in a good place
to watch this small bird struggle
She had fallen
To the ground
From a nest on a limb
I could not see
I wanted to help
But figured one like her
Might come along
And so I waited
And none came
She was broken
But brave in her pain
This little bird
Didn’t flinch when I picked her up
And brought her inside
Where she stayed with me
Long after she flew away
I am sharing this poem because the words are so true and the writer so very young. Be encouraged!
BY ADESEWA OYINKANSOLA YACE
31 MARCH 2014
Confidence is facing the challenges of your life with courage. Confidence is never backing out, even when things are not going your way yet. Confidence is saying, “YES,” and meaning it. Confidence is saying, “NO,” and meaning it. Confidence is not compromising.
Confidence is standing and holding on to that which you know is true, no matter what.
Confidence is what you need to overcome your fears. So, to be somebody, have Confidence in yourself.
Only Confidence keeps you going.
Oyinkansola Adesewa (pictured) is 11 years old. She loves writing, drawing, painting, designing clothes, dancing, and modeling. She is presently a student of Yaba College Of Technology Secondary School, Yaba-Lagos. Oyinkansola started writing at the age of 6. Her first poem book titled “Thoughts of a Child” was published when she was 8 years old through a writing contest. Presently, she still writes and has written more poems outside the ones in her book.
Credit: Face2Face Africa
This is a poem for sad women.
It belongs to that ubiquitous, yet peculiar sect of
women who are destined to lack necessary
qualities which reap lives of gaiety and
Those who nurtured us should have warned
that women of talent encounter
ice walls which melt only for coquettish smiles.
At best, we could have known to conceal
our natural resources.
I let the nails grow and petrify
over the toes of an old lady.
Nina, whom I love to care for
says it takes podiatry now.
Using water will clean the tool
but cannot sharpen.
That takes metal-hard strength.
Water seams weak to me,
yet it is strong enough to soften and
make a file unneeded.
Her skin has wrinkled so it must be ready.
The water proves itself and
erodes neglect that stiffens nature.
Smoothes aging lines that go deep
like basement rock
Boars through without fizz or drill
And lets me trim and buff and
Polish eight – blood red.
I leave the big toes clean to see my work
And gain some balance.
What I wanted to say
About what I’m thinking
What I’m feeling
What I know, what I am afraid of now is you
Strange in too many ways
You don’t fit me
And makes me sadder
Than I ever want to be again
I’d like to have me back
Just as uncluttered and stoic
My heart needs no aerobics of emotion anymore
Jolting up and down
Leaves me tired for too long afterwards
And I won’t come back again
Because of burn-out
You remind me of offerings
That never replace themselves
But slowly drain
An uneven transfusion
I am enjoying collecting the creative ways that people are keeping #HAPPY!
This morning I watched a Black woman cross the street
in a white dress
She was blue collar
We were problems for the other
Separated by class or degrees – –
And the books I’d complained were heavy
lightened with the weight I felt watching her
Young and tired of being yanked at by
men and kids who gave validity
and took away hope
We knew to speak
And she smiled with contempt for my freedom
She must be the strong one
For cementing households and raising the Black children
For putting up with the men and that little bit…
Her stamina moves her
Forward and out of sight
Between buildings that lose us
Seeking execution is a man
Who wants to die again
Without consequence – does not consider
Pallbearers of his conscience
A fugitive of personal crimes
Runs from the man
He cannot be –
His front looks real
But it dilutes and cheats him of substance
The ordinary man turns himself in
Like a “latch key” abusing free time –
He will decline appeal and gamble
That the verdict brings him pleasure
His reflection shows the line-up
That looks back on him without live rounds
Ready to destroy his character
I write to regain my bearings and reboot. It’s just not that serious these people and life issues, right?. I was a smoker when I wrote this poem. I guess The Lobbyist will be happy to know I gave up that bad habit! Poetry keeps me sane…
This woman at an elevator
Was lobbying against my smoke
The ash cans didn’t count for starting up
But putting out the choking fumes
I forced upon her
Not goodwill, money or sex
Could be extorted from that soul
No secret smiles of afterglow
Or posture of secured future
Friendship brings no floor
To hear the lobbyist
Her ride up was too slow
Then, she stopped short of the number
Pushed to hard and caused a shaft
To break her lift
That swayed her against me
Against us all