The thing about desire

This is the thing about desire,
It is not enough
but it is strong enough- for a moment.

This is the sadness about desire
It calls you to immerse yourself,
knowing it will run out the minute you taste it

This is the haunting of desire
It keeps coming back
leaving your feelings brewing over and over

Living on temporal surges and orgasms left-over

This is why desire is a leech
It wrings what is left of your last
slyly repainting the faintly colored past

Then when desire is done with you
It will run off
With promises of coming back
To finish you off


Do not fret

and when you fret about the now
you are missing that white streak on clear blue sky,
that scenic endless acre of green
the soothing sound of a small stream

God is sending you love in ways beyond your imagination


Imagine Truth

Imagine truth showing up at Sunday brunch,
marinading confrontations while Grace overpowers words of advice

Imagine “yaasss sis” not greased with envy

Imagine sisters who mean it when they say. “I got you”



I have a bad habit of saying things, putting them out there then taking them back. Not because I don’t mean them anymore, I always mean what I say; but because the reception was lukewarm. Have you ever eaten warm coleslaw? Or waved at someone you know with such enthusiasm then they don’t wave back?
Well that is my life, every single day. 
My anxiety is so profound that even the most beautiful poems I have written for people, about how amazing I find them, about how much I pray for them, about their button noses and ebony skin or how I love their unabated aura, stays between me, my poetry folder and God. 
But that’s not okay. 
This is why I started blogging, to remove these layers of censorship and timidness that musk my true power. 
I have not even started yet, or gotten to my layers. I am breaking my own walls and it feels so good. 
Owning my voice and speaking my truth is part of the liberty I am celebrating this Madaraka day. 
For we cannot truly be free if we hold ourselves back or if we let the voices in our head run things. 
Owning my voice is part of my African journey and I love it. 
I am unraveling in my bluffs and poetry, come join me. 
Happy Madaraka Day

Parts of me

Parts of me are stuck in time’s farrows

I have dug in the gutter for pieces of me

Still, I am not whole

Echoes of my forefathers’ songs call me

Muffled howls of ghosts of my tainted past mock me

Wandering souls wrap edible lace around my mouth and beg me to resist


They are snakes reincarnated,

Slithering in bed with me

Robbing me in my sleep


Laughter is their voice of victory

Chasing me to ditches, hands clenching my womb

Leaving trails of edible lace


Dear Black Man

If I had a way back machine I would write a thousand words for every one they tried to pin your spirit down with.

I would throw a thousand fists avenging every one, spray a hundred thousand bullets

I would call you King, take you back to the beginning, to the songs of our forefathers echoing, “You are royalty”
you are the earth, Black Man
you are the source,
you are the truth they want to musk with hatred

they hate it when you straighten your back and rise
how futile their wars against you are
how unbreakable your soul is

when “one world” comes calling, you are the answer, Black Man
you are light, heart and all power
you do not just deserve life, you ARE life!


4 years was the age I knew taunting,

it came in small packages making comedy at 10a.m. in the playground

two decades later it comes in a small package,

stuffed at the back of my head echoing 4 year olds making comedy in 1997.