His Angels

His angel was someone who we never knew.

And his angel wore pale blue.

And his angel, too, wore a dark blue tunic.

And was missing a finger tip,
Spoke with a twang
through parted lips
and drawled.

And his angel was bald.

Was Northern.

Was tall.

And is angel was small and had black skin.

And brown skin.

And white skin too.

And his angel laughed
with a laugh that warmed us through.

And his angel was grieving too…
Lost a loved one, true,
But still they freed him
Still their pain relieved him
Their dirge; a reprieving psalm.

And his angel was someone who’d passed,
But as they passed
they pressed unpause so that we could restart,
Scorched an indelible mark
upon our hearts,
And in our lives.

And so forever in our minds,
And so eternally obliged,
Until our very embers die,
We shall remember this gift of light.

We shall remember you.

The angel who
we never knew.


Coat of Arms

When the arrows of their hatred
breach the balustrade,
I don my battered armour,
And I do so unafraid,
My way is paved with hardship,
With ignorance as grout,
Each step upon this endless road,
A lash from Massa’s knout,
And all the while winds whisper,
“You are not as good as me”,
But I fend off every catcall
with the shield bequeathed to me;
Generations came before us
Stocking arsenals of lore
to help teach our children they are worthy,
That they can fly, that they will soar,
So time to polish up my armour,
Pass on the torch my mother bore,
And bestow upon my daughter
the weapons for her war.

Living Dead

Straw to back
Sleepwalking insomniac
Popped corn
Curtains drawn
Watching the sideshow of my life
Fly on the wall
Watching it all
Watching the sideshow of my life
I am awake and I am not
Every kernel popped
Train derailed and stopped
Passengers flock to dance on my grave
And I’m watching the lot
Watching myself rot
I am here and I am not
Watching the lot from inside my head
Rites are read
Cerberus fled
I, the living dead

The Selfish

The Selfish is here,
Glued mouth, I watch,
Eyes wide shut,
A passenger in this
runaway truck.


The Selfish is here,
Hands tied, I watch,
Puppet strings cut,
Broken marionette
trapped in His box.


The Selfish is here,
Heart bound, I watch,
Drum beat hushed,
Pig skin shucked,
Hollow, barrelling
down the hummock amok.


Stuck. Stuck. Stuck.

All out of luck.

But the Selfish can’t touch
what the selfish can’t touch.

Weave and duck,
Retreat, close up,
The wall is up,
No more.


The Dovecote

I am a dove, but I am not,
I am a pigeon in their flock,
Krio ear rings
as my pidgin tongue sings,
Ah de trai, but still the flock mocks,
Cackles, like a slip knot, garotte.
Knock, knock?
“You’re not a part of our flock.”

I am a dove, but I am not,
I am a chicken in their flock,
feathered shades of grey
in their numbers they are safe,
I try to blend but I’m the first the fox spots,
Hackles up, scattered doves, and I’m caught.
Knock, knock?
“You’re not a part of our flock.”

I am a dove but I am not,
I am a parrot in their flock,
Try to dance their dance
Try to extend an olive branch,
Being me should be enough but it’s not,
Decades passed and at last I’ve grown up.
So guess what?
They’re not a part of my flock.


Bluebell in my hand,
Sheltered petals kissed with dew,
Cold gnawing at my fingers,
But I will not let her through.

Bluebell safe and warm,
Perfume rising on the wind,
Winter wants to take you from me,
But I will not let him win.

Bluebell dipped in sky,
Violet harbour in this grey,
I know that you are dying,
But you need not be afraid.

Bluebell mine, bluebell mine,
Ever beautiful and frail,
Long after you have left me,
My heart will sing your tale.


I was not involved in #NaPoWriMo (now #GloPoWriMo) last year, and while I can’t commit to the whole 30 days, this year I may dip in and out….

Here’s a poem about choice:


There is a door
at the end
of the hall,
Shut tight.
It is not locked,
but jammed
with fear.

How did I end up here?

I press an ear
to the wood,
I think I could,
I think I should,
But is an open door
really freedom?
Or just the beginning
of a razor edged wall?

Will I fly?

Will I fall?

Should I sacrifice it all
for possibility?
Or is that naive of me?
In reality the
shades are grey
And so I stay
For now…
Better the devil
you vowed
to know.

Sleeping Bear

I am a sleeping bear
with the richest hide of tan,
Try and wake me if you dare,
But none too many can.
You can poke and you can tease;
I may grumble, I may moan,
But in a deep passivity
I have made my humble home.
A bear unlike my kin,
Yes indeed I stand apart,
For while I may have thickened skin,
It hides a timid heart.
So sleep is what I choose,
And I choose sleep because it’s safe,
For even the strongest sinews
will give way to strain and fray.
One hundred times you’ll shake me,
One hundred times I will ignore,
One hundred one? Now that will break me
and this sleeping bear will roar.
So the moral here is clear,
The warning; plain to see
I am a sleeping bear
and you’d do well to leave me be.

The Launch by Reece Malcolm

So I have been writing since I was 7, inspired by my father’s own passion for poetry and his enviable way with words. My older brother’s remarkable love affair with poetry also started at a young age and his career has really taken off this year. You should check him out if you get a chance, he ROCKS.

But perhaps the most amazing thing for me right now is that my 9 year old son came home from school today and showed me a poem he wrote. I was overwhelmed with pride and cannot wait to see where this new interest, this new talent, can take him, so I promised I would share his poem on my blog, hopefully launching what could be an amazing life of rhyme.

How apt that his first ever piece is entitled “Launch”. I hope you’ll see the potential I see when you read it. Enjoy!!


By Reece Malcolm

Glass eyes see
people prepared
for the journey ahead
for the gigantic rocket
to fart out the fiery flames

Glass ears hear
rumbling like a hungry
grey wolf ready to
flame up and explode

Glass mouths scream
in the caved belly
of the wolf
squealing out loud

Glass hearts feel
terrified in the chill
shivering in the cold
soon they might start to


Glass eyes see
the rocket pushing
into the air
leaving steam
behind it as
it goes into
the black sea
of nothingness.



First Love

You held my hand when I was young,
I looked up and saw more than my father,
I saw the first man I would ever love,
And the mould for each man thereafter.

You showed me the beauty of strength
when it’s blended with a gentle core,
How to appreciate all that I have,
While still pushing myself to be more.

You taught me the value of family,
And that the brain is vessel to feed,
You taught me selflessness and humility,
And the world between want and need.

You taught me how to seek respect,
And showed me how to self-reflect,
How to always reach for the stars,
And how to never accept anything less.

All this and more you have shown me,
And for all this and more I give praise,
You have made me the woman I am,
And I will love to ’til the end of my days.

Poetry by Niobe Malcolm Copyright 2017 All Rights Reserved

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