The Missing Piece

Suddenly reemerged
A forgotten Place
Eyes still watching,
Crushed with pity
Abode la seesaws
No one could really understand
The mood of these children
Confronts in fears even in their dreams
Worries encroaches
Their little spaces
There was no longer
A day without chaos
Dearest motherland
In yet another springs
I will remember your struggles
Clasped in my memory
Bookmarked for resurgences
A place of last and failing hopes
Filled with disillusion
Leaders look so disgruntled
A place where
Chaos has finally found a
Perfect residual
Where things are never what it seems
Humans are still laboring in vain
Where the gloating few reap other people’s labor
A place so exhausted with confusion
Greedily and grimy with
And disgruntled humans
With necks built in their own
Perfectly -built gears
A place that claimed to have everything
Knows it all, if not everything,
A place where pride takes over humanity
A place where memos, are tactfully concealed
Yet you can fetch it from afar
A place where I was born’
A place where little lads are rerouted
From place to place
Slaughtered in batches
By the powerful few
A place where their rulers should be
Sadly remembered, orchestrated
Leave them ashamed to even compete
In the face of the universe
When you have publicly failed your innocent ones
What else does your joy give us?
It left us worried
That we are
Fully doomed
A place so
Hopelessly forgotten

Where humanity fail to exist
A place I knew not
Too long ago
A placed that has failed countless
Including those that served religiously
Yet died like a
Rat in a forgotten sea pans.



My Tribute To National Poetry Month

As a young girl growing up without my mother, one of the things that helped me through it all was my love for poetry and my God. It started back from home, where all I had left was hope  and my abilities to succeed as a young girl growing up in midst of chaos. There was so much confusion, especially when there had been too many peoples’ input. In my life, I had to move from one house to another; as someone who had many uncles, each house was different, then each lesson learned from each house was different too. So oftentimes, there was confusion in remembering all the rules from all these different houses. But my pain was far from  being over, pain from not knowing what would happen, it became more painful when I was looking for closure. That’s how I got involved with poetry.

For me, poetry has soul, it has rhythm, and for the most part, it is very consoling. As years have gone by, I have continued to invest in poetry. Why? Because it is very easy to shed tears of joy or sadness.

Recently during National Poetry Month, oftentimes there is a confusion about poetry which to me should not be. I think suffering sometimes leads  someone to obtaining wisdom that other people may not understand. In life, it easy to talk about what you know than when somebody else explains it to you. Also, as humans, we can only explain what we can to people but know that we can never get it right. We cannot have it both ways. We will be judged by it, especially with our honest intentions.

I know some people will be questioning  my love for religion when I can still lament on the pains I went through with my own writing. If you ever lived in my world, it would probably make more sense; it is real and almost cost me a lot. I have never had a dificult life as a child, but I have seen people go through so much.

How I escaped suffering was that I always sought advice from people that are more knowledgeable than myself. I always seek protection too from God. I may not be preaching the Gospel here, but I am a very religious person. But anyway, this is the best advice I thought I had cherished throughout this month of poetry. Advice to  Young Poets, even for people like me who are trying to publish their poetry, try to be hilarious. Have a sense of humor about it.

I Blog Because Poetry Cannot Be Serious.


Advice to a Young Poet

  by Carl Phillips – See more at:

Postcard: Advice to a Young Poet





by Cynthia Cruz

Listen only to the small voice.


© 2013, Academy of American Poets. All Rights Reserved.

Daily Prompt: Free Verse Poem Shadow

Prompt: Unleash Your Inner Dickinson

Walking over my shadow, I am dreaded with my reflections.

The glance at a closer range makes it bearable to watch.

I saw in a shadow, peace within.

A love so amazing,

A wondrous love,

A shadow where my reflection rains supreme.

In total sublimation,

Lofty in thoughts,

Protecting me from my own fear

Thoughts that cause me to tangle up and disappear.

You gave me the ability to carry on.

You liberate me from the rushing rivers.

