Posted in Poetry

Doctor Whiteface

You’ve diagnosed me as pain less

But I’ve told you that it hurts when you remove my heart.

I can feel the scorn in your hands of oppression around my neck.

When you pierce my eye with your surgeon’s scalpel,

so that I can’t see you remove my brother’s life from my side.

It hurts.


You say we can’t feel pain

But it hurts when you stare

And when you pretend we don’t exist.

When you call us stupid degenerates regardless of having more years of education than you all.

We can recite the law you constantly break upon our backs.

And it hurts too

And when you force us out of our jobs because of our melanin skin.


And yet you all continue to stare like spectators at a match.

It’s the FA cup final and you’re chomping at the bit

For some black blood.


But this is Britain, so your excitement is reserved.

And you expect us to keep a stiff upper lip, while denying us our British heritage to our faces.

All bets for black blood are “under the table”.


Like a mental institution Doctor Whiteface,

Your island really is full of crackers.



©The Wallflower Speaks Loudly, 2018



Posted in Poetry



A tasteless frozen pizza from a wood oven restaurant.


The only Black face in a sea of staring hostile pale faces who simultaneously ignore your presence.



A ringtone on loud in the middle of your meditation.

A refund with no apology because white privilege makes mistakes and we all have to bear the cross.



Those two ticks to show you’ve been acknowledged but dismissed.

Message received loud and clear but in through one and out the other.



Waiting on you as you ride up that hill an hour late;

Watching as you finish that pointless youtube video instead of helping with the housework

I’ve become a Victorian housewife as I holler about the fucking cobwebs and dishes


Maybe my ailments will put me out of my misery like a Victorian orphan.


This is adulthood.


Constant fucking disappointment.


©The Wallflower Speaks Loudly, 2018
Posted in Blog, Poetry

They Were My Babes


They were my babes

But you called them retards

Because of your black hearts

They called me fam

Coz God had a plan

They were my babes

But you gave them hell

Coz they were under my spell

You treated them like savages

Like discarded packages

They were my babes

But I was torn away

In that black month of May

Like a mother torn from her babes

They were my babes

They were my babes

I still bear the scars

But no longer are they a mask

To cover the miscarriage

The racial attack and injustice

Of when I lost my babes




Posted in Poetry


Grieve for my former self

No tears every day

But grieve

Yes grieving

Every day

No more early mornings

Or “Ms Noel

Holocene walks

Teaching plans

But now so much time….

Tick… tock… tick… tick…

Miss running

To Kanye’s Workout Plan

Miss running

Feel it in my gut

Wish to run away


For my consciousness

So vivid, so lucid

Sometimes it’s mine

Sometimes it’s where? 

Posted in Poetry


“Carry it on now.

Carry it on.

Carry it on now.

Carry it on.

Carry on the tradition.

There were Black People since the childhood of


who carried it on.

In Ghana and Mali and Timbuktu

we carried it on.

Carried on the tradition.

We hid in the bush

when the slavemasters came

holding spears.

And when the moment was ripe,

leaped out and lanced the lifeblood

of would-be masters.

We carried it on.

On slave ships,

hurling ourselves into oceans.

Slitting the throats of our captors.

We took their whips.

And their ships.

Blood flowed in the Atlantic—

and it wasn’t all ours.

We carried it on.

Fed Missy arsenic apple pies.

Stole the axes from the shed.

Went and chopped off master’s head.

We ran. We fought.

We organized a railroad.

An underground.

We carried it on.

In newspapers. In meetings.

In arguments and streetfights.

We carried it on.

In tales told to children.

In chants and cantatas.

In poems and blues songs

and saxophone screams,

We carried it on.

In classrooms. In churches.

In courtrooms. In prisons.

We carried it on.

On soapboxes and picket lines.

Welfare lines, unemployment lines.

Our lives on the line,

We carried it on.

In sit-ins and pray-ins

And march-ins and die-ins,

We carried it on.

On cold Missouri midnights

Pitting shotguns against lynch mobs.

On burning Brooklyn streets.

Pitting rocks against rifles,

We carried it on.

Against water hoses and bulldogs.

Against nightsticks and bullets.

Against tanks and tear gas.

Needles and nooses.

Bombs and birth control.

We carried it on.

In Selma and San Juan.

Mozambique. Mississippi.

In Brazil and in Boston,

We carried it on.

Through the lies and the sell-outs.

The mistakes and the madness.

Through pain and hunger and frustration,

We carried it on.

Carried on the tradition.

Carried a strong tradition.

Carried a proud tradition.

Carried a Black tradition.

Carry it on.

Pass it down to the children.

Pass it down.

Carry it on. Carry it on now.

Carry it on TO FREEDOM!”

(from “Assata: An Autobiography” by Assata Shakur, (2016) Angela Davis)

Posted in Poetry

Our Love is Wrong

My pride is strong, 

But not as strong as these chains

From my past that bind me,

Which is why I feel wrong,

Wrong for you because

Your past is pure like spring.

There are not storms for you,

Which is why we must pause

Our love. My pride is strong,

But my will is weak. When I see you,

I can't imagine loving another.

Even though for you, I'm wrong.