you’re pungent with jealousy,
yet perfumed in compassion,
how wonderful a reconciliation.

I’m utterly attracted to the impossibly absent woman,
who doesn’t for a moment flinch from her hearts dissuasion,
who is captured and enamoured when the time is right,
insatiably present,
who can make you long for the womb you were born from,
or bathe you in pangs of separation from it.
I measure men,
by their vulnerabilities,
I measure them by their willingness to mention them.


Dear feminism


I was wondering where in your confines,
my wife’s spirituality fits,
where her chastity sits,
if at all within your boundaries,
can her need to be free from men and women,
she can exist.

Will her devotion,
you permit,
will her night vigils and devotions,
you allow to be moonlit,
what of her veil, her shroud,
or is it attire you’d omit?

Ahh, her feminism,
for you stops at her outfit,
for you, even for her, unfit.

A word of her spirituality,
she can’t transmit.

Nay, your feminism,
is laced with prejudice,
and is pseudo-liberation,
white only, Holy writ.

-Wesam El dahabi

#justcurious as to how inclusive your mantras are,
if a woman content in her devotions,
liberated in her submission,
to her creator her orientation,
in complete volition,
has a divine addiction,
and is enshrined in her tradition,
she chooses to be abandoned,
from your pop culture couture versions,
devotes to her husband through choice,
would she still be deemed a free woman,
even though neither her husband,
her son, her father or brother has reigns over her,
would you still hold her and embrace her as woman as you?

Believe it or not,
not everyone wants your version.
So don’t be surprised if POC have aversions.

Image by david uzochukwu


Haven’t you hardened enough,
haven’t you let the embers of social engineering,
burn your soul into an ashen vapour,
forged the steel of your heart,
engulfed yourself inside yourself until you are not a self,
any more.

What attracts you to have such a square jaw,
and a callused tongue,
I do not ever remember the mother of my mother,
the mother of hers, nor the mothers of my ancients,
ever being so hard.

Woman, bend your mind and break it’s back,
it has traversed you away from all that is pure,
it’s no wonder I scare you so,
I remind you of what you could have been.





daughter asked,
how do I tell the difference
between a boy and a man

mother replied,
by the stroke of their hand

one will touch you
the other will make you feel sacred


It may be that he is not the first to touch you
but he will always feel like the last.
Like the earth and all it contains,
presented itself in a bouquet,
and it scrapes along your spine.
Lavender, patchouli, rose, almond,
bergamot and musk,
his touch will stain your skin,
brand your soul,
and nothing after,
will ever make you whole.

Perhaps that was his secret,
a tender man, with earthen fingers,
bloodied feet,
soles that were one with the land,
his blood, it’s blood,
perhaps that is why he can make her terrain feel like it is boundless,
perhaps that is why she is happy to be owned by him.

Some people can shower you with compliments,
and it feels like poison being spat at you,
whilst others may strike you with vileness,
but your body calls for more of it,
another lashing,
another branding,
at least it is the whole of them,
striking the whole of you.

It’s perplexing why a woman will choose one man over the other,
a boy over a man,
more so,
why she chooses to be covered by dirt,
rather than swallowed by earth.


-lure, the other half

lure two

-lure, the other half

to list what lures a woman
is too daunting a task.
simplifying and stereotyping
is reserved for ignorants,
who know not a thing of her fibre.

perhaps though,
of my most distilled experience,
a woman seeks endurance.
an ability to bare with her growth,
under all conditions she travels through,
inner and outer.


offer poise in turmoil
something to hold on to in hurricanes
to be a roof when it rains way too hard for any soul to bare
poetry when none of her words are there
a whisper in a nest of care
spoon when crawling up into despair
as subtle as a stroke of her hair
so much more than what what we assume
buys all temporary glitter, glam and flair
even to be a stern glare
when off track and unaware
a vent when there is no air
women aren’t a puzzle
they just want a man
to loyally be theirs




slay me now

the more stubborn they are
the better stories they tell
a thousand mornings of frustration
unravelling is undoing
let them be
volumes of stories
body and soul
characters and spine
pages entwined
rhythm and rhyme
so don’t straighten them
I much prefer the non fiction kind

seriously my #cryptonite

if a guy tells you he likes your hair curly,
your face without makeup,
dressed normally, not scantily,
what on earth could possess you,
to think that we’d believe you,
when you say,
you only dress up, make up, straighten and do
for yourself.

if he’s raw, he’ll love you raw
if he’s fake,
there won’t be enough add ons,
and adornments you can satiate him with


Tender strength

cocooned women
Brutal strength,
Ornamented in a cocoon of lace.
The subtle texture of her soul,
Iron clad by skin of shed.

I like my women the same way.
I don’t mind rough hands,
I don’t mind a little rage,
I don’t mind fragility,
Or vulnerability,
As long as she can take off her stilettos,
And stab a man in his eye,
If he steps out of line.
But if I step out of line,
Plant a kiss on them,
Making me as fragile
As her.

Please see the talented work of Heather James Nicole from Heather James Photography. Inspiring and perfect time captures. The above photography belongs to her, used with her permission.

Website: https://hjphotography11.wordpress.com/page/5/

Original photo:dandy

My opus of poetry


Dear child,
You are my opus of poetry.


I wish I was a woman.

Nine months of poetry I would write to last your lifetime.

I’d cook and feed myself with my own hands blowing a prayer over each meal.

I’d read every book of prose, love and of God I could find.

I’d worship, fallen in prostration, yet dancing in elation, weeping for everything inside me to transfer to you.

From milk I would give you for as long as you suckle,

To stare at you in forty years and say,

He is, she is,
My opus of poetry.

Destroy the evidence.

Let’s find them shall we?
Those pieces of spine,
Those fragments of mind,
Scattered memories,
Left behind.

Let’s tie them shall we?
I have but this twine,
This root of thyme,
The puzzles,
Of perpetuated crimes.

Let’s unite them shall we?
Here, use this vine,
Together tightly, bind,
Gather them,
Whatever you find.

Let burn them shall we?
Light the fire of time,
Kill off me, I, and mine,
Leave no trace,
No sign.

And she continues to be a stand up woman,
For you,She hides your sins,
She veils your evil,
She presents you on a pedestal to the world,
As a King,
She, your servant.
Blindly, all this time,
You fail to see she rules over you.
One turn of her glance away from you,
You’d be reduced to rubble,
Who would prop you up?
Nay, she is the Queen and you, but a slave.

Vulnerable Beautiful


I loved you……
When you were battered and wounded,
Scarred and traumatised,
Ignorant and alone,
What do you think I feel for you now,
That you’ve created a home,
Raised children on your own,
Threaded buttons of love,
Seamed souls and lives sewn,
The art of motherhood honed.
I see nothing,
But a woman on a throne,
Confident, tenacious,
Able to stand alone,
Ready to tear a man with her teeth,
Suck life out of his bones.

And in the end, wasn’t it all worth it?
The pain of travelling,
The blisters of repetitiveness,
The wearing of your sternum,
As you heave yet another breath.
The thinning of being,
The reduction of self,
The realisation of other,
The becoming of mother,
The purified lover,
The shelter,
The cover,
My smother.