Self-Portrait
My face is tempered fire
It promises victory in emotional desertion
The stained teardrop under my eye
Is a kiss from my childhood nuances
That gave me my second name
My scars are my grays
And my grays are my father
A discovery I made during  the first receding tides
My nose tells the story of sugar cane fields
I was not there yet
When Shango slipped through their fingers
But the hairs around my mouth
Come from a Portuguese slave ship
That colored my skin
When it first crossed my forehead
 
The world is full of wonderful faces
If mine doesn’t smile, 
It’s only my mother preparing her day. 

Poetry is Spirit
Poetry is spirit trying to get at something
Like staying up late in the night
Playing tag with sleeplessness 

Poetry is passion rushing in and out of itself
Like the hurried music of Baraka and Shange
Alive and soaring through space and back 

Poetry is pain not having a resting place
You can’t hold it, 
Put it down
Or leave it
Because it’s indefinite
And yet, you create it 

Poetry is dance coming thru
Like Alvin Ailey never died
Just look at how the brothas
Shoot up to the basket! 

Poetry is anger raging through your veins
You can’t hold it, 
Put it down
Or leave it
Because it’s much bigger than you
And yet, you control it 

Poetry is pleading for resurrection
For love to come in
And this time  
Maybe
To stay
Poetry is spirit trying to get at something.