I may want to say I love you,
But how does one measure love,
In syllables, or in the tremor of a soul that stumbles at your smile?
Your beauty disarms language, turns words into stardust,
And I, a poet, become a beggar before your glow.
I may want to confess how you make me feel whole,
Yet “whole” feels too small, too mortal,
For you mend things I never knew were broken.
You walk past, and even the wind forgets its direction,
Even time takes a pause, to stare.
I may want to spend all my hours with you,
But what story shall I tell when the universe listens in envy?
Shall I speak of how your laughter baptizes the air,
Or how your eyes hold constellations of dreams that the stars bow to?
Even metaphors kneel when you pass.
You, my dear, are not within the normal SI unit of beauty,
You are the measurement that broke the scale.
The scientists may try to name your glow,
But it is art, not arithmetic; melody, not reason.
You are the kind of beauty that poets chase and never catch.
@doddyokelo
Tag: beauty
How It Feels To Be Home
I am afraid,of the dark that breathes and shifts,
It bends and folds around the corners of my mind,
Where unseen eyes wait in shadowed silence,
And whispers crawl like wind through broken glass.
The night becomes a mouth, open and waiting,
And I am its trembling sound, half-alive, half-lost,
Reaching out for the sound of your name,
To anchor me where the light once stayed.
I see them, those figures born of fear’s design,
They lean against the walls like memories uninvited,
Their outlines blur in the dim, uncertain air,
And I cannot tell if they move or merely breathe.
They haunt the corners of my sight like regret,
Soft, cruel, and patient in their waiting,
Till your voice, gentle as dawn, loosens the dark,
And the room remembers how to breathe again.
I hear them too, the voices that hiss and murmur,
They tell me of endings that never began,
Of love that rusts beneath the weight of time.
They are not real, I tell myself, they are smoke,
Yet they know the cracks in my courage by name,
They slip through the seams of my silence,
Till your presence returns, steady and golden,
And their cruel chorus falls to dust.
Without you, fear builds its kingdom in my chest,
A fortress of shadows and unanswered prayers,
But when you come, the darkness loses its teeth.
You are the dawn that rinses the night of its grief,
The calm after thunder, the stillness after rain.
You make the corners smooth again,
And I, once a ghost in my own house,
Find my pulse, steady and sure, in your light.
So come, my calm, my gentle resurrection,
Wrap your warmth around this frightened skin,
Hold me like a promise you mean to keep,
Till the dark forgets my name,
Till every whisper learns to fade,
Till the moon watches us without envy,
And the stars sing softly of peace.
Walk with me, down these hollow streets of thought,
Where my footsteps answer old fears,
Let your hand fit mine like sunlight fits morning,
Let our shadows melt into one.
For with you, the night forgets its hunger,
And even silence dares to dream again.
Come, fill this hollow where my heart once broke,
Plant your laughter in the cracks of my chest,
Let love grow where fear once built walls,
Let your light spill over my broken fields.
With you, every barren thing learns to bloom again,
The air tastes of spring, and I remember,
How it feels to be unafraid,
How it feels to be home.
So come, be my light, my refuge, my calm,
Walk with me until the dark forgets its way,
Hold me till the world grows quiet and kind.
For when you are here, the night stands still,
And even my ghosts bow in surrender,
For they, too, know your name means dawn.
@doddyokelo
Daughter of The Mountain
I met her on an afternoon
when the sun burned low,
spilling gold across the earth
as though the day itself leaned close
to let slip its quiet confessions.
She was slim-thick,
a flame held steady in the wind,
with a presence that filled the space
more surely than height or breadth could command.
Her skin bore the quiet radiance
of fertile Kenyan earth after rain,
luminous, alive with the memory of rivers.
Her beauty was the beauty that stays,
like a song remembered long
after the singer has gone.
Her eyes were wide, dark pools,
holding the innocence of unspoken dreams,
and the fierce pride of the hills,
green and ancient,
keepers of stories older than memory.
When she looked, it was not merely at you,
it was into you,
as though the soul were something
she had always known,
and only sought to confirm.
Her laughter was small, quick,
yet it carried,
like the delicate chiming of cowbells
drifting from a far valley.
Her movements, precise, almost shy,
the way a swallow folds its wings before flight,
yet within them was a grace
no stage could rehearse.
She was not made of ornaments or excess
but of silences,
of natural songs,
of that soft balance between fragility
and unyielding strength.
To call her beautiful
would be to simplify what was infinitely complex.
