the loss of innocence (a poem)

Prophetically he called me
"dangerously naive"
before proceeding to spin me round
his roundabout of lies;
I spinned til my head ached,
confusion reigned
yet I was hooked,
words spiked with a double shot of flattery,
affection, deception,
I could not tell them apart.
When I smashed my nose against the cold steel truth
I thought my life was going to bleed out of it;
the pain was such that passing out would have been the most desirable option
BUT
I had to stay alive
to witness the burial of my innocence lost
a precious seed cracked openand poured into the ground of my life
now starting to sprout forth a new leaf of caution
part of the universal law:
for what you reap
is what you sow.

fortune teller

Milan, Italy
The Brera quarter tries to be hip-chic
with its alleged fortune-tellers
amongs the Prada bags and larger-than-life shades -
Fake is the order of the day.
Perhaps one day I will go back:
headscarf, beaded skirt, deep purple eye shadow, a pack of cards.
For the enemy has blinded the minds of unbelievers
they would come flocking:
hoping to discover what awaits them,
blissfully unaware of what they are dabbling with.
but me, prophetess of the LORD most high,
would dispatch the one true message of hope
that comes from repenting and believing
in order to find the strength to do all things
taking the good with the bad
and seeing the Almighty use it all for our blessing,
and knowing then, when all is said and done,
only the Truth will stand.
2 Corinthians 4:4 (The Message)
3-4If our Message is obscure to anyone, it's not because we're holding back in any way. No, it's because these other people are looking or going the wrong way and refuse to give it serious attention. All they have eyes for is the fashionable god of darkness. They think he can give them what they want, and that they won't have to bother believing a Truth they can't see. They're stone-blind to the dayspring brightness of the Message that shines with Christ, who gives us the best picture of God we'll ever get.

Kodjo Yenga RIP, this poem is for OUR young people

small injuries

a 16-year old boy
stabbed to death on my street this week
most likely by one
the same age as him.
what series of small injuries has lead
talented
achieving
strong
beautiful
young lives
into such degeneration?
injuries inflicted by a negligent parent
getting drunk in front of a TV screen
instead of reading a book or kicking a football round the park with their child;
injuries inflicted by a blind society that is no longer a community, letting one another fall apart.
how do we recover these injured souls,
battered and bruised to the extent of committing murder?
oh ye of little faith
step forward, don't lose hopetogether we'll rebuild the broken walls.

A poem written for me! How exciting :-)

TERZANELLE: One Who Is Sent (Otumidwa’s Odyssey)
much of your life and death decided at birth
when obedience and freedom marry
my journey is my identity
an infinite passport that she will forever carry
praying for good rains and for mercy
when obedience and freedom marry
bad days never again to curse thee
with the revelation of who I really am
praying for good rains and for mercy
like words from a poetry slam
plan the next inspirational season
with the revelation of who I really am
fighting villainy and global treason
danger, mistakes, lessons, wisdom
plan the next inspirational season
so positive energy can spread across the earth
danger, mistakes, lessons, wisdom
much of your life and death decided at birth
travel with kindred spirits that are sent to me
my journey is my identity.

Poem by Dasuntoucha (http://www.myspace.com/dasuntoucha)

Daughter's Block

The stumbling block
That’s only visible to me
Too heavy to shift from my throat
And let me speak
Is in reality a pebble
Which has been carried by the current
Through the years of my journey
Without getting any smoother.

Sometimes I’ve tried to hide it in my shoe
But every step I took
I knew it was still there.

This daughter’s block
That silences my words
While amplifying the emotions inside my head
I want to see it shattered before my mind’s eye.

Visualize it
Interiorize it
Memorize it
For soon the time comes
When obedience and freedom marry
And I choose to bless my parents
With the revelation of who I really am.

Beyond Romance

I love romance, butterflies in the stomach, fast heartbeats on the phone, long lingering kisses, cuddles, that sense of magic, even flowers...
But a hothouse flower does not compare to a stalk of corn nurtured on sub-Saharan soil by a family whose survival depends on it,
Paying for it with their lives of early rising and walking bear feet to draw water which the scorched soil will drink,
Praying for good rains and for mercy from the rich man giving fertilizer;
With corn, when s**t happens, well, even that helps it to grow stronger.
Through unrelenting work, the fruit of a labour of love - many ears of golden corn will be shared to feed all in the community.
So - this Valentine's, look beyond romance and cultivate true love!

Inspirational People (making dining tables out of pedestals)

Inspirational season
flavoured by encounters
with inspirational people
who are climbing upwards
not stepping on the flowers
but radiating inner beauty
even extending a hand
to those who refuse to look to the summit
of this mountain of hurdles
- life on Earth.
This is the season
to make dining tables out of pedestals;
I no longer invite
my favourite inspirational people
to take their place on a podium
from which they might easily fall
but I lay a colourful cloth
a few bowls, a warm candle,
and scatter around cushions
that we might all commune
eat, talk and plan the next
inspirational season

MY IDENTITY (poem 16 Dec 2006)

I am a product
of reverse colonisation disorder
a rainbow refugee
in places of my choice
giving thanks for the freedom
of an EU passport
the gifts
of a talent for languages
the solidity
of my parents' teaching
that trying to be like everyone else
is not something we're into.
I said it once before
life on Earth is a lottery
much of your life or death decided at birth
and I know
I was born with a golden ticket:
favourable circumstances and great potential,
I pray each day for the inner strength to put them to good use.
My identity
is the people I have loved and the lessons I have learnt
the cultures I have lived and the songs I have heard.
My journey is my identity
I am shaped every day;
and I am God's
so the World is my oyster,
and Heaven is my final destination.

"This is what she said" (poem 9 Dec 06)

Ears filled with cotton wool
all I remember
is a greyscale slow-motion movie
of childhood years
when mum was absent...
she was there, like,
I could see her,
she WAS there,
but somehow
I couldn't feel her.
Years filled with things she didn't say,
things like"I love you - give me a hug!"
"oh, you're a good girl"
"let me comb your hair" or
"you look pretty in that"
But it's alright
she did find the end to her tunnel
and we now hold hands
as we marvel at how sunny it is outside.