By Chioma Odukwe
Late November Magic
I dread less the sunset
It's a time for me to rest
My face now holds some color
The harsh winter didn't take it all away
Apathy is gone before I wake
He left without his kiss
I see the clouds are clearing up
Making way for my rose to bloom again
Things are looking up
The sun is shining a bit brighter
Tears drying up
Shadows slowly fading into a lighter ombre
The plants on my walls are lightly greening
It's like the fall is no longer with us
The rain falls less
It's late November magic within us
Write
Let
thy vile
life be made
beautiful like
a cracked vase filled with
gold. Write it down with the
juice from fall's floral leaves. Paint
thy wall with winter's weary bloom.
Write. Write until you no longer feel
alone. Thy words wrapped around like linen.
I Don’t Remember
Maybe that’s why I don’t feel anything when I look at children.
I don’t remember what it felt like to be a child, to be small,
held,
left
unstained,
pure as clay -
before the mold,
before the fire,
before the food
soiled the plate.
Chioma Odukwe is a poet and public servant from Houston, TX. She currently lives and works in Japan. She actively strives to memorialize the mundane and remarkable events in her life through poetry. She draws her inspiration from the Harlem renaissance specifically from the works of Langston Hughes.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 