You must learn to make it on the broken pieces (a poem) 2 Feb 08

I am a specialist in patchwork accessories
and all-season wreaths
in which you can use anything that sparkles!
I struggle with jigsaw that have a predetermined outcome,
lego is a bit square,
but at least you can make with it what you want.
If you then give me paint and brushes
I excel, choosing beautifully broken pieces of colour
and harmonising them on paper.
Even poems...the art is in the mix of verbal ingredients,
plenty of space for broken sentences
scrumptious like cookie crumbs.
I love broke pieces. Whole cut-outs are boring!

Emotional Beggar (a poem) 11 Jan 08

A few unanswered calls
when I needed to talk
and to listen to some words of affirmation,
while physical affection is the obvious absentée,
leave me out in the cold
with my tiredness and stress
of yet another self-imposed change
along this road marked by parting shots
to my heart.
emotions that shake with every plane ticket,
I change my mood like I change my clothes
from swealtering in the african heath
to freezing under my bunker of coat-scarf-hat-gloves.
feeling ashamed
that I've been behaving like an emotional beggar
expecting you to drop happiness
into my cup.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop (a poem) from 3 Jan 08

19 when I left and walked out of a monotonous background
of grey,
suits and stiff hairdos,
that I now see has taken over even the colour of your skin.
Critics with in-built blinkers,
Threatened by a gesture which dismantles the repetitiveness of your generational immobility.
Superstitious in your religiosity, where you're only required to adapt without your inner self being involved.
31 when I realize
that even as you watch me and proclaim congratulations
you cannot comprehend
and subconsciously you are
waiting for the other shoe to drop:
for me to come back and surrender to your schemes, to ditch my freedom in the name of security,
but I started walking barefoot a long time ago!

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.

Isaiah (I am pregnant with purpose)

this is a poem that was inspired by the words of a beautiful and deep woman, and by the WORD of God spoken through the prophet Isaiah and recorded in chapters 54, 55 and 62. (You can see it here: http://www.biblegateway.com just enter Isaiah 54, or Isaiah 55 or Isaiah 62 in the search box)
-----------------------------------------------------------
Isaiah

I am pregnant with purpose
soon I will have more children
than someone married a long time
it's no immaculate conception -
my redeemer, my king, is also my husband.
He, from whom all blessings flow,
has planted in me a new seed;
each day He feeds me with food that won't spoil
his waters have given me life everlasting.
all that i am, and am to be,
let it be according to His original design,
the old covered abundantly by his grace,
as well as every false step I will take with good intentions.
Our covenant of love: His life, my life;
with every wound, with every whipping, Him closer to the cross of victory,
with every loss, with every tear, me closer to the point of empathy.
that all
for which it is worth living
for that it is also worth suffering
that one day
we will stand in glory in the courts of the king
our children ruling the land
not one of their brother going without
nor their sisters seeing injustice.

Great Wall of China (a poem written 19 October 2006 on the District line!! a prolific line to travel on...)

A day
Like a thousand years
Seemingly all it took
For this
Iron and brick and barb wire
Great Wall of China
To be built around my heart
While I was trying
To be a good girl
And forgive your betrayal
Loving my neighbour way more than myself
And God
Well
Yes
Loving Him
Out of duty and reverence and fear
And because they say
God is good all the time
But really
Hurting
That my daddy God
Hasn’t got me clothed in a princess’ gown
Strolling through fields of gold.

Then
One day
A shock to my senses
Two hours in a hospital
First class service, private outpatient
Albeit alone
And the wall started cracking with sobs and tears emerging unexpected!
That was when I realised that the wall was there
And all the bitterness it had been enclosing
Of my one-way giving
And emotional somersaults
And your mountain of lies and
Too many skeletons to fit into a closet
And now
The scorn
of marriage
to another woman!


All that
Rushing out
Gushing through the cracks
Of the Great Wall of China around my heart
Time to love me
Put everything else on hold
Make some room
Clear the air;
I do NOT want a single piece of this wall
To come between
Me
And those fields of gold

Bad Eggs (a poem)

Came across your picture on the internet today.
I was not expecting it.

