Their Poems

IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS

When we’re feeling the pain of someone’s death
and looking for something to help restore us…
May we be blessed to remember 
we’re always walking
In the footsteps 
of those how came before us.

Your Actions, Their Scars

Don't play the victim, don't wear the frown
You're the one causing harm, spinning others down
Bullying, harassing, spreading fear and pain
You're the problem, not the one to claim
Don't shift the blame, don't point the finger high
You're the one acting out, passing by
Think before you speak, think before you act
Your words and actions leave a lasting fact
You're

Our Mothers Gave Us Their Names

That quiet-ness,
middle of the night,
insomniac,
sleep as it gets bright
toss turn sides & back....
drift to afternoon wake,
stomach rumbles,
to an oven that bakes,
and is humbling.
The fall is a mind's wrap
of how the co-existence
leaves us in scrambles,
Our mother gave us our names,
and euphoria is always the blame.
Scrambling in dirt and even worse,
Limo carries another hearse

Geese with Moon on their Wings

geese fly in crystal blue skies. 
they move in V shape,
soaring and gliding through air
along the moonscape.
with wind under wings,
they seem lunar rays in flight.
their loud honking rings.

Geese With Moon On Their Wings

Contest of Nette Onclaud
Favorite Things
Written August 17, 2025



When moonlight finally dims
I watch old geese fly -
First daybreak of autumn twirls
As  laughter runs by.
New morning---indeed
Wraps me in hushed embrace
A blessing I need!

Geese with Moon on Their Wings

Beneath waxing gibbous moon
like a river's flow
geese go gliding gracefully -
on their backs a glow.
As Luna shines on,
their winging is poetry
soaring into dawn.

Geese with Moon on Their Wings

A tired man surveys his field
in the morning, still.
Honking alerts his senses, 
giving him a thrill.
Can you believe these...
wild geese...with moon on their wings
dropped him to his knees?

GEESE WITH MOON ON THEIR WINGS-Wings of Farewell

GEESE WITH MOON ON THEIR WINGS 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
gentle autumn breeze murmurs
summer’s farewell song
geese with moonlight on their wings
in flight and headstrong
across stellar sky
their honks a gentle refrain
never asking why

STEADILY THINKING ABOUT THIS

Women will say it's men
Men will say it's women
They all throwing 
Shades at each other 
Defending their gender 
Tendering different agenda.

Women will leave their man
Because he cheated 
Then go to another man
Who's cheating on his woman 
What a irony... Circle keeps repeating 

Men will be telling several girls 
Same thing but different feelings 
Feelings depend

A Poet Has No Life Of Their Own

A Poet has no
life of their own
They are obsessed,
possessed by the Word- - - - -
Must follow their
Muse to wherever
it takes them
They can't become
involved with
Worldly endeavors
They are always on call
Keep their emotions
calm, in check
Have a sharp focus
as to what they're doing
Must maintain poise
and a clear head
Poetry is their passion
It keeps them 
nourished and well fed
with

Reflection in Their Eyes

Being great is in my destiny, they say.
I have a hidden talent, they say.
Am I blind or is the world buried under sand?
Hidden and being expected to thrive is like sipping air or dust for soul.
Is it just me or is it all of us?
They expect the unexpected but when things go south,
You're left to

In Their Shadow

As good
as they got
Clapton
Allman and Page
Their music
still borrowed
the Delta
on stage

Technique
in the offing
devoid
of the pain
As juke joints
and crop shares
sing out
— in refrain

(The New Room: August, 2025)

It Sounded Like You Were Trying To Evict The Words From Their Home On Your Tongue

I have been watering it for months—
the small black bulb in the cupboard
that I never let touch sunlight.
It swelled in the dark,
fed on steam from my cooking breath,
fat with the whispers I never spoke aloud.

I told myself it was only a seed,
a pebble in soil, nothing more.
I would open the door,
look at it once, and

Drowning in a sea of their hate

Expectations
No rest
No time to breathe
A weight on your chest 
Nothing less than excellence 
Even that's not enough
A world that tells black people
That even if you follow the rules
You are still not good enough
Because as long as your black
They will always have the last laugh
In a world that preaches equality 
It sure is a hypocrite 

From

I hear their whispers

who is to say who is the more psychic
the one who is clairaudient and hears ghosts
or the one who is clairvoyant and sees them?

they are not hidden in shadows like others think
those of us who retained our childhood seeing know this
my girlfriend spies them in blips and slivers at corner of her eyes

I hear their

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