Even in the strangest of all places.

Even when I stumbled over,

Of a concrete, in a mist of chaos.

I long for a peaceful river,

Quiet river.

Where the real shadow will reign supreme.

Where I will not be judged no more.

Where is my shadow, my beloved instincts?

Save me from my own nightmares.

Let me be strong for the work I have unfinished.

POEM: Young At Hearts

 If there is a way to go back and be 16 again

It will be so easy, won`t it, no ill feelings I suppose

At least we have all the things to share, things to say

Love flies at 16; it stops and fully develops at 18

By eighteen your heart must have tasted pain

Ironically the pain will continue if they allowed it

Remember you are a flower

By 22 you must have seen it all

Whether is pain from the entire unknown, for knowing and all of the above?

How could you not see the danger looming,

I guess nobody even warn you of an imminent danger.

Love is real if you believe it, it is wrong if you fall from the opposite side

It is soothing if you wait for the real deal

Yet remember you are the hope

Don’t let anybody just tell you otherwise

Be wise, be sensible, be kind and listen to your elders,

They have passed through those rough ages; it hurts if you think you know

Take your time; watch out for storytellers, less you hear all they want you to hear

I promised that they have only words less action

Why because they are just experimenting like all of us

At last you will end up like most of us did.

Went home broken

I wish I can go back and play my own music, the way I want it, and how I want it played out in real life.

Why because reality demands us.

Creative Mind

Creative mind

In a deep blue cottage

buried his mind on things never  been discovered

Waited patiently, glaring lonely at murky lanes

Create perfect words for those that will eventually find love

Thou softens dangers with a smooth rhetoric

An invisible creature, yet physically present

Thou sees beyond our imaginations

He often goes to places that other minds cannot go

See clouds in a deep blue ocean

Lift sand from a surging river

Wonder alone in the mist of fogs

Worried that he may not make it alive to tell his ordeals

Creator of words, imagination of likeness

concerned about his endless love for dangers

Calling All Pocketeers!

Calling All Pocketeers!
Tomorrow is Poem in Your Pocket Day. At this year’s annual event, millions of people throughout the United States will carry poems in their pockets and share them with others. Make sure you’re ready!

1) Pick your poem

Find the perfect pocket poem for tomorrow’s celebration by exploring the collection of downloadable poem PDFs on

2) Encourage friends to participate

Help your friends find their own pocket poems and share your experiences from past Pocket Days. On Twitter, help spread the word about Pocket Day by using the hashtag #pocketpoem.

3) Discover Pocket Day events from coast to coast


The National Poetry Calendar on has listings of Pocket Day events from California to North Carolina.

Get inspired!

Here are some examples of creative ways to celebrate Poem in Your Pocket Day from participants throughout the United States.

Each year on Poem in Your Pocket Day, the town of Charlottesville, VA unites in a day-long celebration of poetry spear-headed by Jefferson-Madison Regional Library.

Abrams Publishing Offices, NYC
Shoppers at Mrs. Dalloway’s Literary & Garden Arts Bookstore in Berkeley, CA can pick up pocket poems by Bay Area poets.
At ABRAMS Publishing in New York City, staff have plastered poems throughout their offices. 
Falcon Heights Elementary School students
Businesses in Ferndale, WA, such as McKay’s Variety, Good Burger, Barb’s Pies and Pastries, Find Your Fashion, Kula Yoga, and Gentle Acupuncture will offer a discount to shoppers that share pocket poems.
Students at an elementary school in Falcon Heights, MN have celebrated by making their own poem-filled pockets, writing poems in chalk outside the school, and posting hidden poems.
April 17, 2013
From our Sponsors:

Special thanks to
the partners and sponsors who make National Poetry Month possible:
American Booksellers
American Library Association

National Council of Teachers of English
National Endowment 
for the Arts
Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about our other programs, including the annual Poets Forum, visit Poem in Your Pocket video courtesy of Wendy Saz, Jefferson-Madison Regional Library, and Poem in Your Pocket student photo © by Nan Knutsen, Falcon Heights Elementary School.
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Ode To Who I Am

I know who I am.

