A Poem About How Women Should Stop Dieting

I wrote on Facebook the other day, asking – rhetorically, of course – why being happy always seemed to lead to me gaining weight. I joked that I wanted to find some way to lie to my body that I was miserable. Ha ha.

Later, though, I thought about what I’d said. What’s wrong with me, that being happy is kind of a bad thing simply because I’ve gained five pounds. No one even knows that but me. And, certainly, no one cares. What is this internal tyranny over women that suckers even a (I like to think) conscious woman into putting body size and general happiness on equal planes. Would I really rather be sad and skinny than happy and fat? Isn’t that sick?

Coincidentally (or, as I view it, serendipitously) I watched a YouTube video on the health benefits of eating one meal a day. Many Muslims also advise one meal a day. Many Buddhist monks recommend one meal a day. Trying this for a while could be a way to not only lose the “happy pounds” and further improve my health, but, more importantly, to spend less time preparing food and washing dishes. There are other things I’d rather be doing. The weight itself no longer matters to me. There are too many critical issues going on in our society for anybody – especially any intelligent being – to be wasting time worrying about five or ten pounds.

The Divine Feminine is needed now more than ever. With the separation and categorization of people into little groups to oppress and demonize. With our health care system at the hands of a Twitter-junkie who cares for no one but himself. With our planet heating up, and our water supply drying up. We need Woke Women everywhere to be about it.

This poem is primarily a reminder to myself. It is also an invitation to other people – especially all who identify with the Feminine Spirit – to use your talents, your voices, your bodies, your minds, and your spirits to uplift the planet.

So, here it is…

Die It

They asked her

which she’d rather have,

sexy steamy night

with stranger,


sweet, easy piece of

dreamy cheesecake.


I was not

when, of course,

devilish dessert

earned her body’s lust.

Deprived of carnal passion –

no woman ever,

but fashion,

commercialized, capricious eyes,

and masculine wish for

sole supremacy,


sunshine-colored pink topped cupcake

to armed adversary, scary

fat-throwing attacker.

Beauteous baby building digs


not by accurate concern for

maternal magic, but


of feminine largesse.

The best most can expect –

five to ten pounds


While fleshy souls,


scream soundlessly inside

cells bereaved, in need –

not of packaged poison

in food clothing – but

Insurrection, mutiny

This is me!

Head to knee,

ass to feet,

take the scale and weigh

the mass of heart

as I love you

squeeze you

high into sunset sky

build up this ball of blue

till it cools

the winds of ill will

killing it through and through.


the song I sing to

little ones wondering

why we won’t willify what we want

when so much to do

goes undone


time, dieting to hide

the light this world is pining for,


And eat well,

Gas for the next phase

of feminine triumph

Please don’t buy into


Goddess, your one-pointed

Presence is Spirit’s imperative Essence.



A Poem About Blackness



Dancing streams of moonbeams

Slip past partially open


Hit tear-stained pillow,

Patting you while

I watch you


Slapped in the face

You felt

When they ingested

Noxious, self-loathing

Pills of dubious privilege,

Then spewed them back at you,

Making you cringe

At the skin you’re in.

Glassy, priceless,

Ebony shelter,

Delicious as it is dark.

Dark like

The Womb that warms

Us all

From Greatest to the Least.

Nine-month lease

Until released into

Bloody white hospitals,

Strangers jostling to

Label us,

Limit us,

Prohibit us.

Dark like the soul

That knows its own worth,

Till told to

Take its place –

A false space –

Pinching a girth

Too expansive to erase.

Dark like

Healthy earth

Nourishing ungrateful,

Hateful parasites

Flourishing while



To categorize,



That Darkness.


As it is elusive.

Confusing to those

Who lack the eyes to see,

The skin to feel

That which Darkness,

In all its forms,

Can do when it’s free.

Rest, little one,

While I whisper

Terms of Truth,

Secret self-names


From family tree

Honey Vat

Night Soldier

Onyx Star

Sable Lady

Toasted Queen

Ginger Goddess

Hazel Pride

Drink these signs.

Sing them in your dreams,

Since the Darkness


Call cursed

Is Splendor


Can’t control.

Let these signs

Flood your insides,

Fill your bones.

Cuz the names

They’ve given us

Are not our Own.

a poem about the resilience of black people

Sound of the African Spirit

Ain’t I a woman?

I am a Man.

I am the greatest.

Black is beautiful.

Fists in the air,

Natural hair,

Nothing to hide,

Glowing with pride.

They can’t block

The twinkling light

Of a God-made Star

At home in the night.

Pleasant dreams, little Queen,

Little King,

Little Spirit Beings in between,

Tomorrow you rise,

Day after,

You rise.

Like a Violet –

African, of course –

Broken leaves,

Placed in cool water,


Always rise,

Sprout a little,

Teeny, tiny vines,

Tiny mouths

That shout –

Our Lives Still Matter.

Keep shouting, little ones.

That whisper they fear?

Means they’re starting to hear.


Stay close to Stem,

Dear ones,

This isn’t for them.

African Violet’s

Outer leaves

Wither and die when separate.

Hang tight.


Through those roots

Shimmy and move

The ancient drum beats from

A Darker Soil.

It’s for them that we speak,

Their bloodied toil

Will never cease

To sing

Through our cries,

As songs so sweet,

As the air we breathe.

With fists in the air

And natural hair,

Flowers replanted,

No worse for wear.

Special flowers

Who refuse to die,

No matter what they do.

Keep growing, little Sprouts,

We did this all for you.