Metamorphosis

Chances fall down as we circle the forgotten
days that once existed as long held breaths.
Holding on to bruised visions and
solemn prayers.
Hope has been shining in the glimmering prophesies
that promised refuge.
Refuge for the past we did not tred,
for the future that the waves brought
ashore much too soon.
For our memories that lingered between sheets
but did not think to bring honey
to stick on to the parchment of our hearts.
Now our fragility sits upon the moutain of the aged youth,
mounted and subdued.
Here we are,
Arriving to yesterday’s blues
but forgetting the tune,
once again.

Fruit of love for Mine

The one that got away but returned to the troubled hearts waters,
stubborn one,
complex and
Mine.
My beautiful one- unborn,
rebirthed and evolving.
When shall this fruit ripen?
Let’s dance around the realities of
our becoming.
Were we only dreaming
when we lost
our paths
and forged
ahead to
the unknown?
Arms locked,
bodies in conversation,
praying mercy.
Mercy, mercy, mercy mercy mercy
I pour on your crown-
Solemnly in fervent wait
for the fruition of these waitings
and smooth endings.
My beautiful one- unborn,
rebirthed and evolving.
When shall this fruit ripen?

Letters to Ayoola

Ayoola,

I was filled with so much joy when I saw your handwriting (that cursive script I could never master) on the envelope that was left on the doorstep of my apartment. As I read each word –I felt the peace, the joy and the love fill my soul. You’re happy and my heart could not rejoice with you more. Baba sounds like a wonderful man: everything that you waited and prayed so dutifully for. In short, your letter has brought sunshine and smiles to my spirit. Ose, Ore Mi Atata

I’ve been praying more and working harder. I know you’ll smile at this and say “Less work and more prayer!” I am trying to strike the balance but there is the common saying “God helps those who help themselves”? So I suppose I am testing the hypothesis.  

It seems, however, the more I have tried to organize and categorize all the various facets, the more out of control everything has gotten. I was thinking the other day what a beautiful feeling free-fall must be–letting go completely. But more truthfully Ayoola, the more in-control I have set out to be, the more out of touch I have become accustomed to feeling.  So, I’ve been building barricades that will ward off any unexpected pitfalls in April.

So, I’ve been building barricades. You first saw them and tore them down but I have rebuilt them to be much more solid and encompassing than before. It was an unconscious decision. Unpacking insecurities is so cliche and I have never been very good at articulating  my emotions. So these barricades have worked to ward off those who want to see beyond the smile and laughter. The barricades have made me an island but I realize this may only last for a fleeting moment. When love leaves and resentment comes to nestle in the corners. 

I am just somewhere between floating and dodging peace. Yet it is all I long for these days: Serenity knocking as opposed to the jostling bodies and loud sirens. So I’ve been thinking maybe the barricades must come down? but how?

Ore mi, I know you’ll probably read this saying or thinking, “you don start again oo” and you are probably right…But I long to see your cursive again so please fill me in on all the details of passionate Baba and the unrelenting pot-bellied Oga-CEO.

Stay well,

 

 

 

From A Far Away Place

I see the dimming lights in their eyes,

the finality-

of something often,

of something close,

of something cherished,

of something forgotten.

There is futility in attempting to put these pieces together,

But I am drawn to it–

this exercise in impossibility.

I’ve dreamt of the paths untrodden,

that they might have missed to reach this  place

of unfounded dreams and unspoken hopes.

To label this failure would be too easy.

On this Separation

Mother, now that we are separated by these large waters-

And by crackling fibre lines-

that sometimes transform your humming voice into unfamiliar muffles.

But Mother,

Now that we are separated-

I feel somehow unable.

You have never asked me to carry your burden

But suddenly

I feel heavy.

The weight of the unknown-

balances unsteadily above

me.

It is only now-

that I realize

I have been navigating this world through

you.

And Mother, I am ashamed to say-

that all this while

I secretly thought it was

you-

who had needed me most.

Never truly acknowledging

Your strength,

until now-

now that my own lack of-

mocks me,

and is hastily demanded to

stand

upright

alone.

Mother, we are now separated-

by these man-made borders.

But separated still-

by so much more,

that I cannot-

define.

 

Black Gold

I am Black Gold

They try to crack the ridges

And ends of my being

but my armor is impermeable.

They try to sing my freedom songs

And buy my history.

I am Black Gold

My calloused memory

Retains the path of my ancestors

Whipped and raped

Forced to grovel

But continuing to rise.

I am Black Gold

They try to resist the flowers that bloom within me

Telling me there is no place for my beauty

Rejecting my roots

And defining my identities

While erasing my mother tongue.

I am Black Gold

They teach me to walk straight

To tilt my hat

To hide my colors

But to open my legs

And to always keep my mind shut.

I am Black Gold

Sold by my brothers

Who saw their reflections in the mirrors

But did not see the evil of their ways

Who prayed to a God of a color

That bore no resemblance to their own

I am Black Gold

I stand tall and break free

I have found my way home

In the belly of the Niger River

I found love in the blackness

And I have made peace with it all.

Familiar

I’ve met you before.
Somewhere between the conversing streets of death and life,
we met behind a forgotten alleyway.
Discussing our dreams and failed attempts to climb the moon,
and define the way the sun shone across our souls.

I’ve met you before.
When I met that full outburst of laughter, I wept.
Feeling the waves of familiarity and comfort wash over me anew.
I could live and die many times over to hear that laughter.
SO full of life, pain and strength.

I’ve met you before.
Carrying your brokeness in a little tin jar.
And painting your portrait of pain so beautifully.
As I sit and contemplate,
Only now do I see the unshed tears under your heart.

Meeting the Dream Man

I met him in the dimly lit passage-way

between his fear of failure and his desire for power.

It was a different feeling, it pulled at me-

gripping my heart in such a frightening way.

Drawing me closer but leading me nowhere. 

Having come this far, how could I return?

At this point of neither paradise nor destruction.

I stood and called out to him.

But he seemed to disappear into the faraway depth-

that of imagination and the pursuit of purpose. 

 

When we came in the name of peace

We came in the name of peace, in the name of all good and godly things.

How it all began we neither cared nor did we remember.

It was a union between fire and ice.

A meeting of the Cairo’s and the America’s.

It could not have been fathomed, believed by any.

Was this union blessed? Had the prophets fore seen such a thing?

“Sinners!!” some cried out on the street.

Do you remember that time?

It seems in our minds we had created our own world.

Ours was timeless. That’s what I knew they thought.

I once woke up to the laughter of an old woman and I thought I saw our ending coming.

 

So how did we get here?

There was a time when we knew we could survive this.

We were so sure of our ability, to love, to hold, to cherish.

But our make-believe world has broken down.

The power is out and we are left to grope blindly, as darkness mocks our existence.

We didn’t anticipate the possibility of falling out of our utopia.

When the unimaginable happened we could only watch- immobile, unfeeling—numb

How could we have known that we would one day walk on opposite streets?

Were our minds supposed to contemplate the possibility of this once impossibility?

We thought we came in the name of peace, in the name of all good and godly things.

A path of indefinable pain was the one we finally trod.

The Human Fault

It is the gift of life that has been reduced to a curse by our feeble minds.

Searching for existence, we realize our utter inadequacies.

While born to walk on land, we pray to fly.

We bind our hopes and dreams to love, hoping that this will be fertile land to instill the growth we desire.

We toil unceasingly, never realizing the true simplicity of life itself.

It was beautiful before but we damned it in our hearts.

After the fire burnt the destruction i thought i saw the holy trinity rise above the ashes.