top of page



I climb this
barefoot to
its’ summit –


oblivious to
shifting winds
and the primal
wounds on

my heels in
the ascent –


my jaw is
tired and my

words have
become – 





I will not sleep while your
wings are being clipped


or during the placation
of your righteous rage


I will dig my hands bloody
to extract your impacted words


I will stare into the
opening of the bullet hole


I will listen for the rattle
that precedes your last breath


I will not rest while you

hang from the oak
and your tears salt the earth.





when the sun reaches
her darkest places – she
blossoms – dances the
field – flirts with daffodils-
and drums the earth
with tender feet.



~ collected ~


It seems we must learn
to anchor amidst this
storm – gather the weight


of spirit – link our veins
beneath the earth,

the house is silent –


we bend to the arc of
voice – trace our steps
while the floor notates


our movement,

we talk to trees – smile
at the sun – cry with


the rain – indulge the

veil of morning fog,

we will visit our


ancestors in dreams –
grieve the loss of our
village – call on the wind


to carry our voices,

we are skin – the
fibers of a collective


muscle – the densest
of bone – and we will –

grow stronger.





black baby ~
pierce them proudly
with your first cry
draw deep your
primal breath


black boy ~
proclaim yourself
with wide eyes
curious hands
descending larynx


black man ~
walk bravely
these angry streets
lay down your truth
under fearful feet.


I sleep with lions
in the grasslands,

a naked spirit
in gentle slumber,

the last hunt
left deep scars,

and I wake,
startled by the

image of the
stabbing buffalo horn,

yet I rise… and
drink from the

waterhole with my
pride, my amber

eyes reflected,
my fierce roar

stirring calm waters,
I am wild and loyal,

bathing in pride’s
tongue and settling

into rhythmic hums.

Tropical Flowers
bottom of page