Category Archives: Creative

#6 ~ Let the Rain Wash Over You

Her crown of purple and gold was drenched by the intermittent tears that fell, like rapid fire, from the tempestuous faces of a fatigued crowd of underfed and overworked clouds. They grumbled their discontent each time a proposition to suspend their lethargic tantrum was presented. And so the tears fell, pooling along bitumen lined roads, washing them slick with the image of sweat, a covering that turned them from trusted friends to slimy paths that shimmered belligerently under drug induced headlights. I watched their shallow tears fall, washing over the hushed night like a damp blanket that brought no comfort but the anxiety of further ill. I thought of their cries, hollowing out the heavens with each unexpected shower, bursting over the huddled figures gracelessly, carelessly.

And I thought of how each cry was mimicked, behind concrete and wood lined walls, in the cracks of brick and ageing mortar. I heard the disaffected chorus welling up, swelling over doorposts and under window frames, trailing round fences and gates. A moaning, wailing, mournful chorus that shook tears onto carpets, and scrunched screams up in shredded sheets of paper.

I thought about how the rain was meant to wash things away, how it was supposed to beckon in new dawns lined with fresh sprays of freedom and hope. How it was meant to cover the evil that had erupted from the clods of earth and manure we built our foundations upon.

But that night, the rain was not a blanket of peace, it was not the amniotic sac that preserved what was good in this world, holding it gently until dry land was found upon which life, crowned by a white dove, could be re-born.

That night, the rain washed over a scar wrenched city, each drop a nail hammering into already broken minds, the cries of the clouds only swelling that grey matter, their rumblings covering the pitiful moans with a forecast of tempestuous weather.

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Grandmother’s Hands

For Colored Girls London was a wonderful success and if you really want to know all the stories that surrounded its conception, production and performance just do a google search and you’ll find it all there ( can you believe, we can now be googled, so much for anonymity!). It’s been nigh on 6 months since I last posted, which means FAR too much has happened and it’d be awful for me to attempt to explain and write and describe and muse in retrospect. Moreover, where I once was able to write as a musing voice with no intended audience, since i’ve begun publishing my poetry and therefore having to put a name to my work, I now know I have (may have) an audience and moreover they know me – which changes the game entirely. However, for those who still once in a while pass through this former haven of my thoughts, I have a surprise in store for you in the New Year! (only a few days to go, stay excited).

In the meantime, one (amongst many wonderful things) that happened to me in November is I did a TEDx talk. Below is the link. I won’t say any more but do give it a watch, a listen, and if it touches you in a positive or challenging way, do share.

Wishing you seasons greetings. Till 2014

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#356 ~ Nocturnal Harvest

I had convinced myself that sunlight was a stimulant, so i slept with curtains open, allowing dawn to break against my face – but my eyelids never fluttered.

I had argued to myself that my aural cognition was highly acute, so the speakers remained orange, the playlist on loop, but my eyes failed to flutter.

I had promised that conversation stirred my cells, so I left the battery in and asked for you to call, yet my tongue lay heavy on the roof of my oral floor, and my eyelids barely fluttered.

So I consigned myself to sleep, knowing that if I only sow what I reap, I would forever have a harvest of dreams.

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#355 ~ I thought you was Grown

I thought the numerical value one attached to a name and a birth certificate naively equated to an internal growth. Yet men are still young boys desperately crying out to their own search and rescue party that is lost in the confusion of  ‘maturity.’ And as you spoke I could see in the shyness of your smile and the confidence of your approach a little boy, so young, fragile and tragically innocent, with wide brown eyes looking desperately, scaredly, for a sign. So young and so vulnerable, yet cloaked in a broken voice.

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#353 ~ Silent Gestures Elide My Weapon

You won’t know what I’m capable of until I’ve done it … so I do more and speak less

What is it?

