The Chapbook: Love Is Not A Tempest

You missed me, didn’t you?
I have written an eighteen-poem chapbook titled Love Is Not A Tempest. I hope you like it.

It’s free. Download it here: Love Is Not A Tempest


Dead People (And Goodbye)

Dead people don’t say nothing
This is a lie, they be talking all the time,
Like the narrator of sad film
Who be yapping when the characters be doing things

Dead people don’t just die
They disappear into nothing
From nothing to something
To nothing again

But they be talking all the time,
Reminding you of their softness
And the stories only dem fit corroborate

They be teaching you things, if you listen
How to make hay
And do a stitch before Sun sleeps
And how not to run into swamp

They be reappearing
And making you sad
And happy
And be teaching you things

Hey everyone, there you have it. The final bit of poetry on this website. It was partly inspired by Marlon James’ A Brief History of Seven Killings. The syntax of the poem is based on the cadence of one the book’s characters

I have to say the biggest thank you for sticking with me through the changes in name (poetryispeace, remember?) and appearance. For enduring the many cringeworthy poems and prose and for liking and commenting on the good ones too. This place has often been my catharsis and I have formed a few friendships and many acquaintances in the process. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
What next?

  • The website will stay up (till  I change my mind)
  • When the time is right, I’ll provide the link(s) to my new abodes on these internet streets.
  • I may or may not revamp or move this site, modifying it to include other bits of my life outside of writing. (This goodbye may prove to be short).

Again, thank you!




I keep looking inward
To find
My wood of diverged roads;
The travelled by
And the not,
And the difference.

I search for a story,
The story,
A poem to write;
To be in, to come from.
A song to sing.

Something my father did,
Something my mother said.

I dig through memories of Iba
Sand and laugh. and mud,
And mosquitoes and boiling rings
And wells and rabid dogs
And public school
And private joys.

And later:
Private school
And public angst
And fences,
And fine things. And Failures.

How my father wept
When my mother slept.

Nostalgia is a bottomless pit;
But boy, is it sweet,
And bitter too,
And bitter too.



Soon you’ll hear the story of how everybody died
when no one told the truth
about how everybody lied,
how we all felt pain
how everybody cried
why we all failed
though everybody tried,
how God was on everybody’s side
even though the devil
pretended to be everybody’s guide,

narrow was the way but
everybody’s wide
we are all sheep, but everybody’s wild
we are all sheep, but everybody’s wild

Pulverem Pulveri

Here I am, prude
in the new–in the nude
righteous and lustful
free and tethered 
lulled by hope
upholstered by grace
confused by happenstance
wandering in mind
finding naught
but sin and God (love), 
losing him, 
                                        being prodigal
and returning

Here I am, dead
but alive 
like I came
as I shall go



Paradis Perdus


in the quiet of death,
in its uncertainty and
expected surprise,
is the greatest philosopher of all
teaching us the things we know (but forgot)
reminding us of life’s salience:
the sacrifice of love,
the madness of hope and
the gutsiness of faith.

to give and be given
and to forgive
on earth, where hell is present
and paradise is lost


Image source: sammysamphotograpy

The Questions We Ask

Old Ocean

Do all dreams come true?
What is the end that all things come to?
Where have we been?
What have we been through?
Are we to be trapped by sin?
Set free by truth?
Is ageing a seamless affair?
Are we chasing youth?

Our spark, wonder and wander
Are embroidered in the fabric of the
Questions we ask

We have journeyed together for many years


Photo by Brian Ibinson