I was born in Kankan
Before being delivered atop old German trucks
Full of djoula musos and the wares they peddle
Between Guinea, Ivory Coast, Mali, Liberia
To Sierra Leone and
Back to Kankan I came
After the guns knocked on our doors
And the grave diggers lost their shovels
But Guinea is a hard place to call home
When you are young and your French is… comme ci comme ca (more…)

You are not from there
You are not from here
You are from your mom
And from your dad
You are an African-in-America
An African and American
Proudly wear them both
Wherever you go
Knowing home is not a place
Except if that place be a space in your heart

I give you what I have
Not as dogma
But so you would have somewhere to start
Because we all need a place to land
When gravity proves too mighty a foe

With that said… (more…)

It’s the tie that binds
The moth to the flame
The gold plated chains
That would noose you
To the height you seek to climb

It’s the pretty things that would kill you
The familiar faces that would wake you
Up in the middle of the night
Soaking wet in your own sweat
If it turns out to be blood
It’s the lover standing over you
A knife in one hand
A dirty underwear in the other

It’s the pretty things that would kill you
the shinning things you buy
with the flesh you wear
not knowing tattoos will never skin you
The way the womb did (more…)

This is a poem I wrote few years ago trying to find a new way to tell an old story to some college students. I enjoyed it, and thought I should do similar for other people I find worthy of such efforts. But years later, beside this, I have only one other: W.E.B. DuBois. I would like to write one on Bob Marley (among others)…one day.

Every day a man is born
Very so rare
Stars bow, heaven opens it doors
An angel lands on earth
And tries to help
Sons and daughters of Adam and Eve find their way back to Eden

Who shot him?
Somebody shot an angel
Clipped his wings
Peter shot Martin
(more…)

Arabs are not bad
It’s just that terrorists
Wear turban and say Allah
Before blowing themselves up
At checkpoints and crowded
Roadways among Muslims
On their way to offering zakat to the needy
(more…)

This poem is mighty important to me. It says exactly the reason why I write, why I speak, why spoken word. It’s so important for us to be the tellers of our own stories; because only then would they be as authentic as we are. And by we I don’t mean just Black people, I mean all human being. I wholeheatedly believe in autobiographies. And I don’t care much for biographies. This is a powerful poem from a very powerful lady! And the inspiration behind my poem, Autobiography. (more…)

Memories flood like oceans through broken levies
A wise man says
We are more than dolls with broken pieces
Far removed
Never too far gone
We always find our way home

Sweet mother
A no go forget you
For this suffer way you suffer for me yeh
When a de cry, my mother go carry me
She go say, me pekin, watin you de cry yeh yeh
Stop stop, stop stop, stop stop make u no cry again (more…)

I wrote this poem when I was asked to read at a meeting of medical practitioners. (more…)

The very first poem I ever read on stage

Africa, my Africa
Africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs
Africa of whom my grandmother sings
On the banks of the distant river
I have never known you
But your blood flows in my veins
Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields
The blood of your sweat
The sweat of your work
The work of your slavery
Africa, tell me Africa
Is this you, this back that is bent
This back that breaks (more…)