:1). This God is omnipresent. He is not subject to dates, or space, or geographic locations. This God, who is high but sees below, is the One who rules and overrules. He is the One who sets up leaders and takes them down. He is the Ruler not elected nor selected, the One not put in, and therefore can’t be taken out. He is the unimpeachable One.
Such is the power and majesty of God. He is the subject of countless debates, the inspiration behind many of the world’s religions, and the source of strength and hope for billions of people worldwide. Whether we understand Him fully or not, one thing remains clear: before there was anything—God was.
And so, as we journey through life, we must remember the eternal nature of God. He was before all things and will continue to exist beyond all things. No matter what changes we may face in our lives, God remains constant—He was, He is, and He will always be.
Understanding this concept can give us a certain degree of comfort and security. Knowing that there is a higher power who has been there since the beginning of time, who is all-powerful, and who will continue to exist, is indeed reassuring. It can help us face the uncertainties of life, knowing that we are not alone, that there is a God who is in control.
The concept of God I’ve described in this blog is indeed profound and awe-inspiring. It encourages us to ponder upon the divine, to seek understanding, and to strive to connect with this eternal being.
Shabbat Shalom.
Whether or not you believe in God, I believe you’ll find contemplating His nature as the Eternal One to be a thought-provoking exercise. I pray it leads you to personal growth and spiritual development.
Afterword: this blog inspired the poem, “God Was”.
Before there was before, there was God. God was. God is. God will always be.
2023 All Rights Reserved
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Before-word: With the advent and dominance of social media has been the rise in social posts or STATUS updates which we use to let our friends know what we’re doing or to say what’s on our minds. Whether a tweet or a pin and way beyond catchy one liners on time-elapsed stories, your status is and forever will be:
CHILD OF GOD!
From A to Z you are:
Accepted just as you are
Beautiful in every way
Child of God
Destined for greatness
Exquisite
Fearfully-wonderfully-made—perfect in every way
Good-good creation
Harmoniously aligned
Image of God bearer
Joyful
Kaleidoscopic
Loved to the width and depth of God’s heart
More than a conqueror — that’s who you are
Never defeated — that’s what you are
Overcomer
Purposefully ordered
Quintessential, the God-image bearer
Redeemed—no shame, no guilt, no fear
Sufficiently sufficient
Temple-of-God-abiding
Unequivocally—YOU ARE, child of God
Victorious
Worthy
eXalted-cannot-be-duplicated masterpiece
YOUnique
Zany—amusingly-unconventional, distinctively—YOU!
From A to Z
You are a child of God
Luxuriate in this truth
2023 (republished) All Rights Reserved
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When you’re throwing a house party and you wanna get guests up and on to the dance floor, line dancing is a sure winner. Put a few on your playlist like “Cha-Cha Slide”, “Electric Slide”, “YMCA” or “Macarena”, but no beat gets the party popping like “Wobble baby, wobble baby, wobble baby, wobble”. Get in there, yeah, yeah!
Written for Sammi Cox Weekend Prompt #340 — in 58 words — based on the word Wobble.
In the quiet cradle of Advent, time folds upon itself, weaving the delicate fabric of the now and the not-yet.
It’s a balance of anticipation, where our faith finds its rhythm, seeking balance in the tension that defines this sacred season against the heart wrenching upheavals of the world.
We live life within this delicate equilibrium—a pilgrimage through the sacred corridors of waiting and hoping while serving others.
As we go about our days leading up to what the Christian world celebrate as the birthday of Jesus, the Messiah, let’s cast aside the cloak of denial and indifference.
Our world is in big trouble. There’s no denying this.
The season’s call is not to escape but to show up and do what we can to make a difference in the lives around us. No good deed is too small.
So, let Advent be our guide, teaching us the live in relevance in the present, and the courage to embrace the unknown that awaits in the not-yet.
In this sacred tension, we discover the beauty of our faith.
Afterword: Advent, derived from the Latin word adventus meaning “coming,” refers to the Christian church calendar’s preparatory phase for both commemorating the birth of Jesus Christ at Christmas and anticipating His Second Coming. In Western churches, Advent initiates on the Sunday closest to November 3rd—that’s today, December 3.
How is it possible that this is December? It feels like we skipped o’er months, I just don’t remember Or is that time has changed its passing, Moving faster and faster into everlasting?
