Broken history

Broken history, whether that’s our story, personal and collective..

Once there has been a life shaping interruption that caused us to come off-course, for mere survival, at some point, for mere survival again, we going to need to get back on track and proceed in our stories, nevertheless..

Making them pleasing, healing and restorative. And we don’t give others the pen, as they don’t know our stories, and record them, like we do.

I look forward to the day where in the collective, young minds will be told stories, through the subject of History, that is not broken and loaded with untruths, so they may truly know themselves, in the personal & collective,

and LIVE-

Live their Best Life Experience Possible…and not be twice defeated, in someone else’s personal unhealed collective discriminative narrative.

Peace & Love,


Sweet Alchemy

#livingthelifeimagined #tribevibes#fringedwellers

Greetings One & All. A while ago I created a Secret Facebook Group for Black Men & Women Inspiring Creators…for Dream-makers, for fringe dwellers, for the natural empaths, the sensitives; for those of us with a dream & no positive “cheering sections” in our lives to help hold that Dream, and bring it to fruition. Here is the invite, if you would like to join this Pack, Your Pack, and get the support Inspiration & encouragemnet needed to make dreams a reality, and live your best Life Experience Possible. I am developing this Safe Space slowly but surely…I am a Great Believer that Good & Great things happens organically, intuitively- never forcefully. Email me if you are interested in joining this  Creative Alchemical Space.

Peace & Love,


At This Time..

At This Time, Life Is All

Right. All is as it should Be.

All Jig-saw Pieces to The Puzzle That Is Me

Is Beautifully & Strategically Placed.

I’ll Ride That Wave, even if Only for the rest of today,

As we humans can be quite


Even after Intimately knowing,

Precious Moments As These 😂

Peace & Love,

Light 💛


Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock…

She wakes late, nothing new, once again,

promising to get to bed early tonight.

Then in the bathroom, she looks into

the mirror of more lies and tell herself,

‘definitely today I will treat myself right.’

Breakfast time, she starts to take real good care of herself by,

denying her body the fuel it needs to get its head around

behind the steering wheel of her life.

Then she rationalise by telling herself,

‘I feel just fine, I’m just not an eat first thing in the morning kind of child.’

She arrives subconsciously, deliberately late to a job

working for and with people she secretly despise and claim to hate,

but which nevertheless pays-not, the forever never ending cycles of bills-

and robs her of the will to question and reason,

‘Who am I? Why am I here?’

She continues to love herself so much she decides to skip lunch-

although she back door slide draw in two chunky mars bars

for an instant high; that should keep you still.

At four thirty she wonders why the last hour always slithers by

so desperate she is to leave behind this workplace where she

waste so much of her time.

Now she’s counting down the stations to destination ‘home life,’

after wasting even more time playing, ‘avoiding passengers eyes

whilst hiding behind same old titillating news headlines.’

She arrives home late- seven thirty, a quarter to eight,

after being repossessed by, ‘I’ve been so good to myself today;

haven’t eaten a thing all day’ KFC takeaway-

as well as two more chunky mars bars, two big packet of crisps,

some cigs for a spliff, and a bottle of rose to go with it.

She washes and night-dresses, beginning to prepare herself for her

9’0 clock never-ending date of comfort food eating herself.

She eats, drinks, smokes ‘til she’s physically overspent,

though deep down her spirit still feels ever so under nourished.

Feeling empty and alone, she reach out, make contact, telephone,

calling a friend and in misery like-minded company together

bemoan their condition- though they dress it up in

other people’s Isms and Kisms.

Then in the early hours of the morn,

she falls asleep on sofa, exhausted, forlorn,

as her Soul resumes complete control, and sighs

‘maybe tomorrow she’ll arise and quit

this God forsaken Tick Tock Rat Race Chimes.

‘Then again, better not leave it purely to chance-

that wouldn’t be wise, I will make a visit in her dreams

as he sleeps tonight….

I know exactly which dream I will grace

them with my presence; the One where they arise,

and realise, that the real nightmare is the story of their

unlived waking lives.’

October 2003

Peace & Love,


On Children…©


Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.


Peace & Love,




A Cry for the little black boy ©

Who Will Cry for the Little Boy

– by Antwone Fisher

Who will cry for the little boy?
Lost and all alone.
Who will cry for the little boy?
Abandoned without his own?

Who will cry for the little boy?
He cried himself to sleep.
Who will cry for the little boy?
He never had for keeps.

Who will cry for the little boy?
He walked the burning sand
Who will cry for the little boy?
The boy inside the man.

Who will cry for the little boy?
Who knows well hurt and pain
Who will cry for the little boy?
He died again and again.

Who will cry for the little boy?
A good boy he tried to be
Who will cry for the little boy?
Who cries inside of me.

This blog is on the tragedy and senselessness of black on black crime and our youths dying before their time. This poem came to mind after reading the Evening News on Quamarie Barnes’ story, and about the boy who killed him-the latter though the perpetrator, a victim of this deep-rooted malady in the black community and inner cities.

The poem ‘Who will Cry For The Little Boy’ was written by Antwone Fisher, whose life story book ‘Finding Fish’ was made into a film directed by and starring Denzel Washington. A life marred by deprivation, child physical, sexual and emotional abuse, Antwone Fisher did not allow those enormous psychological injuries to fully determine his life’s Journey. Though, in my opinion, those scars leave a certain legacy and one has to almost daily turn that wound into wonder and life purpose alchemy.

I think this is a poignant poem for our wounded youths at this time-those who go on to hurt through their hurt, and those who are able to turn hurt into healing, hope and difference making. I will cry for the little boy; I do cry for the little boy, and the little girl, all around the world, living in the absence of a loving and protective childhood. I cry for them all, and for those little children inside grown people.

I was one of those inner city children. I was one of those lost children inside a grown woman. And it was my crying for myself that brought me the healing I both needed and deserved. An outpouring that ensured that, though I had little control over how my life began, I got to decide, from that point on, how it would go on, to the very end.

P.s. And Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”

Rest In Eternal Sweet Peace Quamarie Barnes, and may the Comforting Peace of the Lord that surpasses all understanding find its way into your parents, loved ones and friends’ hearts.

Peace and Love,