Tried to zoom in to check the look in your eyes
As you pose
In your new role, new job title,
Standing between two tourists.

Could not really recognise you.
I mean – it was you, looked like you, your name was there.
You looked skinnier, or maybe that’s just me looking for evidence
That my occasional thoughts of impending doom
Have their foundations in reality.

But
it was no longer my you
The you who once was such a part of me,
And all I can feel now
Is the smell of bad eggs.

RUSSIAN ROULETTE (a poem about Dzaleka refugee camp in Malawi, written 2004)

This life is random –
Rather than a lottery it is a Russian Roulette.
As I walk through the thousands upon thousands of souls
Parked in this refugee camp
I want to hide
Because pain gets in the way of thinking
How can we inflict death
Into the lives of one another.
It is grey, it is cold
And desperation screams at the top of its lungs
From the silent eyes of those observing me while I watch them,
From the protection of my shell,
Various categories in this human zoo.
Isaiah 32:17
“Justice will produce lasting peace and security”.
It was spoken longer ago than I can even count
And yet we have not learnt its lesson.
I put myself on the front line
And ask to see, everyday, the grain of justice I can bring into a world so needy
Before I leave the burden of this responsibility
Into the hands of those who will just wash them clean
And decline the honour
Of serving the Prince of Peace.

wide eyed child (a poem written early 2005)

Wide Eyed Child
(prov 6:1-5)

I found today
The word of the Lord
That would have saved me
Had it found me
Before my dangerous naivety.

The sting of a painful realisation
Of my own illusion
Makes room for amore helpful
Dose of understanding, repentance, forgiveness and exaltation.

God is good, all the time
His word is life
For those who are blessed to receive it.

Now I ask
For his light, his spirit to supply
To my ability to lose myself
In what is only relatively urgent, marginally important,
So that I might read
Daily drops of dew to keep me alive
In a world of wolves
Dressed as little lambs
And traps set on every corner
For this wide eyed child.

U Turn (a poem 11 August 2006)

I have seen it with my own two eyes
after the rose-tinted glasses were removed
I have seen it
foreign to familiar
this river that's a landmark
in the city of my temporary dwelling;
changing,
one day overflowing
occupying the banks with its proud, full swing,
clearly there, ruling,
playing a role not to be missed.
Then - July.
A month of no rain and even Richmond Park looks like a Zambian safari.
Cycling through it my mind races
how a landscape can make my heart pound!
Anyway
the river once glorious now minuscule
insignificant
a murky stream alongside its faul-smelling rubbish
now exposed in the half twilight sun
it was there all the time
now circumstances bringing it to the forefront
and it's too late
for a last minute quick fix.
So, miles and time zones away
a character in a different tale
you change
and I see you
your rubbish exposed
the rose tinted glasses in the bin
and, finally!
I walk away.

PASSION

the more I live & the more I learn: love & pain are two sides of the same coin

The Spirit is strong (a poem, written June 27, 2006 on the Hammersmith & City line)

Behind the wrinkled, coarse, skin of the trunk
Covered by those
etching their mark
year after year;
Deep within
Runs the lymph of the Spirit -
It runs unseen, and it reaches far
From the ends of the roots
To the tips of the fruits,
And the Spirit is strong,
And the Spirit upholds me.

Within the palms of dusty hands, dirty nails, cracked skin,
Holding on, pounding hard, resilient;
Choosing to embrace a life of no choice
And living it like royalty, full dignity -
There shines the gold of the Spirit,
Refined by the test of fire.
And the Spirit is strong,
And the Spirit is free.

Above the mushroom-head clouds of
Hiroshima, NYC, Bagdad;
Against the raging seas, upon the shaking Earth,
Immeasurable fear.
Above all that reigns the light of the Spirit,
And the Spirit is strong,
And the darkness will not overcome it.

I see it, I feel it,
The Spirit is one,
Found in unassuming people.
I salute them,
A glimpse of the divine, while we wait to reach Home.