I feel like a flake
of snow in a
mild London winter falling
bits too
little too
light too
warm to
do anything but
melt into


a cup of water

sweet nor
sour, not
a flavour

but perhaps its own. mute

as a rainy day: no
roaring waves or ripples with splashes, not even
a pitter or patter,

silent and grey. so simple

that I can see right through,
trace out the yellow, dark, and blue
butterflies that lie flat and cool
at its bottom

longing as my mouth to
take a
sip, a
gulp, a
whole mouthful until
it’s all gone
or a

my psalm

there’s an unresolved note inside of me
dragging on like the tension between
the string and its bow,
drawing me close, nearly, almost
to despair’s silence
then coursing in violence
like unruly clangs of cymbals
invaded by clashes of drums
and the string and its bow
wrestling like my heart and soul.

pluck me, Lord,
pull me, Love,
like the bow does its string
from this song my heart sings
from the hum despair brings
and play with me a note so sweet.
Lord, your song let me tweet,
its chorus let my heart beat,
and as the bow does its string,
play me the sounds of peace.

there’s an unresolved note inside of me
waiting to reach its end
waiting for the song that comes
waiting at the end of this note
waiting, until I am
drawn into a tease
or so it seems.
there’s this unresolved note inside of me,
waiting for my Lord
as a string its bow.

a daughter’s oríkì

by her mother who waited for her

of my own blood
that flows as the river
Ògùn, knowing and fierce that
Olúmọ’s stones tremble.

Olúwa ta mí l’ọ́rẹ!
and He graced her with a bow
that stretches from ear to ear
and gleams against skin dark as orógbó,
showing a glimpse of His abode.

…re mi mi re mi mi re…
her voice speaks
in the same rhythmic tone of half a scale
and a half word of wisdom
of Ọ̀ṣun, Mọ́remí, Màámí

ọmọ Àdùkẹ́
ọrẹ oníye lórí
tí a rán
láti orílẹ̀ ọ̀run wá.

love is

Ma says love is,
“own your own thing,
each man mind his”;
but let’s go with,

… t’ be loved, love is
touch…, desires, mine
and hers too; and
mind your own thing!

i’ve got rap on my radio

singing, love is
just another word
that rhymes with war
and poor and lost.

but, wait, wait, just wait.

’tis written what love is:
kind and not puffed love is
God come as man love is
streams of His brick red blood

flowing from His nailed hands
and feet for me love is
for you our bond love is
calling you to where love is


ilé là wá nlọ,
ilé, ilé

but do you not wonder,
n’íbo n’ilé wà?”
as all men sing the tune,

ilé là wá nlọ,
  ilé, ilé”,

with suitcases that bear gold coins
and a sofa, a suit and a garage
of metal beings that hum,

ilé là wá nlọ,
  ilé, ilé”,

on the trek to that small country
(the strongest of them!) whose anthem
(and all who live there still sing),

ilé là wá nlọ,
ilé, ilé,

makes you wonder,
n’íbo n’ilé wà?”,
only you must not still the song,

ilé là wá nlọ,
ilé, ilé

her smile

her smile
opens as ivory rose
petals stirring from a doze,
a winter mile. her smile
flutters ’round milk hedges and loose
a flurry of jazzy warmth that moves
my heart to sing a beat and ‘ha!’. smile
on days the sun bears no match and hides
till tomorrow. on nights creasing fears
strain your brow, i hunt for a smile,
as rain falls in glittering tears
running down plush pecan brown
cheeks that long to curl up, and smile.