Skip to main content

Ashes for Gold Dust

Why does it have to get bad before it gets good?
When it’s bad what’s the guarantee it shall be well,
When we toil and struggle in our personal hell,
Why does it look like there’s no end in sight?

Why aren’t we all born with a golden spoon,
Have our lives served to us on a silver platter,
Sip on champagne and caviar all day long,
When we get served our daily bread, why no butter?

Why does a Phoenix have to rise from ashes?
Why not in all its glory rise from gold dust,
For a creature of such majestic beauty,
Surely, a grand entrance should be a must.

But one of  my mentors, he said;

“It is the law of nature,
Fruits have to rot before seed
Can be served to the earth for growth,
A mother has to labor before birth”

So when I struggle up these steep hills and life lashes,
When the sweat on my brow mingles with all the dust,
When all that is good around me is but a pile of ashes,
I'll tell myself, at the top, I’ll exchange it for gold dust.

*****May 18, 2012*****

Thank you Kodjo for those inspiring words this morning

Popular posts from this blog

Executioner's Business

I have not come here
To put back together
The Guinea fowl egg
That was broken on Her Majesty's sandals.

I am an Executioner.
The why and the how matters not,
It's the Who.

Those who in malice
Destroy good food in fits of pettiness
Then turn to mock the distended bellies
Of hungry children
Shall know no peace.

But today,
It is not scoffing egg breakers that vex me.

It is,
Those who in silence watched
While the dirty deed was done,
Unconcerned about hungry mouths,
Then proceeded to,
on the miscreants
behalf, plead for mercy,
It is they who stir my bile.

So may I not be blamed
When in swinging my blade
I, accidentally, chop off the heads
Of wailers who stand too close to the guilty.

The Executioner's job is urgent business
I have no time for the niceties
Of giving, those who loiter, final warnings.

***** August 3, 2016*****

Bedtime Epiphany of a Pining Heart

I contemplated
On things that were and were not,
On why
Light retracts different, in your eyes,
Like rainbows randomly ricocheting
Off my intangible thoughts,

On why,
Words sound different, on your lips,
How you laugh,
How the sounds take a path,
Across infinite dreams,
Into all my incarnations,
Into all my iterations,
Into all...

I concluded
You are a figment
of my imagination,
You must be...

God is not so cruel
That he made a Heaven like you
Then condemned me
To the Hell of perpetual longing
Wanting, and never belonging...

*****September 14, 2016*****

God is My Barber

The sickness that made the Vulture bald
would have killed the Crow.

It is because
the gods are petty
and would not be questioned
about who they show favor to,
That Crows live to,
Squawk hysterically
At Vultures' misfortune.

We have come to understand, that,
when a petty god is your barber,
Crows, who can't afford a razor,
with their benevolent destinies,
will punctuate our precious peace
with their shameless snickering.

the Vulture
pays any mind
wages a war of words
with mockers and scoffers;
for the cure for baldness
is not found in the laughter of Crows...

*****April 4, 2017*****
My Second poem about Vultures. I really need to stop this...😂😂😂