For Melissa Hasbrook

It was a simple way we met, Melissa and myself. It was a poetry gig in Wigan. We both performed and somehow, someone introduced us and we started talking and I invited her to come stay at my flat and she accepted. I remember apologising profusely about the dingyness of the flat and she graciously told me it was a good flat.

She told me about her life and I shared mine and she told me of her history and I told her of mine and we chatted late into the night and the next day. I was sad to see her go, this new friend of mine. Imagine! A child of American Indian descent and I a mixed hesistant child of Dahomey and Yoruba origin. Light and dark, smooth and dred, and it didn't matter , for when we spoke, we were children of a common note-earth.

So the bond was forged and she inspired me with her pictures and my poetry of them and she wrote constantly to praise my faltering voice, reassuring me that I had something to say and ears listened. And I confirmed her of a soft bed and lighted heart whenever she came. And as the father watched from the castletop for his son, so I watched for her return.

She returned some months ago and light filled my room but the darkness of my pain formed a shadow which muted my joy, however, she used her light to pierce a hole through and left. Encouraging me to tear further and step back into the light I once danced in. Slowly, I listened for the drumbeat and gingerly lifted my feet, arched to descend in dance. I am dancing now, arms akimbo, head roll-tating in time with the percussion gong, feet laughing along with the gongo as rhythmn slithers up and down my back arching it with esctasy.

Melissa, sister in light, here is this for you.


For Melissa




With a harsh toll, I was awakened

to a new journey removing from self-pity.

Your parcel placed in my hand received with

false cheer from the postman.

Puzzled. I sat on my bed, smiling at memory

wondering what you laid beneath.

Bubblewrap. My childish piqued, till I opened

my epiphany.

Frien. I cried when I saw the prints of life

briefly shared to my excitement.

Realising how much I missed; a heart

who loves, receives me without judgement

I felt ashamed and cried some more.

Salt, tobacco, sage, (juniper?)

You brought healing in a bowl

I let it sit on my table; afraid of what

I did not know.

I confess, I let fear dictate my departure

from Mother Earth, letting her sit,

forlorn, in a blue bowl. Till,

you left and I, apologetic, asked her

forgiveness as I threw your gift on her face.

Friend. Sister. Dear friend.

Forgive my apprehension; I am

a creature of bad habits.

Skin conditioned to prickle at things unknown.

You, a constant voice of praise of my

episodic verse; my inspiration

by Platt’s grave; a visit of different cultures

in a bedsit diverged of prejudice; a light

inviting flickers of hesitation into a

secure knowledge.

I am born again. Tears washing

away the pities of a new age. Lights

like yours confirming again.

God is Love.