Spoken Word

I want you to do a free writing exercise—I’m going to say the word Voice and I want you to write down whatever comes to mind be it a word, a series of words, phrases or sentences . . .



Words, words, words are so important, and words are my tool Words are how I express myself Don’t be mistaken by angry words, for anger is a result of oppression Don’t take my words as words of protest, just take them, listen to them, work with them I have a right to use my words, for I live here, grew up here, since the age of 4 No one can understand my pain unless you’ve grown up in my shoes All too often I’ve been hurt by words of ignorance “The N Word”—ignorance You’re not Black you don’t act Black—ignorance I’m not prejudice I have a black friend—ignorance Ignorance all ignorance If there is to be a solution to the problem we must work together, we must use words We can no longer remain oblivious to what surrounds us; racism, the system I work with children and it hurts me when I ask them questions about their identity and they know nothing It hurts me when I say to a child—What does it mean to be Black? Response—to be Black is to be “The N Word” Words, words, words, the wrong words coming from our youth We must take away this negativity and replace it with positivity and the truth We must teach children to use words like Afro Canadian I attend Dalhousie University, I went through the Transition Year Program and I’m proud of it I love myself and my people and it’s evident Every day I look for myself in hospitals, on campus, in books, in the plays we read in class I don’t see myself Every day I hear my white friends talk in a Black lingo and I think that’s not how I talk Don’t they realize they are hurting me? My hurt runs deep, my hurt is my history Words, I will use my words Someday I will direct and write plays and use my words about my people Words, words words are so important and words are my tool Words are how I express myself Don’t mistake my words of anger for anger is a sign of oppression Don’t take my words as words of protest, just take them, listen to them work with them . . .

The Meeting

The old professor was camping with the bearded professor in the abandoned playground miles away from the highway. One was chewing a candy apple while the other sat on a table staring up at the night sky . . .

Night like Velvet

The night is black velvet, devoid of anything but the stars and her; it wraps around her, a dark cloak fashioned of the very sky. She trembles, a shiver that begins in her neck and traverses the path to her toes, despite the fact that layer upon suffocating layer of cotton sits between her skin and the cool surroundings . . .

Little Magic Child

There’s beauty in the world, no need to look too hard Even in a game of greed, she smiles at the queen on a card And all the parents watching, smile at the thought That the grass seems to be better than the presents the child got They laugh at how little it takes to make her smile Because they haven’t had the magic, not for awhile It disappeared when all children’s tales were proved false And shines for a second with the rapid beating of pulse When love sinks in, the magic flickers in their hearts But it’s nothing like the flame inside a child, a real work of art . . .

Finishing the Road


My aerial journey takes me north-west, the highlands unending, the beauty constant, the breeze unwavering. The roads—those man-made veins on the landscape—gradually lessen, shrink and, finally, wither before the elusive region of the Zona Reina is reached . . .