Expressions Creativity through spoken words.

 'When a writing community is needed.

A Blocked Out Poetry'

By Veleta Hayles

Her historical novel two months ago- Vouge.

Wrote thinking,

I managed six weeks instead of including at four o’clock.

Free family aggressively surf the net.

Noticed how happy we were.

For the time being

What, twitter and Instagram perfect essential self-control?

I lose out of school day – Even better.

Its far easier up two people furiously.

Typing the cat sat on the mat.

My first draft. Its difficult. A plot line at around the third of the way.

New writers – self-sabotage. 

Script and shiny ideas.

This countless manuscript– why?

Working with writers is unspoken. 

Won’t allow other editing.

Clunking one end.

Oh my God!

This pair of utter pants bound to cry.

Its only story imagined.

Beginning starts, it’s tough keeping up.

Faith idea support when we hit a brick wall.

Storming themes, names titles before we rented

The beautiful estate.

Run walk, backdrop buy coffee from little restaurant.

Making Notes
Big Plaits.png
“G5 Global Facebook” The way he holds sp


Tic, Tac.

Like light, it went pop.

It stopped before it dropped.

Then it laid still.

It ran and still,

Spurting and lurking awkwardly.

And stopped; pop.

A light flashed.

Flop into a cowshed.

Heavy like led.

It laid with the unfed.

When it spilled, it yelled, then fell.

The clock stopped the light,

Flip, flop.

Lurking, jerking,

Light in flashing cowshed.








 'Still, I Rise'




You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.


Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still, I'll rise.


Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?


Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own backyard.


You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.


Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?


Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past, that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.





Care not, I’m not myself anymore. Pity i

Night Angels


It is evening going into the night. 

Biting and aspiring.

Shaping looking into the night.

Free from obstructions.

Might be a thought I treasured.

Not out of spite.

But necessity.

Seventy days and one extra year.

Standing at the place I know so well.

Should it be that it is happening to me?

Maybe not.

In stillness the sounds of angels.

If so what else was there to see. 

Resigned that today might not change.

Another day will come..

Another night will shine.

Where will it find me?

Sighing or shining?

Whatever it might be.

No one except those that leave their shells.

Another moment left bare.

Indecisiveness surely will not bother me.

Reaching is my desire.

Hoping, it will come.

Clearer once the mist is gone.

Evening comes and gone like the hares floating in the wind.

Fluttering merriment.

So will the night be a little later?

Awakening Truths 


Like wisdom.

Everyday growing strength.

News with phrase predicted decades.


Thank God. 

Simple exonerated.

Conduct, love ending Okay.

Making those hardest edges practically perfect.


13 doves, geese work 14 outside.

Together cats.

Beloved golden cocker.

Despite time.

Even fortuitous.



It's unusual cards.

Playing, gum, sweets.

30-year-old triple pain.

Work 4000 bags.

Playing cards.

Tiny essentially.


World Poetry Series: Shivanee Ramlochan and Enrique Winter