Find and share the perfect poems.
Sometimes, the wandering child is a broken, old woman
who has been
wandering
for thirty years.
Wandering, winding, looking for the lost places
of her childhood.
She goes home and finds only debris.
Broken pieces of relics,
old, bent places
of ruggedness, the haggard remains of lost youth
after plunderers for booties of war
faded into dust
or the city faded into the past.
Used with the permission of the author.
Sometimes, I hear my house speaking
to me in small bangs, a crack here,
a crack there, sixteen years,
the stairs have got steeper, longer,
higher, or my knees have
given in to my years that were
splintered along these looming hills.
We arrived in the windy city thirty minutes ago,
two hours delayed.
No apologies.
Many passengers are missing their connections,
but I opted in for a seven-hour layover
to enjoy the midwestern feel, after all.
On winning my first major literary award after 25 years of writing Africa
if you want to win awards.
Poems about Africa’s burning buildings, corpses
of dead children. Wars. Mutilated bodies, heads, arms,
in every which direction,