Well, like it or not this is December It’s time to decorate, celebrate, create experiences to remember Before too long ‘twill be one more year that’s quickly passing And I’ll be writing another poem about time moving into everlasting
So, ode to you last month of the year—December To yule tides, Christmas delight, under-mistletoe kissing to remember It’s time for cheer, with family and friends, gifts of love we’ll be passing Creating unforgettable memories to live on forever in the everlasting
In the genesis of love where conversations weave unending threads of connection— heartbeats dance in choreographed steps
Moments pass slowly, lingering in the realm of “us” an infinite tapestry creating, unfolding layers of you and me in a symphony of shared existence
Exchanges transpire in unspoken covenant you becoming me, I becoming you a seamless blending of souls a repertoire of movements in reciprocity
Connections transcend the verbal— silent conversations speak loudest emotions laid bare on a canvas of vulnerability we fall deeper into the boundlessness of love’s embrace
Don’t allow life to slip away dwelling on the past or worrying about the future. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, yesterday is gone, so seize every opportunity and make the most of today.
Step into the heartwarming world of my Jamaican childhood, where Sundays meant simple joys, sumptuous feasts, and the sweet allure of “Fudgie” and his magical ice cream.
As a child growing up in my beautiful homeland, Jamaica, one of the cherished highlights of my week was indulging in the sweet delight of ice cream on Sundays.
In those bygone days, life was uncomplicated, and our Sunday rituals were set in stone. The day would kick off with my mother’s early-morning culinary expedition, as fragrant spices swirled on the gentle morning breezes, teasing our senses with the promise of a delightful feast ahead.
After a hearty breakfast, it was time to tackle the obligatory household chores — everything from tidying up the house, sweeping the yard, and laboriously hand-washing laundry. However, one task I dreaded above all was when my mother had to wash my hair. My thick, coiled locks had a knack for coiling even tighter when wet, and the process of combing through them left me grimacing all the way through. But when mommy was through, my hair was neatly plaited and ready for the school week ahead.
Once all the chores were behind us and I had been bathed and dressed in my “Sunday clothes,” it was time to gather around the table for what we Jamaicans refer to as “Sunday dinner.”
“Sunday dinner” was no ordinary meal; it was the pinnacle of the week in every Jamaican household.
The traditional spread included a principal meat (typically chicken as the crowd favorite); a carbohydrate staple (rice and peas being an absolute must); a salad comprising crisp cabbage and grated carrots, adorned with cucumber and tomato wedges, drizzled with black pepper; a refreshing beverage (often freshly squeezed from carrots, soursop, or beets); and, last but certainly not least, dessert.
And oh, the dessert!
While savoring the flavors of our sumptuous meal, my ears were tuned to a singular sound and an unmistakable voice – the distant chime of the “ice cream man’s” motorbike horn. This unique sound carried for miles across our tranquil town, giving us just enough time to secure the coins from our parents and gather at our designated meeting spot.
Then came the voice, a melodic, resounding and repeated call: “Fudge! Ice cream! Nutty-buddy!”
This was the unmistakable voice of the “ice cream man,” affectionately known as “Fudgie,” pedaling his bike, vocally advertising the frozen treasures nestled within the insulated box on the back of his two-wheeler.
Fudge was essentially ice cream on a stick, while nutty-buddy was a delightful ice cream cone adorned with a generous sprinkling of nuts, and ice cream, usually grape nut, piled atop the iconic beacon cone.
By this point, my friends had also gathered their coins, dashing over from their homes across the neighborhood, all of us adorned in our Sunday clothes – the girls with meticulously plaited hair and the boys making sure they were equally well-groomed. We would encircle Fudgie, simultaneously clamoring for our chosen treats.
To this day, ice cream holds a special place in my heart as my all-time favorite dessert. Why? Because it transports me back to an era when life was uncomplicated, Sundays were enchanting, and I’m eternally nostalgic for the home that lives on vividly in my heart, just as it was when I was a child growing up in Jamaica.
A poem is more than words written on a page Peering o’er its artistry, it’s emotion’s stage A “thing made”, as the Greeks did say A creation from words in a unique way
It’s a tapestry woven with thought and care A canvas of feelings that poets share A melody of language, a dance of rhyme A glimpse into the depths of space and time
It’s a reflection of the human heart A work of passion, a form of art A window to dreams, a mirror of truth A vessel for wisdom, the fountain of youth
So, what is a poem? It’s a magical blend Of words and feelings from start to end A creation, a masterpiece, a glimpse of the divine A “thing made” that forever will shine
Afterword: “Poem” comes from the Greek poíēma which means a “thing made”. This tribute poem is inspired by my previous work: God’s Poem.
