We are honored to have supported Black History Month by hosting a poetry competition. We received numerous submissions, and choosing only 20 winners was a difficult task. However, we are proud to announce the winners, whose poems captivated us with their powerful words and expressions of the Black experience. We hope that these poems inspire and move readers to continue learning, listening, and advocating for Black voices. View their incredible poetry below!
Drowning Pages
Written by Thelohe
It's an ocean carrying songs
Soothing the throat of histories of chains
So when we speak of freedom
There won’t be clicks of locks undone
There won’t be wind spreading screams
There won’t be new bones buried in caves
There won’t be hate echoing in stories
There won’t be colours twisted on walls.
No cage, no fear, no rage
Will hold back the voice of a mind set free
It’s a seed making roots in burnt boats
It’s the flames rising, rejecting anonymity
It’s an ocean reading out drowning pages
In this remembrance, we sit at ease with the birth of questions
We mould our names into what our tongues can lick.
I AM Black
Written by Mystikle Blue
For 365 days of the year I’m black
A fact known from the day I was born
Judged for the way my hair grows
Encouraged to disregard my culture
Yes ignore
Looked upon like I’m a criminal
Microaggressions towards me
Not so subliminal
See Black History Month for me
Is a reminder, its an opportunity
To seek out my Black Excellence
Both past and present
To understand my ancestors before me
Prove their struggles were not in vain
For the sky ain’t my limit
The universe is my aim
Black History Month is my wake up call
Where often I become the mentor
Trying to teach while I continue to seek
Educate myself I must
Because I’ve lost all trust
In the education I had in Schools, Colleges and Universities.
Black History Month for me
Is another level to my foundation
Black History Month for me
Is a celebration
A month to celebrate that
For 365 days of the year I AM Black
A Black Story-Our Story
Written by Abigail Amanuel
In the tapestry of time, a tale unfolds,
Of souls resilient, stories yet untold,
A chapter embraced, a legacy profound,
Black History Month, let its voice resound.
From the shores of Africa, torn apart,
A journey embarked, courage in each heart,
Through the trials endured, hopes intertwined,
Strength in the spirit, identity defined.
Upon cotton fields, as the sun met the skin,
Bound by chains, they refused to rescind,
Boundaries shattered, with unwavering might,
Freedom’s longing ignited souls aflame, bright.
Harriet’s whispers through the Underground,
Guiding souls seeking truths yet unfound,
Nat Turner’s uprising, a beacon of strife,
Resistance ablaze, fighting for a better life.
From Harlem’s Renaissance to beatnik’s rhyme,
Langston, Maya, their words transcend time,
Storytellers, poets, sculptors of emotion,
A symphony of voices, dreams in locomotion.
Rosa Parks, seated, amidst a storm’s wrath,
A courageous stance, sparking a path,
In classrooms foes, in wisdom, allies found,
Brown versus Board, a tremor shook the ground.
Martin’s dream carried on lofty wings,
Bringing unity, where division stings,
Selma’s bridge echoed with cries for justice,
Bloody battles fought, for the righteous must persist.
Through struggle, triumph, rising above,
Black inventors’ legacy, like stars thereof,
From traffic signals to peanut’s embrace,
Inventions adorned, shaping our human race.
Let us celebrate the triumphs and sync,
Honoring those who dared to bravely think,
For in their stories, our shared history,
Lies the strength to shape a brighter destiny
So, in this sacred month, let us unite,
Empathy’s flame, shining ever so bright,
Through art, through knowledge, let us reflect,
Black History Month, its lessons, we collect
my People
Written By Pauline Hanson Gilman
In the annals of time, a story of our great kings and Queens mighty warriors unfolds
Of strength and resilience of stories till their last breath was taken away from them untold,
Black history, our history, a tapestry we teach our children to be proud, is rich and profound
A legacy of struggles on scared hallowed dustiness of harden red clay bauxite ground.
From the heat of the Africa’s shores, captured, sold the rusty heavily laden chains
In the face of oppression, they rose like the majestic phoenix and found their voice,
Our people endured the horrors of captivity and yet their feisty spirits remained
A testament of good heart, courage knowing it to better to be a collective strong voice
Nanny of the maroons, Harriet Tubman too guiding stars on the battlefield’s day and night
Leading the charge for their enslave people with tactics to freedom’s light,
Through danger and toils, these she warriors blaze courageous countless miles of trails
Two of many women this was their bravery prophesised vision, one of timeless tales.
