My nails are long,
And strong,
Not brittle,
It is a sign of my health,
Of my body’s apt recovery,
From life
Tag: poem
Reparations
We don’t belong here,
Most of us,
All of us,
We are squatters,
Claimants to possessions,
To lives, to land,
To stories that are not ours,
That are not meant to be owned,
And still we are a legacy,
Of conquerors,
Thefting still,
Without acknowledgement,
Often without knowledge,
Of the very sins we are committing,
This is our history,
Our story,
The ending is never written,
It is living by our means
And I wish to live love
And reparations into this Act.
Spiritual Writing
This is my practice,
My prayer,
To the spirit of existence,
To the spirit of light ,
To the spirit of what moves me
To craft symbols into words
That move the eye
and maybe the heart.
The Colonizer’s Downfall
I am the anomaly,
I am what they feared,
For I can see through
And into eyes
Not of my own,
I am the colonizer’s weapon…
And downfall.
Juvenile Activists
A generation stands
In prayer,
From false idols
Long praised they demand sacrifice,
Their goddess is tired,
Is crying,
Is bleeding,
Is burning,
And still the idols won’t hear,
won’t see,
Won’t give
An inch, an ounce of fossil fuel empathy,
They were always false,
But propped up to heavenly heights,
Were worshipped
By those before
for the coin,
The vanity, the luxury,
The illusory gifts
Such “gods” would provide.
The juvenile,
Have much to lose,
In fact they’ve lost it.
Nothing to lose.
The false idols should fear,
The young, as they worship
The true Goddess.
On an Evening Canvas
The night encroaches,
The sun is taking its leave earlier,
And earlier,
The night light gems
That decorate the evening canvas
Come into sight,
And I see you again,
I am reminded,
You are still there,
Always.
She of Letters 