Tech report


Tech report

So there’s ‘‘an app for that.’’

a dose of digital aspirin to soothe

the headaches of our daily lives.

So we sold our identities

to virtual devils that tempt us

with short cuts

to social gratification.

So we clicked and downloaded

that inconspicuous square

as if it were a road sign

directing us to the next town

in human existence.

So we slept and awoke

to behold ourselves

encoded beings.

So with no hint of alarm

we went about our business

unconsciously letting

tablets and smart devices

with their touch-screen

steering- wheels

lead us merrily on

down artificial streets.

The Half-way house


The Half-way house

There will forever be those hallways

one treads in the half-way house

between ruin and redemption

destruction and destiny


Behind the house there are acquainted

perilous paths while in front

the paths are safer

but more unknown


The house’s hallways

are the middle ground

where spirit and flesh

impulse and reason

are locked in civil war

over an indecisive mind and soul


Its minimalist décor

is our daily decisions

making that drop

dropping that gang

sleeping with that boy

finishing that education


With very choice

there is a door

emptying onto a path

that goes out

the front entrance

or the back

Flowers of Chibok


Flowers of Chibok


There, you had resided in a space

that shielded you from the chaos outside.

As you walked the halls of that mental garden

the desk was your soil,

the book and pen your well-spring.

Caring hands cultivated your being,

grew you in maturity and knowledge

from seeds, to saplings to young flowers,

our flowers,

meant one day to pollinate the continent

with your wisdom.

But now we look in anguish 

at your garden burned to ashes.

We decry how religious insanity

snatched you from your roots,

now holds your tired, withered

stem in its clutches.

From Chibok to Lagos,

New York to London,

we search for you and demand your release.

Like farmers with stolen crops we hunt for your thieves,

while setting aside a homecoming patch

where the desk, the book and the pen

can help you grow again.










Method of Consumption


Method of Consumption

Those who dine

at the table

of unforgiveness

hold fork and knife

over a plate of old wounds,

ready to tear into targets

of unresolved pain.

Time, the immortal chef

of memories,

serves his courses




bitterness, vengeance, self-destruction

all covered with rusty platter-tops.

Like food mingling with burnt tongues

and spoiled palates,

we feed, ignorant of the different tastes

textures and qualities.



What I admire about female poets


What I admire about female poets

 For Clifton, Walker, Angelou and all the queens of verse


The female creative muse is expressed

in more ways than chick-lit,

romance and feminist canon.


With poetry, the female experience

is boiled down,

but not lost in heat and spice,

to one or more pages

of broken or consecutive stanza.


With poetry, a woman’s life

in the kitchen, in the bedroom, at work

becomes coded in metaphors,

lyrical rhythms, rhymes,

jagged imagery.

For those untrained

the verse has no identity.

For knowledgeable folk

the identity is identical

exact and comparable

to the raw realities of life.


With poetry, everything:

abuse, lost babies,

relationship heartache, period pains,

the shame of a chastity snatched away –

is reduced to a single maxim: survival.


With poetry, not just the earth

but being a woman is beautiful,

beautiful as the rise in ‘Still I rise,’

strong and defiant as the phenomenal

in ‘phenomenal woman.’

Broken words of hurt and loss turn,

to reinforced rods of majestic steel.


Brothers, with poetry there is a cipher

that can unlock the mine

that is the female mind

with all the riches we hope to find —

when solved.


For just as a sister’s style evolves every season,

so too should we men reason

that her poetry will be in a cycle

of submerged, alternating, meaning.