Marcus Garvey one of Jamaica’s political activists and the great Dr Martin L Kings’ dreams
Were visions that were so bright of equality, justice working to sing of the same hymn sheet?
Their beacons of light were like fire with profound words that flowed like rivers downstream.
Inspiring a world where all people with hopes, aspiration goal could and can achieve.
Miss Louise Bennett words had her flair in all things Jamaican alongside Maya Angelou
Were like Anansi clever with glee alongside caged birds being set free to soar the sky,
They rose like mountains above the prejudice and discrimination with grace for all to see
Their pens were their glistened silver swords, their truth their verses and all abiding might,
In the face of adversity their took their beautiful, all mighty goals and magnificent flights.
From the actions of Rosa Parks who took that braveness to walk on the bus to take that seat
To Malcom X whose words were so fleet, knowing that he was at risk but did not retreat,
Black history, a tapestry of go-getters who channelled their lives to be leaders and of change
A movement to fight horrible injustice no matter the vast danger or the expansion of range.
Nevertheless, it is not just the famous, the iconic, the known who are in print and fine books
It is the countless untold stories courage which has been planted and dug deep to be sown,
From our teacher and activists, mothers, fathers, grandmothers’, and grandfathers too
Black history is made by all its ancient and modern truth-gathers one language and tongue,
Through pain and through terrible hardship our people have made their indelible mark
Black history is a carnival of celebration, a spiritual drum beat of a well-tuned song,
In science, in art, in medicine, in mathematics and in every green patch of park
A testament of resilience, toughness being enduring and ever so mighty regal and strong.
Our ancestors were sent to the new world not knowing where they were placed,
So, let us remember, let us celebrate in jubilee, colour, and style in all our joyous might,
In black history month there is a lesson to be learned and not to be forgotten for eternity
One of unity, an abundance of love there will no hesitation for a bright future for our race.
So, from the many rivers flowing through Africa to the high mountain of Mount Kilimanjaro
My skin will always glisten against the brightness of the searing sun and the cotton blue sky,
I am proud to be the colour I am because it represents, regalness struggles, tears and woes
Paving the way for a little black girl to say blessings to her parents of ages for being so great!
My Mirror Is Full
Written by Lucia Victor
I wait for women I have never met
Whose wombs once carried the promise of me
They exist in the space between sand and sea
Singing softly, and weaving safety nets
They have fingernails shaped like mine
We share the same asymmetrical lines
Around and in between our eyes
And my mouth mourns the shape of their names
They come for me, my women, in dreams
With brown eyes and soft flowers
And saltwater, patient daughters
Protecting their descendants across lifetimes
A blood-red ribbon wraps around our house
Whose questions sit empty at the foot of my bed
Answers hide behind my ears
And braid secrets into the soft hair at the nape of my neck
Dismissal sits on my dad’s head like hands
Empty brows and smiles like tides
Coming and going, self-defence
Against the hollowness of the not knowing
How to answer so children can understand
Our forest was uprooted
And replanted in sand.
Shallow roots remember what was mine to give you
Empty soil holds the shape of where our stories should live
But the spaces between my fingers
Are never really empty
My women hold me, gently
Shroud me while I sleep to teach me
There is nothing here to fear at all
Drink my tears and show me
The riches of ritual
And while I wait, I collect jars of soil
Tattoo “be brave” under my tongue,
Massage my scalp with olive oil
One day, I’ll join them
Walk beside them, my women
And our collective chorus will hum with warning
Giving form to the language of mourning
Tripping light on white sands as the tide brings the dawning
Whispering mantras and words of self-worth
Into the ears of little brown girls
Who cannot, alone, bear the weight
Of intergenerational hurt and hate
A warm orange moon on empty-sky nights
When the humanness of being grips them too tight
Songs will ripple from the palms of our hands
Bathe our daughters in rest,
Safe in strange lands
We will sew, one-handed, with bone needles and thread
Stitch healing into cloth for protecting their heads
And send them love letters which need no address
And when they walk, they will know,
Our feet share footsteps
Black Girl Fly
Written by Deanna Berry
There is something to be admired
About her intriguing gaze
Her crown of lush curls
Divine Wisdom is her name
The shape of her face
The curves so defined
Plump lips so smooth
Big brown eyes that shine
Her sharp ears hear the whispers
Of justice and grace
She radiates sunshine
As she takes her place
Among the many who have heard the call
Who stand for freedom and equality for one and all
She stands hands wide open
Palms lifted in praise
As she accepts her blessing and purpose knowing God has predestined her days
She was created in God’s image
Her gifts perfectly defined
Her skin a dark chocolate
To accentuate her eyes
She stares attentively at her purpose
Her posture steady and tall
Her voice echoes like a roaring lioness
Her words will be heard and felt by all
Her distinct voice will not be silenced
Her rhythmic step will keep the beat
As she walks into her purpose
She can feel her ancestors’ heartbeat.
