An Ode To Natural Black Hair (a poem of appreciation by me)

originally posted on my poetry blog

natural hair

An Ode to Natural Black Hair

It looked like the devil’s hay,

A blazing inferno,

An untamable mane.

Bristly and dry,

A whorl of defiance,

Gravity wrangled.

Multiple snakes coiled,

Springing to life,

A tentacled being.

It looked like earth,

And weeds,

And the full richness of life.

A crown of fortitude,

A halo of ingenuity,

An afro of fiery glory.

Or just hair.


Weathered Souls (another poem by me)

originally posted on my second, personal blog


Weathered Souls

Soft, silky silence.

Hallowed walls etched

With the tears of a million

Weary subjects.

Shadows reached for the ceiling,

Masking the pretty glass.

Hollow room.

White ash sprinkled on the floor.

Sorrow lives in these walls,

Yet pain ceases to exist.

Regality in misery,

Woe and pride.

Shuffled feet slide down the steps.

A hum descends.

The gray lifts.

White curtain ascends.

Soulful melody erupts,

Breaking the tepid quiet.

Gold, brass banisters,

Wither no more.

Speckled white, gray, gold.

Ash replaced by honey.

Floor the color of milk,

Wishful souls devour.


Girl, Bleeding (another poem by me)

originally posted on my personal blog,


Girl, Bleeding

She was a girl, alone.

She felt like finger nails scratched across a chalkboard

The ingratiating screech of a banshee

The quiet that befalls a public execution

As the prisoner takes the lone walk to his imposing beheading.

She’s shrouded in a wave of insecurity, anxiety, dread.

The one who chokes herself to sleep

To elude darts being thrown at her head

She’s a target, a weakling, a sniveling wreck

Susceptible to the images that flash behind her eyelids at night.

She saw blood once,

It was a peaceful sight.

She had just wrung her wrists

And thought, stabbing them would be fun.

She really liked the color red.

She broke her legs

On the double edged sword

Of bitter lies and daggered hurt.

It poisoned her soul;

A drop of black on a canvas of red.

She’d wondered whether it was possible

To walk in a straight line

When your mind is running in zig-zags.

If you could bludgeon yourself to death

With your raw, twisted ankles.

The girl peeled back her fingers from her clenched fist

To tear out her own eyeballs.

So that she could never again see

His body, laid to rest

Pale and still and gone.

Politesse (a poem by me)

originally posted on my second, personal blog:

polite society


They were the type that

Knew what fork was for dessert

And held their manicured nails

Over their mouths when they laughed.

They had soft hands

That felt like velvet;

All the better for

Pinning their hair into tight buns.

They terrified me;

I could never hear them coming.

Their footfalls were too delicate;

Their voices too quiet.

My mother called them polite society.

But were they polite when

They smiled to my face

And giggled behind my back?

k. a-i.