Words of Hope and Encouragement

These poems I wrote when I felt courageous and able to take on Goliath. Enjoy

  1. In This Skin
  2. Ode To My Alma Mater
  3. Overdue
  4. Finding Hope
  5. A Baby

In This Skin

Beautiful in this skin,
Cracked and scaly,
Head shorn and jewel-less,
I am beautiful,
In this skin.
Wobbly walk on spindly legs,
Coarse brogue with slight lisp,
Pigeon toed when spoken to,
I am beautiful,
In this skin.
Slightly thick with a little roll,
Lofty bosom with a barely there jiggle,
I am beautiful,
In this skin.
Gap-toothed smile with freckled cheeks,
I am beautiful, my friend,
In this dark and lovely skin of mine.

Ode To My Alma Mater.

There she stands
Loath to hold privy
The beauty and awe
Of her wonderful soldiers.
Tirelessly, she rows
In tandem with students,
While beaming with pride
Upon her brilliant teachers.
One to keep forging
Amidst loads of strife,
She ne’er caved in
When the road was rough.
Nay, she stood firm
As if determined to hold
Steady and strong
To her lime-covered secrets.
Stretching forth weary arms
With scars from the past,
She wears her wounds
With plucky humility.
Her crown of ivy
Signals a conqueror indeed.
Lincoln, my champion
You are home to literary giants.

Overdue.

It was once said by the great Langston Hughes
That a dream deferred may shrivel and fester.
Do dreams postponed mean dreams denied?
Like the spores and the raisin, they shrivel and hide.
Despite their sorrow of brief denied being,
In fertile ground, they live again. Rising
Like the phoenix that rose to be anew.
Pure and untainted, from the morning’s dew,
These dreams fester with gusto and verve,
Stronger than ever and the will to serve.
Sensing the advent of a new lease on life,
They linger and wait out the days of strife.

Finding Hope.

She gets her final grades
And turns gray with different shades.
She has made the D list
And she missed the Dean’s list.
She checks the daily mail
And awaits the dreaded email.
Her baby on the way
Is now in her way.
Her fears for her mounting bills
Pervade her thoughts at will.
The worry wrinkles stick out,
An emblem of her daily bout.
Her lover and kin have gone a-vanishing
In denial of their own’s painful anguishing.
Her heart and soul are suffused with dread,
Tired of the text and not being heard.
She is trapped in a maze of her own hand,
Cursing the elements and the day at hand.
Little does she know her mind could be eased.
All the worry and fear of tomorrow ceased.
The voice of the One rings shrill in her mind
“Bring your worry-laden yoke, you know I don’t mind.”
And like the melodies of the lute,
His soothing Words reach in and elute.
Washing and cleansing the hurts of the past
Readily removing the pain and hurt at last.
Finally, she finds a warm cove to hide.
Safe and secure from the vagaries outside.

A Baby.

Warm and still in this cocoon of mine,
My little heart beats to my mother’s in time.
Through filmed eyes, I see my little limbs
Gently exploring this little niche of mine.
I want to live; I want to feel;
I want to grow and explore the world at will.
But still she balks and my life in the balance.
She can’t bear to bear this creature of chance.
Can’t say I blame her, I’m not about to suffer.
She lives in her hood with no one to buffer,
Protect or prevent her child from dangers perceived
Or hurts and taunts due a child ill conceived.
Broken and beaten in an alley of darkness,
Ignored and despised for seemingly being careless,
Her virgin eyes are opened to the unpleasant night.
Her innocence aborted even before it sees the light.
Her pockets of her heart are bitter and empty.
Like the yawning abyss of the great Atlantic.
Devoid of love from all angles of her world,
Her heart blushes black, stained and soiled.
She knows her sufferings are not for nothing
And thus she keeps her hopes amidst her mourning.
She has a second chance and surely, death is not relieving.
She’s keeping her baby and doing the right thing.