She hears the voices of brothers and sisters
Who have walked this path where she has been led.
She can feel their hands on her back and shoulders
And her mother’s praying hand on her head.
She is ready to face the resistance from those who try to block the way.
Her feet move without hesitance as She knows her worth and will make it through the day
She recites scripture “No weapon formed against me shall prosper,
All those who rise up against me shall fall”
She knows nothing is done in her own strength
It is God that can Conquer all.
As she stares at the oppressors, the intimidated, and the thieves
She is reminded of her purpose
And speaks eloquently
You do not own me
You cannot silence me
You can never be me
Or take my place
When I look in the mirror
I do not see you
Or what you stand for
Only a legacy that can never be replaced
You can’t extinguish my ancestry, history my story or even me.
Like the sun I will continue to shine everywhere and will shine on the truth that needs to be seen
I will keep fighting for freedom and equality as more truth is revealed each day
That what you think you created, it is my ancestors that paved the way.
You will not trip up my step, as my ancestors drum beats only in time.
My crown of curls bouncing with the rhythm as I clap my hands and walk with a sway in my thighs
My glistening dark skin so blinding, you will see the stars and smile in my eyes
My passion and purpose overwhelming like an all-consuming fire I will light the skies
Let me sing to you what I can hear my in ancestors in unison singing
Black Girl Fly…So High…Black Girl Fly.
Our World Has Changed
Written by Ella Welsh
Our world has changed
For better, for worse
Our world has changed.
This is our blessing and our curse.
Our world has changed.
Conversations started and conversations fallen flat.
Our world has changed.
We want peace and yet there is combat.
Our world has changed.
Do you see us or do you he?
Our world has changed.
And that change starts with me.
Do you see the blessings, the conversations started, the peace & us?
Then you are lucky, but we have more to discuss.
A world without prejudice, hate & crime,
is a world that could be better, but that’s hard to find.
Open up your heart & see the person within.
Our world has changed & with you it can begin.
A Black Woman
Written by Maimouna Camara
I am
A Woman
And I’m Black
I’m strong, often
And I fall, sometimes.
Because I am Human.
My essence’s too rich to define.
They want me to live in chains
And to cover up dark crimes…
But what about my pain?
When is my time to shine?
I am
Black
And I’m a woman
But can you see beyond my flesh?
Can you taste my uniqueness?
I need sweet words and less trouble
And a room I can call my own.
A queen: delicate, formidable;
My hair a curly, ornate crown.
My incense is of orchid and rose,
I’ll lull you into love in my alcove.
I am a Black Woman
Blooming, with or without lovers
The energy of a million sunflowers.
I need the sun, I need the fun,
I need to hum, beating my own drum.
Love…Love is here, on the horizon
Hence my soul repelling your poison.
I’m one among billions.
And one in a million.
I am.
X Marks the Spot
Written by Bethlehem Wolday-Myers
Black History Month
Feels like a treasure hunt
Deep diving for pearls
In a charged changing current
That pulses and pushes you away
A chest rests on the sea bed
Silt flying and falling like snow
Bounties of Black wealth
Lay dormant and low
Yet on the sea shore
Shoved between glass slabs
You see your treasure
Has been more than grabbed
Ethiopian jewels
Sit pretty in the queen’s crown
Whereas our noble history
Has been left to drown
See
When they come diving in the depths
They commit more than petty theft
Think teaching us MLK in class will do it
Our ancestors
Our history
They don’t pursue it
Instead they insist on stealing what isn’t theirs
A month once a year to them it sounds fair
To cover their tracks
They slap it on a treasure map
X marks the spot
They know all the clues
Like the back of their hand
Sticking the pole
Into their new found land
Roaming restlessly
They cherry pick and eat
The fruits of our labour casually
If only Black History Month
Felt like accountability
Not like rescuing people who got lost at sea
As if they weren’t intentionally stranded
These futile efforts still feel so underhanded
Drip feed them enough
So we don’t kick and resist
But don’t empower us
So we rise and desist
Wear Pan African colours
And fundraise for Stephen Lawrence
Why not abolish the state and its officers?
