What Happened to Hope?

Word on the street is she is missing in action.
I am here to find her and bring her home.

Hope, they say, was last seen in a land
where their gold is black;
At least that’s what my TV told me.
The last time I opened a newspaper,
I swear I saw her face in the obituaries.

Could she have been defeated?
Weary from competing with fear
that always followed footsteps,
Too weak to fight death dancing at doors?

Imagine Hope growing tired
hushing the cries of children
And wiping away a mother's tears.

I am still trying to understand—
what happened to Hope?

If anyone sees her, please, tell her the day she left,
She took with her the light that shone
on even the darkest corners of the earth . . .
And now, no one even knows we’re there.

Tell her, her absence has made it easier
for people to turn a blind eye to suffering,
For believers to stop believing.
Tell her I dare her to prove them wrong.

What happened to Hope?

Does she realize that Liberia,
A place she gave birth to—
long before whips became unbearable—
Is being gang-raped before a global audience,
The victims lying dead in the streets.

Tell her to run o! Ya’ll tell her to make haste.

Let her bring with her the scent of solidarity,
dignity and liberation,
To cover up the stench of decay,
disease and devastation.
Tell her to bring food for thought—
And for children hungry for a new life.

What ever happened to Hope?

How could she have forgotten the forsaken?
What could have possessed her
to bail out on her beloved?
Wasn’t she the one who taught us survival?
Wasn’t she capable of erasing boundaries
to make the impossible seem probable?

I refuse to believe Hope isn’t alive and well somewhere,
Just preparing for her return.
A resurrection that dusts away the cobwebs of denial,
Condemns the disregard for humanity,
And cleanses misery from souls.

‘Cause you see, Hope has got to be more than
just another word,
Some clichéd notion we throw around
just because we can.
Hope means more to some of us than others,
Simply because our livelihoods
often depends on her.

She gives us the strength to fight back, to speak up,
To rise and face adversity and injustice.
She breathes life into inevitable movements
and evolutions.

Hope gives us a fleeting glance
At a chance for peace.
And the will to trade another suffocating today
For a better tomorrow.

I believe this kind of hope is woven
into the fabric of life.

And if we’ve lost her, and Hope lives no more.
Tell me, what now, do we have to live for?

Like A Dream

Like a dream they came to me;
The souls of my ancestors, whose voices, like trumpets
Echoed in my ears.
They came to me with tales of tribulations
I could barely comprehend.

Like a dream they came to me;
The very essence of my ancestors,
Bringing forth the gift of strength
The boon of wisdom
And the foundation for culture.

And only in my dream was I comforted
by the souls that birthed
And nurtured and loved me.
And I for once was praised by souls
who were inventors and teachers and prophets.

I shed tears for the souls who were courageous enough
to endure the devil's lashes,
Only to stand in the grace of the Almighty.
Because of them,
I was strengthened by the countless battles
Waged only to set precedence to my existence.

And through the haze of my dream,
I embraced mother and sister and daughter.
And we rejoiced in the name of our Creator
Each blessing and every miracle of life.

And as the opaqueness of my dream slowly dissipated,
I stood among grandfather and son and brother.
They spoke stern words
against straying from the path of true righteousness.
And once more I felt their protective hold on my being.

And as if dawn had manifested itself through me,
The souls of my ancestors
Became a flame,
Burning brilliantly from God,
Reflecting graciously onto me.

The Children

This is for the children,
From every walk of life.
Your suffering is a sad song
I sing to sleep every night.
I ask myself the questions
We should never have to speak
The ones about the children
With voices far too weak.

What about the children,
With limbs lost to landmines and machetes?
Brainwashed by rebels and rappers,
Their deception is ever ready.
And what about the children
Locked in closets,
Prisoners of strangers and kin
Abused by those they trust and love
Teachers and supposed holy men.

What about the children,
With bellies swollen,
But not with food?
And what about the children
With bones that only protrude?
Doesn't every child deserve to have
Fat cheeks that need a pinch?
And why should they fear worse than death,
That no one notices them?

What about the children
hit by stray bullets in the streets.
Trafficked like cattle, the tiniest slaves
Their innocence lost to the greedy
And all the while we hide behind
our shameful institutions
So far-removed from humanity
While they're forced into prostitution.

Everyday I lose a part of my soul,
when I see my children suffer
I pray for Goddess to clear a space in her heart
For them to finally have a mother,
To live an afterlife they should have lived
While they were on this plane.
Tears do not convey the loathing I feel
To those who bring my children pain.

To all the children,
Across the globe,
From the ones I only hear about
To the ones that I know;
If it matters at all,
My love swims across oceans
And travels in time.
If only, I wish at night,
I could make you all mine.