Roosters in their morning race Proclaim the break of day Competing to be the loudest In their crowing display
Birdies join this joyful chorus Chirping to a serene ballet Nature’s melody makers In morning’s light they sway
The wind, a gentle maestro Enters with a soothing cool embrace Filling the room with freshness Embraced in a gentle swirling grace
Grey clouds hold the sun at bay Only for just a moment long But it soon emerged, bright As night gives way to day’s song
“It’s DAWN”, all of nature sings The world awakens in a magical array With nature’s symphony and sunbeams Morning ushers in a brand new day
Afterword: I wrote this piece a few years ago. I was working/living in Northern Nigeria at the time and there was immense unrest and upheaval. Amidst all of that, the joys of nature were all the more appreciated. What a blessing to open your eyes from a night’s rest, to know you’re alive and be able to bask in the joy of nature’s wake up call. Finding GRATITUDE in each moment of LIFE!
You’re a woman of faith, said he Refusing to join the party of “woe is me” Standing at the crossroads of hyphenated identity Straddling the fine line of conjoined affinity The shortest distance connecting divergent words Yet the greatest distance between colliding worlds
Wrestling within with identities, two Pondering which is the true you Is it the half that doubts and frets Filled with sadness and regrets? Is it the other that’s thrilled with hope and wonder Scavenging life’s downs—a fortune hunter?
What comes in the hyphen is the interval Whether left or right it’s a fight for survival Too deep under there’s no indicator light No redirection to the surface, a frightening plight Release air, bubbles of self-assurance forming Follow bubbles—rise always toward surface soaring
Identity is who you are despite the circumstances Who you are is not a game of luck or chances Whether in the good times or in the bad Whether the situation makes you happy or makes you sad You are betwixt and between the hyphenated you Grab ahold of the purpose of what you’re born to do
Child-of-God/child-of-human—interconnected being One you—living duality inward refereeing You—the image of God, a god-given soul Yet you—locked in a body of skin and bone The paradoxical self—looking out through eyes Visions of living hyphenated—the you to harmonize
2023 All Rights Reserved
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Afterword: traditional Senryu is 3 lines with 5 syllables in the first line, 7 syllables in the second line, and 5 syllables in the last line (5/7/5) for a total of seventeen syllables written in the present tense with no rhyme, metaphors or similes.
2023 All Rights Reserved
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Transformation—a thorough or dramatic change in form or appearance.
One of the most difficult things to transform is the way we think and especially what we think of ourselves. Coming to this realization is the moment I understood self-transformation to be self–sacrificing in that it’s totally dependent on my choice to surrender any form of myself that stands in the way of my transformation.
Self-transformation is hard work that requires a reset of the mind and a regulation of self-speaking language. And, even as we’re growing in this transformation, old labels will stick around. There are times we’ll straddle the fence of who we are transforming to be and the “who” that was. Unintentionally we’ll hold on to the labels.
Many of us have incorrectly taken on labels as our names. Maybe we have been labeled “loser” or “dropout” or a “nobody.” Maybe we’ve labeled ourselves “unattractive” or “overweight.” However, when we adhere to a selfish-determination of transformation, this will silence every voice that aims to divert us from living out of something new.
Embracing this process requires a determined surrender to completely die to any form of you that would prevent you from transforming to the woman or man you’re becoming.
There are simple pleasures that dot the “i” of LiFE Making it enjoyable, compensating for the strife These are my simple i-dotting treasures, it’s true What are yours? I’d love to hear from you
Watching the sun break through night’s dark Disappear behind horizons, while I sit in a park Jumping in puddles midst the down pour of rain Snowflakes on my tongue, kid-like joy gain
Making snow-angels on snow filled days Hot chocolate, whipped-cream on my lip stay Frolicking in autumn’s vibrant leafy pile Swimming in crystal-clear waters for a while
Watching the countryside as train’s whiz by Enjoying colored-leaves scenes, autumn beautify Singing my heart out on a car ride so long With my favorite guy driving and singing along
Eating ice cream, savoring chocolate’s delight The “just because” call that puts my heart in flight A gift “just because” so thoughtful and sweet Or the gift of flowers, a gesture hard to beat
Tucked in in woolen onesies on a cold winter’s night Binge-watching my favorite show feels oh so right Hugging my special guy under starry skies Eating sweet potato and curly fries
These are simple pleasures for which my heart beats Making life enjoyable, sadness defeats Dotting the “i” in LiFE, moments so dear Simple joys that make life a delightful cheer
Frolicking in autumn’s vibrant leafy pile
So tell me, what are the simple pleasures that dot your LiFE with cheer?