Ground us with our enriched roots
So we sprout and shoot
Into teachers, poets, leaders
Not leave us
Wilting away as gang-bangers and dealers
Black History Month
Should be every month
Every season
We deserve every right
And we don’t need a reason.
Carribbean Beauty’s Testament to Resilience
Written by Eshiva Wright
In the spotlight of history’s grand stage,
As a Miss Caribbean UK finalist, I engage,
To share a tale, not of battles fought in vain,
But a story of survival, resilience, and gaining.
From the bonds of Mother Africa, we emerged,
Strong spirits and hearts, by the Atlantic surged,
Through the tides of time, our people did strive,
In the name of freedom, to reclaim our lives.
Colonizers came, with their chains and their might,
They tried to extinguish our cultural light,
But the Caribbean, with its myriad of shades,
Became a tapestry of cultures, never to fade.
From the Spanish, the British, and the Dutch,
Jamaica’s history, a blend, as such,
A fusion of heritage, a mix so diverse,
In unity, we found our strength and our verse.
Black, Asian, and Indigenous roots combined,
In the Caribbean sun, a future defined,
We forged a path, undeterred by despair,
A testament to resilience, we proudly declare.
In this journey, we’ve learned to withstand,
The trials and tribulations, hand in hand,
With mental health’s grace, we heal, we restore,
For within our stories, resilience we implore.
So, as Black History Month takes its stand,
May our tales of survival inspire the land,
To embrace the past, and empower the now,
For in unity, we’ll rise, and together, we’ll vow.
To cherish our differences, in harmony and health,
As Miss Caribbean UK 2023, I proclaim this wealth,
A tapestry of cultures, resilience anew,
In unity, we find strength, and mental health ensue
The Thing About Black History Month
Written by Maryam Jalal
I find Black History interesting, you see,
How the people changed the world, to fight for equality,
Mary Seacole, she was rejected at war,
Though she saved lives and healed the fatal wounds for,
The injured, British soldiers, covered in blood and gore,
Or maybe Rosa Parks, told to move from her bus seat,
Though she said no, didn’t declare defeat,
After she got out of jail, people knew they can’t mistreat,
Black people, and tell them to get onto their feet.
Yes, of course I care about all the other people too,
Though it’s interesting to hear about some who weren’t new,
To racism, and tried to fight for their equal rights,
Brave, determined, maybe afraid of heights,
Even so, they knew that they weren’t pesky parasites,
But people, back then, had silly thoughts in their minds,
That your appearance mattered, and that many weren’t kinds,
To join others, even though they had incredible finds,
It was really sad, as if people were covered behind blinds.
Which is why you might find Black History amusing,
Even though some parts of it were really confusing,
Like the bit where it mattered about your skin,
Then they would hate you, and you wouldn’t win,
Unless you did something, to rub off that grin,
And the time, when they made seperate places to go,
For people with different skin colour, even if, you know,
All they needed was the bathroom, even so,
The change to that was unutterably slow.
That’s why the people with different skin colours chanted,
To fix up that sign that was terribly slanted,
To give up on making fun on different looks,
Make the stories of Black people and put them in books,
Many will read them, and feel like hooks,
Start pulling them in, and they see the wonders,
And they will hear, in their minds, how their voice thunders,
The people who hate them, suddenly their voice stutters,
And soon they get mad, with grumbles and mutters.
So, for goodness sake get silly thoughts out of your mind,
If you think Black people are boring, you’re definitely not kind,
I’ve got a good thing, that I must say,
“Everyone is unique, in their own special way.”
Complicated History
Written by Dijah Zahra
Black History Month in the UK is always complicated for me.
An important time to reflect, respect and play homage to the ones before.
They only claim us when we are successful , but demonise us when we challenge
You are your ancestors greatest dream, and it is time for you to know why
The war is not done, the plight for complete freedom still exist,
But to push forward, you must look back.
My history is not reduced to a month, and it should be showcased without disdain.
Sometimes as a Black British woman you can feel out of place, BHM provides the opportunity to put the missing jigsaw puzzle piece into its rightful place.
Why do we never learn the history of our ancestors?
Is the UK afraid of the horrors in history that we cannot erase?
