Category: Poetry

the boogeyman was up all night
frightening, fighting,
working overtime
making it right.
when i woke,
under a tree
sat a brand new bike.

the boogeyman was once a boy,
Oh yes, just a child.
born in the manger
of nature’s wild.
Shielded by darkness
swaddled in black, 
the boogeyman is always under attack.

the boogeyman was up all night,
watching, making sure i slept tight.
no despair
when the boogeyman’s on site. 

who is the Boogeyman, you said?
well – the Boogeyman died but he ain’t dead.
he came back with a different name
it all depends on who gets blamed.

the boogeyman was up all night,
like the spook, he sits by the door,
making welfare checks – you alright?

they lied when they said,
the boogeyman wasn’t home, 
walked out, leaving you alone.
i just saw the Boogeyman, 
he ain’t gone.

yes, we all no who the boogeyman scared, 
the same one the boogeyman dared.

out of sight, in my mind
the boogeyman ain’t never hard to find.
who is the boogeyman, You said?
gaze into the mirror – say the word boo!
you’ll see the boogeyman 
staring back at you.

by K. Osei

in a spurt of conception
life seeks expression.

in tune with self,
naught to mend, 
lust or wealth.

primal fresh,
supple flesh.
morning glow,
absent opinion
it’ll come to know.

mystic splendor
demands surrender,
complete vulnerability. 
sacred and bare,
immortality declared
just within me.

bashing in wonder
of cultural curiosity, 
a world to plunder
claiming no identity.

by K. Osei

The yoke of Yoga is spontaneous intuition.
is not to bind or strain,
contort, distort
how teachers train.
it is to breath, 
gently drift
with placid ease.

not to rush or brush
against moment and mat
but remain compose,
just where you’re at.

the yoke of yoga
is to rejoin the dance 
of nature’s flow,
remembering, forgetting  
all that we know. 

to stroll among trees,
the breeze, the chime,
the secret places
hard to find.

the yoke of yoga
is out of time,
for time is ego –
to center the body
in presence of mind.

not the web of rules 
of don’ts  and dues,
a force of will
to win or lose.

is the essence of craft
not angles of math,
degree of fold
or length of hold.

every pose
yokes the muscle
that needs the most

the yoke of yoga 
is slightest of all,
a chord of darkness 
beyond the wall.

the yoke of yoga
is not a claim or name,
drawn to fame.
tis’ the private prayer, 
is everything and nothing, 
still – it is there. 

not a room or hideaway,
is required duties of the day. 
is daily grind
through rivers rage most divine.
is spacious in thought 
and gracious untaught.

the yoke of yoga is yet defined,
the yoga yoke alludes the mind.
the yoke of yoga is the path to wealth
with many roads that lead to self.
is the rhythm of life found in death
the prana in and out of breath.

by K. Osei

sometimes i feel happy when i see you cut avocados,
listen to Heavy D and Vaux Diop.
i heard you talking to one of your
friends the other day;
you were teaching them breath.
you gave purple nettle and mullein to her pops.

i saw you staring  out the window –
you were looking at the trees.
what did they tell you?
she knew how to speak to trees also.
i saw her too.

remember when you ask me to protest?
you put black tape on your face and held up your fist.
sometimes when i think back, i feel happy again,
like i said something good.

i watched you with him,
he had on your shoes
like you had on mine,
you were teaching him food —
and i smiled. 

by K. Osei