The Art of Resilience

Everybody has their own way of defining resilience. This poem explores my definition of resilience. It comes from years of being knocked down in the wrestling ring, so to speak, and having to get back up again and again.

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Resilience

It’s resilience.

brilliant.

built within.

Our failures.

Our sins.

Our kickdowns.

and all arounds.

Getting back up once

we have been pinned.

Pinned down on the mat.

The mat of injustice, oppression,

desertion, osbsession,

homelessness, and trauma,

and poverty, and drama.

resilience.

brilliant.

built within.

healing.

adaptation.

It’s willing.

It’s resilience.

Podcast Episode : Let it all out

Podcast Episode: I’m Stuck

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Black Folk Don’t Do Therapy

One of my goals this year is to dive into black poetry and literature at a whole ‘nother level. Doing so has helped me in healing, as well as being able to aide me in one of my current book projects: writing a 300 page poetry book.

As with any particular group of people, you can’t assume that what works for one, works for all. As a whole, there is a stigma behind black people doing therapy. This poem deals with that stigma, and hopefully will get some of us to open up at a deeper level. Due to blacks having to suppress their emotions way back from slavery times, it is both difficult, and deemed as unsafe for them to show their emotions in front of others.

The reality of the situation is that when blacks show emotions, particularly that of anger, we are labeled as the angry black man or woman, having a higher chance of the police being called. What is natural for others is a luxury when it comes to black people, and demonstrating emotions goes along with that.

I hope that this poem gives you some food for thought. I would love to start a discussion down below on your experience growing with emotions, and how it was handled. Be blessed!

Black Folk Don’t Do Therapy

Black folk don’t do therapy

We pray and we cry

Yep we cry in private

But in public our tears run dry.

Black folk don’t do therapy

We’re strong as a people

We just slay in the Spirit

Till our Prayers hit the steeple

Black folk don’t do therapy

We just hope and we pray

That our unhealed

Brokenness

Will up and leave us some day

Black folk don’t do therapy

‘Cause we think it’s a sin

If we bring down from

bondage

Generations had to win

Black folk must do therapy

‘Cause then we can negate

Ev’ry game that’s been

Played

‘Gainst the enemy

Called hate.

Black folk must do therapy

Till we break all devices

That’s been sewn

Into seeds.

Then planted

With preciseness

Black folk must do therapy

So our kids

Will one day see

That our growth,

Faith, and healing

Was a bicycle

Made For me.

Black History Part 2

Black History Part 1

The Traffic Light

How many of us can stop and think about a time that we felt like we were sitting at a traffic light forever? I know with myself , it’s usually during a time that I didn’t plan my time well prior to leaving out of the house, and thus, have no margin whatsoever as a cushion. Every light seems longer. Sitting and waiting seems more drawn out and daunting. But, what about the traffic lights in life? Read the poem below to catch a glimpse of how that works.

The Traffic Light

Racing.

against time.

against cruelty.

against uncertainty.

against the monotony

of

the songs played

on the piano,.

that whisper,

“You won’t make it.

Can’t take it.

you’ll always be

here at this red

traffic light.”

But then, the light

turns green,

and God says,

“Go dream, and

make those dreams come alive.

Thrive in every area now.

No holding back!

Go forth!”

My Blackness

On tomorrow, I will be celebrating the heavenly birthday of my grandmother, Beatrice, affectionately known to her family as Mudear. There isn’t one day that goes by that I don’t think of her “figures of speech, quotes, words of wisdom, or just a matter of fact response to any kind of drama that is going on. I got my first lesson on community from living in her tiny apartment in the projects. Her place was filled with smells of fried chicken, grease popping and cabinets that displayed it, hair pressing, and the love that she had for her family.

I wrote the following poem ” My Blackness”, this past week, after dropping my car off for an oil change, and then waiting for my son to pick me up. I read the poem to my son, and he was surprised that I was able to write it so fast. His response, “Hmmm, I’m surprised that you didn’t need to have the perfect writing conditions present”. My response: “Yes, I know. Totally a God thing.” Me standing there on the sidewalk typing a poem into the Notes app on my phone? I then explained to him that I had read a blog post by a black blogger on the Black Lives Matter topic, particulary Juneteenth, and was immediately inspired to write poetry that helped to express my feelings about everything. Feelings about why we judge, what we judge, and what we think when we just don’t understand.

Well, here goes. Mudear, this is dedicated to you:

My Blackness

Is it the sassy in my voice?

Is the hips I’m given by choice?

Is it the knots that’s in my hair?

That makes the crowds shake heads and stare?

Is it my eyes that’s filled with grief?