Do they only tell us about the USA historical figures to disassociate from the racism here that took place
Maybe it’s due to shame, but to deny people to learn about their own history
From colonialism, slavery to the windrush generation, beauty and horrors are embedded into the culture
It’s time to learn the truth, so we can all do better
I can easily find the biographies of Martin Luther King, Malcolm X and Rosa parks
But I implore you to tell me about Claudia Jones, Sam Slevon and Olive Morris
Never in the history books, lessons or documentaries
Had to scour the internet to find parts of history intrinsic to me
Do they tell you about the WIndrush generation, the fights for independence, the New Cross fire, Notting hill carnival- the lives of your parents and grandparents?
Grime, drill, jungle, carnival all parts of our culture demonised, but one day the future will look back and reminisce
Defining our history , culture Black history month is here to stay, and will only get better
The Problem Is Still Here
Written by Dee Majek
We boycotted the buses
In Bristol
But the problem
Is still here.
We rioted
Against stop and search
In Brixton
But the problem
Is still here.
We walked
For justice for
Stephen
But the problem
Is still here.
Now the youths
Carry knives to
get even
But the problem
Is still here.
The Problem is
Still here.
Fickle Black Box
Written by Nathaniel Chin
A twelve of our year,
A penny for our thoughts, and some change,
Rebated from the pounds of our mangled flesh.
Fresh from thorny cotton fields,
To a field of fickle flatteries,
Within a morsel of safe space.
But what’s a ‘black’ box and its contents,
When compared to the breadth, and the length of our story?
For 31 days we are en vogue,
Like a meme, or a hit on the Billboard chart,
And that’s as ‘façade’ as it goes.
But on the face of it all,
The world still knows that we have,
Merely scratched the surface,
Because the depths of our black goes deep.
The melting away of our skin-deep tones,
As dark as our midnight soul.
Because this ‘black’ box holds a mystery,
Of riches unveiled,
Realms not walked,
And legends untold.
Long before we jingled in iron chains,
When we adorned ourselves in Gold and Bronze,
The Age we shared our wisdom, with the sages of renown.
BC, ‘Before Condemnation’,
At a time when we were never known as slaves.
For Four Weeks
Written by Fedora Mensah
To me
Black history month
Is like a holiday in marbella
A time to sit back and relax
(for four weeks)
A break from the stare-me-downs and question-times
From the ‘where-are-you-REALLY-from-s’ and the ‘you-don’t-act-BLACK-s’
(for four weeks)
A moment to unwind and let my hair down
(for four weeks)
The freedom to know that no hands will touch my hair
(for four weeks)
That nobody will walk away knowing they got to touch me
(for four weeks)
When they ask what black history month means to me
I think how my cousins will never be asked that question
I think about how black history month doesn’t exist in accra
I think about how every day, every week, every moment in my motherland is black history month
And yet when i ask my parents
‘Who was ruby bridges?’ or ‘do you know about george stinney or ‘toussaint louverture?’
They guess: a pilot? a judge? a slave?
There’s not a thought behind their eyes
(i can’t blame them of course; the successes of caribbean generals and The struggles of african-american children cannot be found in an african curriculum)
In these moments
I can sit back on this marbella holiday of an october and say
Im glad i know what all of us
(american, haitian and ghanaian)
Have been through
I thank god for the 1st of october
(and the 1st of february)
I thank god that at least
My teachers will mention another name this october
Whether an astronaut or a gymnast
Whether dead or alive
Whether grenadian or gambian
And that the legacy of said name will continue to live on
(for at least eight weeks)
That is what the black history months mean to me
Black
Written by Pastor Zen
Black.
A conglomerate in it’s own right.
Or rather, an intersection.
Of melanin cloaked in divinity.
Pigmented muses magically infused with the reflection of God.
Though pasts point to an alternative reality.
Misunderstood, and misplaced.
Displaced from fate, disgraced by hate. Encased in places that let love waste.
They shipped us
Then whipped us
Despite this
We stand tall, still
Left marks infringe on our royalty, regardless.
They also act as life tattoos.
Reminding us of the journeys we’re on. And the battles we’ve won.
Tested by destination
Wrestled from elevation, yet.
We continue to stand.
Tall. Still.