When you’re losing your focus And you feel too exhausted to pray Don’t get lost in the moment Or give up when you’re closest When you’re down and you feel ashamed All you need is somebody to say It’s okay not to be okay
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In the shadowed depths of solitude’s embrace Where once your muse set heart ablaze Now stands bereft, a barren, empty space In this void creativity’s but a dimming haze
Who do you write for when the muse is gone Emotions lost, inspiration withdrawn Lines upon lines, like wilted flowers, forlorn No spark of life, no spark to dawn
There’s no story worth telling, no tale to weave No melody’s embrace, no lyrics to believe No rhyme, no rhythm for soul’s reprieve In this silence profound, there’s but grieve
No chord to complement thoughts unstrung No structure to guide, no song to be sung No hook to draw listeners in, among This creative void, passion’s undone
In the stillness recall memories of muse of old Passion once ignited like mythical goddesses bold In muse absence, creativity’s waning hold Search on for inspiration in stories yet untold
Though muse departed as motivating guide In its absence creativity’s not denied New sources of inspiration found far and wide Writing from the intersection where thoughts collide
Two weeks have passed, my blog did rest For a summer break well-needed, it was the best No posts, no words, no comments seen But now I’m back with my writing machine
I missed the interactions, y’all a blogger’s delight Sharing stories and thoughts be it day or night Summer’s warmth is fading, leaves will soon fall A writer’s inspiration anew, answer the blogging call
The crisp air of autumn, a new season’s start Brings fresh ideas to my creative heart I’ll craft my posts from sceneries about In this colorful season, a muse, no doubt
So here I am, rested, revived, renewed To share thoughts in words in gratitude As fall paints the world with hues awe-inspiring Us creatives, let’s craft words, our stories retelling
2023 All Rights Reserved
Hope y’all had a good summer. Contributing to Fandango’s One Word Challenge—anew and Weekly Prompts Weekend Challenge—fall.
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She’s a mere 146 miles long and about 51 miles wide An island washed by the Caribbean Sea, a standout beauty tide-to-tide
She’s the jewel of the Caribbean, a little piece of paradise Let it be known, her impact on the world far outweighs her tiny size
First the Spanish then the English sought to colonize Her children—resistance fighters—battled for African heritage kept alive
Defiant—likkle but tallawah—refusing to be renamed She bears her indigenous name—Xaymaca—Jamaica, land reclaimed
Among first of the Caribbean isles to dismiss the colonial power Today she stands strong and proud, 61 years freedom tower
From freedom fighter, Nanny of the Maroons to pan-Africanist Marcus Garvey Her people fought always for independence as their inherent right to be
From food to music to athletics and innovations Best rest assured, if it’s irie, it’s got some Jamaican connections
The first tropical country at Winter Olympics with the Cool Runnings bobsled team She’s even the first English-speaking Caribbean country qualifier with her male and female soccer teams
In the world of track and field—this is where she simply “JAminates” Athletic superstars from Merlene Ottey to Usain Bolt—Olympics she dominates
She produces the world’s best coffee for drinking and even for singing Koffee, the only woman and youngest person Grammyawarded—what a Raptureshe is being
She razzle-dazzles taste buds with food, boonoonoonoos good And, finger-licking meat jerked spicy-hot on wood
Her rich musical heritage from mento to dancehall She hails chart toppers from Bob Marley to Millie Small
She will not be outdone in serving rum or giving praises Guinness World Record holder—most bars per square mile right along with the most churches
In the sphere of innovation, there’s much to emphasize She’s influenced nation building in those ten times her “likkle” size
In the Western Hemisphere, she built the first iron bridge and railroad And the AT&T telephone system, from her technology they borrowed
Her flag bears no common color with those in the American flag She speaks a rhythmic dialect, tribute to African heritage she brags
In only 61 years her legacy she stamped everywhere ‘Cause no matter where you roam, the black-green-and-gold will be there
For high privilege and responsibility of independence reigned For nationhood, on this her 61st year, we give thanks for freedom gained
Happy 61st Independence to me likkle-big country—JAH-mek-yah 🇯🇲 Jamaica
2023 All rights reserved Music: Bob Marley and the Wailers
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A collection of writing by Dominic Riccitello — intimate conversations, personal essays, and poetic reflections on relationships, loss, and self-discovery.
Poems & More 