poem

Am I Afrikan?

My passport is green. The glorious green of aloe leaves or trees in late summer.

My skin is freckled. Flickered with flecks of moments spent under this sun.

My heart breaks. A hurting history means I watch flowers grow from stained mud and feel petals fall on graves. (more…)

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a note to the writer going to war

You are going to war, my friend.

No matter how soft your step or tender your touch; no matter how kind your words or hard your helmet – you are marching into the depth and darkness of despair. You are going where the rain is red and wounds are washed by weeping widows. (more…)