Don’t underestimate her,

Hide me O Lord amongst the reeds,

My Battle with Autocorrect — What a pleasure it is, to be subject to autocorrect, not underlined in crimson, not a case for ‘spellings’ direct’. Your name is pure Anglo, not chained with sinuous tone, a part of the accepted word bank, whereas mine is excluded and lone. The letters fight against each other, its meaning…

This Christmas, I bring to you, my pride and joy, Christ the Lord

When you look hard enough, you’ll see whatever you want to see, written in the puff clouds, paved in the grimstones of walls, slapped on the markings of pavement malls, explicated in the words of any text, exhaled through the breath of one to the next. How easy it is…

You’re timeless, Your energy beams through stratospheres, yet stands sturdy, an evergreen prodigy to behold. Your soul is an unforgettable…

You like the way we speak, the way our vocal folds produce sound. The melanin we harbour. The shine we radiate. Our musical talent. But not like our skin, or our livin’; standin’? You see us as lower than you, deny us of life-affirming joy. We speak so articulately, you…

I stand trimmed tall,

The devil beams in your face, with interest, almost genuine, He’ll want to praise your honour, even bring forth his medicine.