But Black
Written by Iredia Iseghohi
I am brushed
And scribbled with rusted carving knives
Brown eye, pink tongues lick
Mahogany tribes
Coats sewn by the source, the mother
Needle thread
Miss-labelled by machines
Dark to-be-crushed
Grapes under feet
Held stuck, to irrepressible souls
Wild to the touch, they say
An ancestor king
Fought gunpowder with sticks
Bewildered the brits with guerrilla tactics
The makers of bronze sculpt my nose
Cheekbones
A goddess moves her waist
In every desire
Oshun my ego and heart
Our icons season each decade
Our pioneers cup every idea
Home-grown alchemy, sound, universal, language woven
Lifespans hip-hop off a page
In textures, shades that
Refuse to be erased
Blessed with what greater joy
But my skin and my name
But my black
The Leather Year
Written by Ashlee Paris-Jabang
“Lay down some roots” Mama Africa shouted
He heard her voice quite loud
Took a tiny seed, planting it firmly in her ground
Seeing it flourish made him proud
Year 1 that tree made Paper
A blank canvas for her and him
Tales would be left behind speaking of the AfroCarib Queen and King
“Lay down some roots” Mama Caribbean called
She heard as the ships came ashore
Rough seas and worn out trees
The end they saw no more
Year 2 that tree beared Cotton at sea
King Afro brought it to land
Finally woven together in love
With comfort Queen Carib held his hand
“Woohoo, Yes you two” AfroCarib exclaimed
They drew close to hear the ancestor clear
As the Spirit whispered their name
Kanoooo Kano Kano Kano
Year 3 that tree was tied with Leather
Durable and easy to bend.
‘A cord of three strands is not quickly broken
Though one may be overpowered, two can defend’
(Ecclesiastes four verse twelve)
SOS Malcolm X
Written by Denise Dalaba
Least protected,
Least respected.
Most neglected.
Prey for them
Malcolm pray for us
A blessing and a curse
Both a queen
and as lowly as the castle floors
Cinderella
after and before with all her flaws
But queen is only for their moments of guilt
Or when they remember
They’re the reason blood was spilt
Have YOU ever seen a crown on the floor?
I’ve seen many
When I look in the mirror
When I look at my sisters
When I look at my mother
When I look at their pictures
When I look at my grandma.
When I look into the camera.
A crown
on the floor
Trampled on
While they dance the moves we taught them
Mimic the words we taught them
All while they taunt us
Yelling “yass queen” as they continue
Trampling
After all this
They tell us
keep ya head up
don’t drop your crown queen
How can they say that when they knocked it off
Along with our confidence
Along with our smiles
Knocked off
….
Knocked up
Even when there was no answer
They shoot their shot
Knocked up
Crowns knocked off.
No protection.
No respect.
Because who respects prey?
The strongest link
Yet the lowest on the food chain
With 7 billion predators
Yes
That includes ourselves
Pitted against each other.
Who respects prey?
Who protects prey?
Who doesn’t neglect prey?
Least protected,
Least respected,
Most neglected.
Prey for them,
Malcolm PLEASE pray for us
Grandma’s House
Written by Kieron Blake
In Grandmas house, memories dwell,
Where time stands still, and stories tell.
Amongst the relics of days gone by,
I sip Baldwin sarsaparilla, oh so sly.
With every drop, the past unfurls,
In dark liquid, nostalgia swirls.
Her presence lingers in each old frame,
As whispers of love, like candles, flame.
The creaky floorboards echo my tread,
Through halls of yesteryears, I’m led.
Wilmers Court, Elms Court,
Holds secrets and dreams, those she wove.
As I sip the Sarsaparilla’s sweet embrace,
I glimpse her smile, feel her warm embrace.
Her laughter echoes in the gentle breeze,
Through windows open, inviting ease.
In the corner, her chair stands,
A sentinel of time, holding her plans.
I close my eyes, and there she appears,
A guardian angel, calming my fears.
The scent of Sunday dinner arises,
Her culinary magic, a sweet surprise.
With Baldwin’s Sarsaparilla, a perfect pair,
I relive her love and tender care.
The walls adorned with cherished art,
Masterpieces created with her heart.
Her creativity forever etched in space,
Her loving touch, no time can erase.
In this house, her spirit still roams,
A sanctuary of love, our precious home.
With each sip of Sarsaparilla divine,
Her legacy lives on, her soul aligns.
As evening descends, stars light the skies,
And tears may fall from my weary eyes.
Yet, in this place, her memory’s secure,
Forever cherished, her love endures.
So, I’ll keep drinking Baldwin’s brew,
Remembering the joy she once knew.
In Grandma’s house, I’ll find my way,
Guided by her love, come what may.
POEM STELLIUM 