Above the teeth that’s clenched by thief?

Is it the music that makes me sway?

That helps me heal from day to day.

Is it the movies that recall drama

Of taken lives and baby mommas?

It’s part of blackness.

Oh, can’t you see?

My Godly image, “identity”.

Have a blessed Sunday!

Season of Uncertainty

We are definitely living in uncertain times. During these times, it is important to keep ourselves anchored in God and his promises. It is also crucial to establish a creative outlet for ourselves, and our kids if they are still at home. Practicing self-care will help our souls and our ability to be resilient when everything around us is on shaky ground. This poem “Season of Uncertainty”, deals with our life as it is right now worldwide. I am currently reminded of God’s goodness as I type this because there are several birds singing their tunes right outside my kitchen window. To God be the glory! Blessings my friends!

Season of Uncertainty

The sun and birds.

The walks and talks.

Slowdown and family time.

There’s a growing whine.

When at home we dine.

In the midst of uncertainty.

It’s the unexpected.

When you feel neglected.

And a need to be hugged and seen.

When our faith is tested,

and the fear has rested,

in our hearts and in our souls.

It’s a time to trust.

Trust that God is good.

When the picture’s not whole, looks bleak.

When we search for others,

There’s no need to look further,

When his kingdom we will seek.

Last poem: Triggered

Triggered

The word “triggered” has become so overly used in this day and age. For those of us who live with trauma/PTSD, triggers are real. And when they occur, gaining solid grounding is what’s needed in order to get past the episode. This poem, entitled, “Triggered” paints a vivid picture of what it’s like.

Triggered

Triggers-everywhere.

Sights and sounds.

Beyond compare.

The bad seems worse.

The good seems better.

Triggers in all forms-

By Good “Ole Friend” Weather.

One word. One sound. Tilts you off the ground.

One look paints a picture.

Identity in Christ-Our one and only fixture.

Completion

The Completion

He died.

Upon that tree.

He moaned. And groaned. Then bent the knee.

He said his last words.

Through the earth and through the nation, the completion was heard.

“It is finished.”

Yes, he said it.

It was for you and for me.

The conniving and all the striving…

The shedding of blood…

Broke it free.

After this, Jesus, knowing that all things were now accomplished, that the Scripture might be fulfilled, said, “I thirst!” 29 Now a vessel full of sour wine was sitting there; and they filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on hyssop, and put it to His mouth. 30 So when Jesus had received the sour wine, He said, “It is finished!” And bowing His head, He gave up His spirit.

John 19: 28-30

Our Stories

My theme for the last few weeks has seemed to focus on our stories. It is so important to gain freedom from telling and owning our stories. I came up with a poem that I would like to share with you all for reflection.

Our Stories

Our Stories.

No, they don’t define us.

Our Stories.

God’s Word Realigns Us.

Our Stories.

Takes Us Back to the Beginning.

Our Stories.

Helps Us Sift through all the Sinning.

Our Stories.

Gives us Depth and Relation.

Our Stories.

We Are God’s Own Priestly Nation.

The Path to Healing

Each one of us have a different path to healing. No two paths are alike. However, our commonality lies in the fact that we are all human, we all struggle, and we all have childhood wounds of some sort that need to be worked out in order for us to heal and grow. Healing is a lifelong journey. Just when you think that you have completed this journey, it can be one random thought or song, or one major trauma or death that causes you to revisit certain areas, and then go in at a deeper level. The poem “The Path to Healing” reflects thoughts on my healing journey. God bless!

path, path to healing, poetry, life, trauma, triggers, psychology, emotional health, mental health, spiritual health, journey, brokenness, healing, lifestyle, wellness, abandoned, childhood wounds
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The Path to Healing

Abandoned?

Not by His love.

Wounded by earthly doves.

Journeying through all the pain.

Dancing in sun and rain.

Forgiving for damage unknown.

Believing the good will be owned.

Entangled by triggers unfounded.

Triangled-The Trinity keeps me grounded.

I Can’t Sleep!

Sleep is one of those things that we can’t live without. But what happens when lack of sleep starts to get the best of you? Read the poem below to find out.

I Can’t Sleep

I can’t sleep! I can’t sleep!

Do I pray or do I weep?

sleep deprivation, trauma, PTSD, insomnia, waking up, living with and healing from trauma, brokenness, emotional health, mental health, psychology, katina horton, blogger, lifestyle
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Let the music play in your head.

Rest in Jesus while in your bed.

This lack of sleep, all part of trauma.

Give him your fears and all your drama.

I can’t sleep! I can’t sleep!

“I know my child.

My grace runs deep.”

Other poetry