I grew up in a small town in Africa,

a town filled with heat and a cool breeze at the same time to say the least,

a town where little boys hunt with catapults.

With smiling faces even when there was no hope,

a town where everyone had the same slate to write instead of using blackboards,

a town where children will carelessly drop their slate only to be returned to them by  just a passerby.

how many of them  even realized they were not writing properly.

I know who I am.

A girl who thinks too much, worries too much about others,

spent many days crying for all the kids who had lost their mothers at young ages,

because I was one of them.

To them I say, “There is always hope.”

To them I will always say to them, “There is refuge.”

To them I will encourage them to dream big,  not settle.

To them I will tell them  not to hear all the wrong voices. “Hear the good ones!”

I know who I am.

A girl heartbroken at the age of 2o years,

innocently waiting for love that came late.

It was so late, yet it did not spare me from pain.

Bringing me to question, what about it?

Part of what I have dealt with all my life,

I know who I am.

A girl that has nothing wrong to say to anyone,

a girl very conscious of the thin air in the sky,

a girl who can whisper hope to a dying kid,

a girl whose only hope was to write, write, and write.

A girl with so much to say, so much to share so much to learn,

A girl who is scared that Africa as a whole will never experience freedom as far as they continue to have selfish leaders.

Where is the hope, where is life, where is leverage?

A girl that has been given so much and much is expected from .

I hope all of you can make my dream come through.

I am a writer; I have mechanisms to quench pain. I am alert.

I love where I am now. It would have been different if I was still oversees.

Probably I would have been dead by now without saying all I have to say.

They always say to me, “Never bite the fingers that fed you,”

but I cannot help it than to lament about who I really am.


In honor of a poet who had even more questions than we all do. I am posting part of a poem of someone that I admire greatly.

Ironically she came from Poland the Love capital city of the world

How could she have doubted True love?

Wistawa Szymborska was born in 1923 in Poland, where

She lives today. She has worked as a poetry editor, a columnist,

And a  translator. In 1996, she was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature

Excerpt from Poems New and Collected (1996, p. 140-141).

True love. Is it normal,

Is it serious, is it practical?

What does the world get from two people?

Who exist in a world of their own?

Placed on the same pedestal for no good reason,

drawn randomly from millions, but convinced

it had to happen this way–in reward for what? For  nothing.

The light descends from nowhere.

Why on these two and not on others?

Doesn’t this  outrage justice? Yes it does.

Doesn’t it disrupt our painstakingly erected principles,

and cast the moral from the peak? Yes on both accounts.

Look at the happy couple.

Couldn’t they at least try to hide it.

fake a little depression for their friends’ sake!

Listen to them laughing- it`s an insult.

The language they use–deceptively clear.

And their little celebrations, rituals,

the elaborate mutual routines–

It`s obviously a plot behind the human race`s back!

It`s hard even to guess how far things might go

If people start to follow their example,

What could religion and poetry count on?

What would be remembered? What renounced?

Who`d want to stay within bounds?

True Love, Is it really necessary?

Tact and common sense tell us to pass over it in silence,

like a scandal in Life`s highest circles.

Perfectly good children are born without its help.

It couldn’t populate the planet in a million years,

It comes along so rarely,

Let the people who never find true love

keep saying that there`s no such thing,

Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.


Poem About Perfection: Reflection

Perfection: Reflection

Is it easy to be perfect? I doubt it.

It is even easier to show perfectionism in all we do, and all the things that come our way.

Every time I turn around, something is always perfect.

Flying above my head, even without prior notice

To be perfect, is it a norm? A way of thinking, and a way of living, or all of the above?

To be perfect is not reality because no one is.

I saw one cute puppy bouncing up and down; in my first thought, ”Oh! How perfect she is,”

I looked down to see the owner chasing the puppy and telling her how stubborn she is becoming really.