It’s not about whether or not you know if i’m capable…

I spent so long as a child, thighs pressed firmly into the concrete ground, as tiny stones mimicking granite and quartz rose impressed themselves upon my tender

flesh, embedding grooves and disfigured tattoos against the supple tone of my impressionable

skin, and i squinted with lash shaded eyes at the silver disc that hung in the pale blue primary school

sky, dreaming about what I could be

Because it never was who.

I wondered what I could be and whether it would entertain the category of worth that we all seem to perceive, subconsciously aware of the innate deceit that plagues that concept of maturity and with it success, excess –

For speech is an action.

Once again you elide my weapon, specifically chosen, bestowed upon me as a precious sword engraved with golden gilt, bejewelled by the dexterity of a tongue and the intellect of a wit that has surpassed the bondage of chains

that strip one’s mind like a flayed hide of any

power to control this spiralling world concerned and fuelled by the need to attain each individuals selfish desire…

Yet when I speak i declare the power of a word to transform and transfer, my action I bind within my speech as with the sound of my voice I am relentlessly setting the captives free, proclaiming victory and instituting justice. As I flash my teeth I shine down

beauty and a fierce hope – you only wish you could cope with the unbound sounds of my voice as I break your silent action and in the process I don’t bring it but give it life.

What did you say?

I spoke right? You won’t know what i’m capable of until i’ve done it – but if I remain silent you’ll never look to see the gestures that are lost in the blanket of an omnipresent silence

Besides, as I sat staring at that primary school sun, buttocks pressed into the concrete ground cemented for activities that would be ‘fun’, i knew that it didn’t matter if you knew what I was capable of – in my mind i’d already done the action, right now i’m just illustrating the person.

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#351 ~ Miscellaneous.2: I Had Forgotten

(Written during my month-long absence – during a slightly sentimental time it seems)

I had forgotten how beautiful I was. I had forgotten how joyful my life was, how my smile was a mega-watt lightbulb that lit up rooms, how my voice, when it stopped contorting and trying to be an acrobat, was so rich, beautiful, soft and tender, that it had a laugh that slipped through like a river.

I had forgotten how my greatest desire was to be in a band and to sing, and let my heart float through the notes and touch you. How I wanted it to escape my chest and burn in the atmosphere, my voice as a song, the song as my heart, my heart as a voice that sings straight into the dark and brings the filaments of the mega-watt bulb out, divides the parts and still shines.

My goodness, I had forgotten how incredible I was. I had let somebody walk off with my stuff and he didn’t know he had it because I didn’t tell him I had placed my soul in a plastic bag and sent it to him in a Facebook message – how foolish. To look without glasses at my picture and forget – who I was.

I had forgotten how powerful I was, how stunning, how I was changing the world by just being. I had forgotten that I was a joy bringer of power, that I had a desire and I could run and sing and shout and change the world

I had forgotten ME in that plastic bag and it came back in a song by people who chanted Freedom and I had Forgotten

I had forgotten

My God I had forgotten how Incredible IAM



I had


I didn’t need idols

I needed you

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#340 ~ Experiencing 20

I’m turning 20

I’ve had a lot of experiences, but none of them experiences

You know the one’s I mean. With a capital E placed in italics, they mean something deep, something intimate

You’re expected to have experienced the Experience – but i never have, had,

I didn’t sniff the talcum, I know they called it glue, but lets be honest, it was far stronger than they really knew

I never swigged the whisky or the ‘lemonade’ spiked through and through with vodka disguised as Powerade

I never brushed lips or had a passionate kiss

and I’m starting to feel dried up and withered about all this.  It chews at my brain and spits the grey matter out regurgitating onto my face drawing everything out:

the pity, the tension, the confusion and the desire for a smooth intervention.

If i’m honest i have no regrets

Piaf was right i’m at peace with this experience that is under experienced

Yet…the insecurities still rear their heads and make me desperate with wonkey eyes to stare the plague in the face and contort my voice.

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