Ever wrote a poem

that didn’t include you,

no really—it didn’t include you at all.

Impossible.

Ever tried to explain the color green—subtractive

absent a coitus affair between sun and ocean,

or put a blue emotion into yellow motion

articulated into words so mundane

they wouldn’t quite suffice in concision

the restrictions would be constriction—complexity

articulating love seems deceptive to the soul

because maybe the lingual nerves have a hidden

agenda feigning sincerity—sin seriated awaiting judgment

every sense forms the belief—ocular perception

tactual exploration—complicated

as time

as here

as now

where

does green come from

is it an ocular illusion

the sun hiding

in the ocean—deep.

© —Tshombe Sekou

Poetry is the accentuation of the ineffable; the song of the soul punctuated in complex, yet simple verbal rhythmicity for the world to marvel in attempts to gain a perspective.

—Tshombe Sekou

She told me she loved me,

I became love.

She told me it was forever,

I became time.

She said I was her world,

I became the universe.

I told her I loved her back,

she smiled,

it was priceless and enough.

—Tshombe Sekou

Someone called me a poet once, I believed them, and I became one; this is speaking things into existence indeed.

—Tshombe Sekou

To fear your enemy is to have already lost; and those who make friends for fear of making enemies may gain allies; nevertheless they become an enemy unto themselves. The wise make no enemies nor need seek alliances, for both will seek the wise by repute alone. —Tshombe Sekou