I just wondered if it was all in my head.

I saw my perfect friend, in a perfect island, looking up in a perfect tree.

She was even worried that everything was so perfect that she began to run.

“Life should not be this perfect,” she cried, “You mean to tell me that this is normal?” she asked.

She came home to see all her clothes on the floor, her shoes scattered all around.

She then look around and said to herself, “Here we go again!”

Back to the reality where she realized that she has been on a dream binge,

“But I can see why people still clamor for perfection,” she laughed.

Yet everything relating to perfection is up in the air and never comes down.

Everything about perfection is based on assumption, manipulation, and jurisdiction; you name it.

Hang on my friend; try not to live your life thinking you are perfect because it must be from your head.

We can predict right now, that even tomorrow, in years to come; no one can attain perfection.

This is not a consolation, but consolatory.

Personal Commentary:

People do that to please their ego; also, we live in a world where people are not allowed to make mistakes anymore.

We also find it interesting to ridicule ourselves when we are not moving as expected, but there are three things that come to mind when we worry so much about perfection:

1. Doubt is one of the greatest instruments for failure. We often questioned why there is so much doubt in our lives. But doubt is one of the reasons why we cannot be perfect. Even when people are complimenting us, we doubt their intention. We doubt our own  abilities to become great at what we do , and fall norm to the idea that we are not perfect and lean on it for as long as it will go.

2. Over analyzing  is evidently part of the reason we cannot be perfect because we regularly analyze everything. From big to smaller things, we give them overdue analysis, creating a lot of confusion and doubt.

3  Having  too high expectations when we are allowed to live on high expectations come  challenges where everything in life is almost faced with challenges. With high expectations comes  too much approval. After approval, we fall back to reflect on what just happened.

Five Things We All Love About Poetry

As people grow up, they find different things that appeal to them. It can be money; it can be relationships; it can be cars; it can be Philosophy;  it can be science, or if you are one of us, you must have grown up loving poetry and all it stands for—whatever happens to be what we love in our lives.

1. Poetry, literary work in the form of poems, like most things, has words:

The words can be sad; it can be soothing; it can be happy; it can be angry; it can create confusion in a twinkle of an eye, it can question nature with no answer, but most importantly, it can create hope unequivocally, but if you like smaller words like me, it is undeniably good. That means good things can come from poetry.

2. Because it comes with words; therefore, it has style:

The style in poetry can be in verse; it can rhyme; it can be short; it can be long; it can be longer than expected, or can even rhyme, again and again. The style can change from dark to cloudy like when the sky quickly changes its shape to alert you that rain is on its way. But remember, there is honor in creating your own poetry.

3. Because it has style, it comes with rhythm:

With rhythm, it can flow; it can have expressions, and it can be expressionless too. It can have rhetorical questions where the poet keeps asking the same question over and over.

4. Because poetry has rhythms, it can set a tone:

The tone can be provocative with a lot of sound.  It can have an angry tone, too. When a poet sounds angry, you can feel it; sometimes you can identify with him.  She or he probably must have been infuriated with something nether one of us knew about. There are no limits of provocation. You can invoke everything that has a sound.  You are allowed to exaggerate them, too. After all, exaggeration is part of literature, and poetry is literature too.

5. Because poetry has rhythms, therefore, it can create imagery:

Imagery is something only you can be able to explain. You can use metaphors to showcase them because images can only be resurrected only by your own creativity. It can be believable only by your conviction and choice of words. What I am saying is that your destiny is in your hands; you can convince us to believe in you.

Finally poetry is what goes on in our daily lives, in our kitchen, in our backyards, in our contentment. The sounds, the smells, the injustice that  befall human beings every day, the air that ran away and went through our noses. Anything one can describe so well to people is just poetry. You, too, can be part of it. Your side story can make us better.

Have a wonderful poetry month. Remember to showcase your talent during the national poetry month.