Star Dances

Stars dance in the night sky,

where heavens majesty is a

mute witness to dances eternal.

As my heart upon seeing your

tender face, explodes in joyous

pleasure, the time of your arrival

well past when you had departed

and the song of your

sweet visage being etched

upon my minds eye.

When the fleeting passing of

fragrance has left the

room then will the

imagination soar and dip

until next chanced meeting.

Ever soaring the heart pinned

lover writes waging the oft penned

battle of why and when, struggling

with loves clutch again and again.

Perhaps the day may still approach,

when she grants his hearts request

or better he stares at the stars above

watching them laugh as they dance.


The Apron

The Apron

I remember it was a badge of honor a sacred raiment that marked the wearer as head of the females in our family.

It would not fit me anyway. I was but six years old, Momma was so pretty as she bustled from meal course-meats, to various vegetables, to drinks, umm–her tea was the most.

Bread, sometimes yeast rolls or cornbread filled the house with smells and promise of flavors.

Sundays were so special.

I was so proud to help her. My apron was a pretty dish towel either pinned to my blouse or wrapped around my jumper. Mattered not, I was like mommy.

How I loved her, I would dress in her old clothes and wear her shoes about the house as my dolls could attest.

So, loose and clunky clunk CLUNK.

I’m in charge-like it or go back to my room. Ha. They never argued.

Momma often smiled, then kindly told me to put her shoes back or I might
run them over. Pouting, I would do as
she said and bounce into the kitchen
where a cookie and milk might be discovered on the table.

She would hug me and kiss my cheek
saying I was a blessing from GOD.
I believed it was the other way round.

How beautiful and loving those Sundays and quiet days were when we shared in our lives.

Only as I got older and could fit in Momma’s shoes did she seem smaller, even to the shoes that seemed to swallow her feet or the
clothes that became loose.

I could sense that a cloud was forming over our family, and what was to become of us?

Momma spoke of JESUS making a way, not necessarily to escape. His example was to subject himself and
live under the laws of man and endure. Thus He learned of mans weaknesses, desires, folly and interceded and bore mans sin.

He carried the pains of man upon His back, endured the agony of wood upon His bleeding flesh and sacrificed Himself to prevent another condemnation of mankind.

He could have wiped away illness, and even death. Would we all be happy? I would tender a gentle no.

Our planet-GODS footstool could not sustain us all. We would not grow mentally if the same people were in charge all the time. Take Washington as an example.

New ideas not placated old ones shape what is new in our world today.
The gadgets may be new, even revolutionary, so was the iron horse, or telegraph. Momma knew and her Scripture proclaimed there is nothing new under the sun. True, if you base the reason of capitalism or desire to make life easier.

She was a gem and her wisdom is enduring, so why is it that she said on fighting, let the Lords will be done.

Lord, I asked to be put in her place,
I asked to carry her burden as she
endured the fear, pain and uncertainty that leaving her loved ones might cause without her leadership.

I was denied-but not for ill, but to learn by her example. Through her faith that translated and became my own and understanding that our lives here impact not just a family sphere, but extends to community.

I feel her life as that of a cancer victim-are not forgotten, but as warriors fight and eventually fall, so might any of us under the same circumstances.

Life owes, nor guarantees any thing.

Life offers an opportunity, and what we do with it, how we share it, determines our course, but also the course of those we leave behind.

I know GOD will be waiting at the crossroad of today and eternity.

The apron fits me perfectly and on Sunday you can find the best food and tea anywhere at Mom’s table-now mine.

At The Window Seat

At The Window Seat

I was able to spend a few days
with my Mom and while knowing the
window seat was there, never really
gave it a thought. That is until I saw
my Mom sit upon it.

It rests there by design, as though
even the forgotten builders
understood a young shrill voice
would one day cry mine;

It was the honorees place who
established first dibs upon the
precious space; doling areas for
fellow siblings and friends toys
like a feudal lord divides his lands
one to each who best develops his
or her place.

Not without responsibility did such a
lofty tile decree, in the winter
boots and shoes left by the back
door, coats fell nearby as all must
be done by unwritten mandate,
if breached, the serfs as one would
rise up and oust thee.

Summer was a time when as the
days grew from warm to hot,
sometimes a visiting relative might in
a non-violent coup, by her beauty or
his handsome new features, manage
to all win all of said title without
lifting a finger.

How they succeeded at this at times
was seemingly beyond my grasp,
I begin to notice his little furrow of the
brow and her slight pout of lips that
weakened the seats value and
dissolved any order and as violations
mounted quiet negotiations were
taking place in enclaves where
genders were not allowed to breach.

