POEM 305: FOR TYDALE
each bead spells Africa
with a portrait of Tydale in between.
at times she could be so cutting,
wafting through a mangrove of men.
do you recall that pale,
who danced in the rain?
you called her a floating dream
but she became the lady muse of ebony,
sitting on a crescent
brighter than the blinding sunshine,
shimmering southwards with the power of a thousand stars,
a glass of water,
tumultuous like the ocean,
sweeping shores with a powerful storm,
and sailing lost ships with comforting words,
like an hourglass,
filled with unending wonder and curiosity,
chiming silently to time’s music,
yearning for the unknown,
and illumine enlightenment,
a vase of flowery goddess
eyes so wide, so deep, filled with delicate roses,
the power of her petals, open and close
to conquer mighty warriors,
a muse of ebony,
elegant as mahogany stem,
filled with juices of melanin,
and passion, a safari of wit,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAUGHTER.
(This is not a poem)