Change

They wonder why

She sits there

Speaking language she didn’t choose

Getting much too close

To forgetting her mother tongue

Wings sealed in a box

Her brown locs

Painted blonde

They wonder why she changed

She only did it

To survive

Self Love

Don’t forget to nurture your soul

You lost your pieces
Those that made you, you
And now you wander
Forgetting what you loved
To do

Sorry| Short Poem

They poisoned the dogs in my street

They said I can no longer give them food to eat

But I’d always eat half my plate

Save it for midnight

When it’s much too late

Then I go running with the wild dogs

They poisoned the dogs in my street

And I still refuse to eat, the food on my plate

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Image Credit HERE

Science

It wasn’t about the things we knew

But about the things we’re yet to discover

The earth reveals a view

Like no other

And I stand amazed by every particle

Wishing to unveil everything a bit better

The Tree and Me

Not much difference between you and I

Branches bare

Extended to the sky

Feeling the leaves falling

Insanity calling

And our heads remain high

We’re not different, you and I

Our roots extended beyond our view

And we are judged by where we were planted

Not by what we do

We bare fruits that offend the palate of few

But oh they don’t know the healing that we can brew

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Image credit HERE

The Pond, Part 2

An unexpected visitor

The bird that sat on her window, it looked familiar as if it belonged to a different place

She can see that the city was not his place

Maybe he followed her train to where the trees don’t grow

Where the cars’ noises block the voices in her head

She can no longer hear her best friend—the inspiration

Looking out of her cold studio apartment’s window, she can’t see the stars

Her lover’s words resonate in her ears, he was right—she misses counting the bright pins in the sky

That yellow cheerful bird’s singing covered all the other noises around her

She wondered if he had been a messenger, if he carried a letter from The Pond for her

Although her apartment stood high above the man-made trails beneath

It was no match to the mountain she used to live on,

The broken kitchen counters that he’d promised to fix,

The cotton filled pillows, the wooden chair he proudly carved.

She closes her eyes humming with the bird, harmonies she once knew so well

She can smell it, the pond’s stench—what she hated and loved so much

But it escapes her before she can capture it; she wished to paint it on her pale grey wall

The memories were too old, and the paint has run dry.

Trees

The dead trees cried to me once
It is cold here
Help me—too big to have a shelter, too attached to my roots to move
The cold winters took away my loyal leaves
Left me with naked branches, lonely
Cover me…help me
But I didn’t hear them; I was too cold to pay attention

(By me, written March 2010)

The Pond, Part 1

A hesitant kiss on the cheek, close to her mouth,

He doesn’t know what to do, can’t stop the train.

Soon she’ll be gone.

The frogs in the pond, he yelled, they are begging you to stay… it’s not just me!

These trees! They cried all night while you laid between the sheets.

And you know the cricket, that one that you asked me to take outside, he sung by our window all day long…it’s not just me dear, it’s not just me!

She couldn’t look him in the eye. One way ticket is all she can afford. Is all she wanted– secretly.

The vibrations of the ground told him that the train is near.

There’s nothing he can do

He looked at her, with a sad smile: “look at me darling!”

“You know, the mountains won’t meet the flat ground you’re going to…the smell of hot concrete will make you miss the pond’s stench. The stars! They won’t be visible dear! Won’t you miss the stars?”

Her cold hands that he held on to were so warm once.

She wasn’t in love anymore. The pond was a thing of the past…she’s ready for the next train.

She didn’t even pack her cloths

A hand bag is all she took, filled with papers and colored pens… and a dried old flower that he couldn’t remember giving to her.

She hasn’t stopped loving him; she just needed a new muse.

Her fuel was inspiration and the pond has run out.

(By me, written Feb 2012)