A Testament to the Hours


A Testament to the Hours

The tension in your womb bares no certain words;

only the voiceless sense of hidden hands

plaiting the future deep within.


You feel the formation of a sovereign seed––

a lily-of-the-valley destined to rise

in this wilderness of humanity.


Yet within your joy at the fruit of your loins,

you behold Isaiah’s prophecy

of that sacred flower shredded by the hour.


Right then you consider abandoning the seed

in a savage ecstasy of shock and grief

but persevere despite sin’s heinous pleas.


As conception’s reckoning prods and fades,

you foresee a lost lily recovered in the temple,

telling you with reverent irony:

“Didn’t you know I had to be in my Father’s house?”



Poetry, politics


A rapturous beam

encapsulates her self.

Swollen, free speech

defines her heart.

Her being shields the truth

of a life on the skids,

of a social status

pushed to shelter corners,

bread-line spots

and undefined zones

between overpass and parking lot.

Yet still she remains,

her beam and voice

embodying the hidden voices

in the subscripts and footnotes–

the no-names interned in the margins.


The years



The years

Time matches the way

she runs her smooth, auburn hair:

loose, sassy, with zest.

You’d not guess her checkered past

in the guilt of mens’ embrace.


*I will be without internet for the next few weeks. My next post will be published on the weekend of the 8th of August.

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.