I got a summer job.

The coups and such were still being
counted as my responsibilities grew,
silly things like the window seat no
longer mattered.

When the cushions appeared, Mom
just brushed it off as a flight of fancy;
something to do with silly
old pillows no one barely sits there
any more, she smiled and offered
me a seat.

Having made us coffee, a habit I
picked up while in the fifth grade,
we lived not together so Mom
could not know till I told her about
boiling my Dads used coffee grounds
after he and my Step-Mother left for
work. I felt guilty about this but
continued until I began to pilfer
fresh ground coffee; when found out
and warned on the dangers of stained
teeth I was given an alternative
named Postum.


It tastes great at the first cup,
then good at the second, okay
at the third if you can make it
that far, because it loses flavor
and then–bland.

Enough of that.

I handed a cup to Mom, she
thanked me. She mused about
the seat and how it seemed
abandoned now. I knew that
she missed the buzz, but
understood the bedlam of
children at play.

I told her that running and
playing about the house
seemed not that long ago.
She chuckled I always loved
how she laughed. Seems as
though when the responsibilities
mount, the humor is first to suffer.

Life offers and demands much,
the more threads, the harder the
weave. Daily demands often trump
fun, any moment of laughter is to
be relished.

As a child I never realized the fun
interaction could bring, isolation
was my solitary friend or having a
book to read. I did not grow up
around sisters and brothers, for
the most of the summers unity
was by chance not often by design.

I did not mind.

How grateful to my Mom, I guess
she may never realize. Thank you
and gifts seem not enough. I wish
I had the means to take care of her
needs, so she might not want.
This is not realistic because I know
myself and it would not be fair to
her as a reminder of who I am.

Gratitude is enough and with her
family surrounding her, I need not
worry. I pray that life and GODS
mercy will make her future peaceful
and filled with wonders.

The window seat is still there, waiting
for the next bunch of combatants,
to add to its mystique.


My mind was drifting. I came upon her face emerging as from a vision of the depths of a vast ocean.

She was as beautiful the Sun.

She was as beautiful the Sun.


The suns dying rays lengthened shadows that filled every gap in my mind.

So did I see her beauty. Her star filled eyes pierced my vision as a dream that was not.

Back, back, back I traveled to what was and truly is the beginning of the human persona.

These images, though graven, mark our past and are still carried today in many forms.
Dark reminders of our link with the future through our past.

Birthplace–though we are diverse, and of many cultures, languages, dialects, faiths and values.
We are all from the same bloodline. Therein lay the beauty of civilization.

We are all one, and from the first life–begins all.



Courtesy of Amy Winehouse Productions



You found your way back among us,
had you ever left?

I remembered you in the way life
choose to grace you with beauty
and voice to sing, your voice
could do many things.

Hair dark as the night sky,
sun-kissed, it radiates a
silver-gold blue hue as it
reflects true beauty.

Piled upon your head or
falling askew, it was your
persona that radiated true.

My eyes swallowed your painted
treasures that I would never
fully see, as I measured the
path of switchbacks you seemed
only to see.

I longed to share a cigarette
with you as the smoke curled from
your lips, I would place my face
close to yours and lips would
caress lips.

The tendril of blue-white smoke
would enter into your body, my
face pressed close to your soft
lips as you waited for me to draw
it from your mouth.

Slowly, you would yield the smoke
as eyes slowly close, we shared
what lovers do so often pressing
nose to nose.

I know it is not a perfect thing,
I refuse to be offended, offense
is a relative thing by those who
refuse to mend broken fences.

When you left it was the pain
that losing could suddenly bring,
were we lovers or even friends
your phone would nightly ring.

Torn away, I imagined your
beautiful innocence as like
a child dazzled by the white
light you continued towards it
with glee, no more hurts, pain,
uncertainty or strife this world
no more will see you sing.

How joyous might be the reunion
as a new voices aids the angels,
so pure now of thought you
understand all, even to why
I was musing.

The pundits claim after the fact
they knew that you were losing,
or was the pain too much for your
fragile body that even Earth knew
it was your own choosing.

I see you again and my heart lifts
as again the world needs cleansing,
will we ever hear a voice like yours
again that can burn with beauty as a
fire than can be singeing.

The Lucid Dream


The lucid dream…

…that becomes real,

when once my nights were bleak,

as shown by my heart’s muted appeal,

memories of your beauty entice me to rise,

then speak with dedication as I put words to paper that seem alive

and upon my chest rests loves enduring legacy which will never be denied.