Words are my art
And my ministry;
I write, I speak,
I evoke, I exhale
Words,
Into the ether;
What comes next
of the symbols and breath I share
I cannot contain,
It is with benevolent intention I infuse
These words
That I trust
Will come to settle
Where they are most needed,
With Spirit,
As the guide.
The Nostalgia Swing
The creaking of the porch swing brings me back,
Back
And forth,
My brown limbs outstretch to power the rocking
And I feel the air brush against them,
Like when I was small
And my legs dangled from a sun-bleached wooden swing
That like my maternal grandparents
I wish were still here today,
This was their house,
The rural abode
Where I, their first grandchild,
And a then newly dubbed city-kid, would return
Again and again,
With memory of toddlerhood here,
Running,
With chubby caramel-colored baby legs
Sitting in and exploring , and feeling the fresh cut green grass,
on this same land;
This was my first home
It always will be,
It was where my mother carried me in body,
Herself breathing in country air,
In this her family home,
It is where I swing now,
With a new bench beneath me,
And older, lengthened tan legs
moving me,
Back and forth,
Still I have always been
Between places,
In movement,
Like this swing,
And that is what I aim still to do,
To swing back between here,
Pennsylvania,
And my New England home of familiarity;
Between the two places
Distinct accents call me back,
And forth,
incantations to return again
And again,
The swing with its own creaking accent calms me
And keeps me in place for now,
Both driven and pulled by nostalgia
While I figure out best laid plans
To be
In each beloved place,
In each their own time.
Movement of My Feet
I often see, hear, and feel hints around me,
Of the ancestral homeland I have never met,
But know of
From the people, stories, and the traditions
Passed on;
Much woven into my DNA,
Evident
In the rhythm of my hips
And movement of my feet
With steps I knew
From childhood,
When encircled by elders
–Dark brown clapping hands ushered on
The skilled footwork of the coy child
Dance, dance,
“Eh! Eh!”
The child smiles shyly,
But honors their request,
With steps that mimic
What she has seen the others’ dress shoes do,
Alas savory smell of a hot soup wafts through the air,
Enticed hungry bellies hurry away from the impromptu dancefloor,
For the beloved dishes awaiting in the next room;
Tiny child hands eager for puff- puff and Fufu
Are re-directed to “wash first”
As the music plays on,
It is the now outdated Makossa sounds of the older generation,
But the tiny ones care not,
They find joy in the sounds,
And this is how they too come to learn,
Ancestral wisdom,
Unknowing the aged messages in the footwork
And the drumming;
The drumming,
in songs,
That helped generations of our peoples,
In Africa,
and in new worlds;
Music that links siblings
Oceans apart,
in this great diaspora
From the motherland.
Attention
I appreciate
The time and attention gifted
To me
And about me;
I have never known
such tender attention before,
of simple presence,
Void of expectation,
To be heard and cheered on
By a friend,
And in part, a fan
Of me in my creative expression,
–My art in body and mind;
So, this is what it feels like,
Attention from the receiving side;
Blushing,
Humbled and grateful,
I aim to balance this
And the bloom of feeling
Stirred by the other
A magnificent being in their own right,
Who I yearn to still know better,
And to reflect
Their gentle affection
of attention
Back
Confidence
I am capable
Of the seemingly impossible,
Of proving not only others,
But my own doubt
Wrong;
Believing in,
And being in awe
Of myself
Was one of the most healing
And refreshing acts
I could undertake;
This is not vanity,
But self-preservation,
A courageous upgrade
Of self love,
Heralded to the world,
As “confidence”.
Camera
https://youtube.com/shorts/GAq7KVb9YjU?feature=share
I usually do not have my picture taken,
At times out of shyness,
Usually, because I am the eye
Behind the camera,
But years passed
Where all I saw was flash
From the back,
And captured photos
Reveal a vacuum,
A gaping void of my presence;
So I took it back
My smile,
My face,
My existence before the lens,
Creating memories that include me,
So my child will not have to look back
And just wonder of me;
I support her memory
With my bravery
To be a subject worthy
Of capture in art form.
She of Letters 