She was the outline of twilight
against the ridge,
the fragrance of tea leaves
crushed between fingers,
the silence of evening rain on tin roofs.
She was the Mountain itself,
its promise, its mystery,
its unbroken spirit made flesh.
And in her presence,
I felt the world pause,
as though even time leaned in
to watch her pass.
@doddyokelo
Light of My Days
There are many names for a woman,
but none that speak your fullness,
you are dawn in its first whisper of gold,
a soft psalm wrapped in morning light,
a cathedral of calm where my heart kneels,
finding faith again in the sound of your voice.
You walk as if the earth remembers your kindness;
flowers lift their faces in your passing.
Your laughter, a river that knows its way home,
sculpts joy across the landscape of our days.
Even silence becomes sacred when shared with you,
for you breathe poetry into the air itself.
Once, you were a girl with suns in her eyes,
and the world crowned you mother,
not with jewels, but with gentle burdens,
and you bore them like grace itself.
Your hands stitched comfort into chaos,
turning hunger into hope, noise into hymn.
In your eyes, I have seen God’s tender art,
the patience of oceans, the courage of storms.
You are the soft peace that follows heartbreak,
the reason broken wings learn to fly again.
Your love has been both shelter and sword,
cutting fear from the edges of my name.
Every word I’ve ever spoken carries your echo,
each dream is scented faintly with your prayers.
You are the unseen flow in my becoming,
the quiet architect of my strength.
When I stumbled, you became the ground beneath me,
steady, forgiving, endlessly near.
What language could ever hold your worth?
What poet could bind your light in ink?
You are not to be described, but felt,
like rain, or grace, or home after exile.
And so, I do not thank you with words,
but with the life you helped me build.
Here’s to you, Mum,
keeper of warmth, bearer of mornings,
woman of endless tomorrows.
May joy drape you like silk at sunrise,
and time bow gently before your smile.
You are every beautiful thing I know.
Happy Birthday,
for the world grew softer the day you were born,
and I have been blessed to call its miracle Mother.
@doddyokelo
The White Rose of Evening
This evening, I longed to hear
the soft murmur of your voice,
a balm to soothe my restless day,
a whisper to draw all cares away.
I hoped these tired, journeying eyes
might rest upon your face,
the gentlest vision ever known,
a beauty wrought from heaven.
One word I wished my lips could send,
a tender phrase that has no end
Sleep well, my beautiful,
you are the hymn my soul will always sing.
Do you know, how fair you are?
No star holds such a faithful star,
and in your eyes the heavens lie,
two oceans deep, where tempests die.
They hold the light of morning skies,
the tender gleam where stillness hides,
a secret world where love abides,
the endless truth of paradise.
So take these words, though soft and few,
my white rose, pure as evening dew,
no poet’s hand could dare devise
a bloom more fair than your sweet eyes.
The First Flower, The Vagina
The world has sung of sunrises,
of rivers keeping their promise to the sea,
of roses opening after rain.
But rarely has the world spoken
of the first flower it ever knew,
the blossom that does not grow in gardens,
yet feeds every root of humanity.
It cannot be withered by winter,
cannot be starved by famine,
cannot be broken by storm.
It is the beauty at the center of woman,
the place of birth,
of power,
of beauty,
of poetry.
It is no accident that her body
carries both beauty and beginning.
She is a garden,
her petals folding and unfolding with grace.
No sculptor has carved it,
no hand could fashion it better.
This is the seat of power,
waiting in patience,
waiting in reverence.
Do not call it small.
It is wide as oceans,
deep as memory.
Within its folds
nations are conceived,
histories take breath.
Its lines are strong
as the roots of the baobab,
steady as mountains
that do not move.
Yes, it is a flower,
but not a fragile bloom
that dies in the sun.
It is a rose of fire,
a blossom of strength,
pulsing with flow,
beating with song.
Tender for creation,
not decoration.
Its beauty is not for passing eyes,
but for the truth that life itself
begins here.
When it opens,
It blooms in trust,
in the warmth of love,
in the honest catch
of reverent hands.
Like dawn, it spills light.
Like rivers, it flows free.
And in its unfolding
is both poetry and prophecy.
Many have tried to name it,
to paint it,
to own it.
But it belongs to no brush,
no word,
no claim.
It is the garden every woman carries,
the fire every woman guards,
the throne every woman sits upon,
with dignity,
with laughter,
with strength.
Touch it,
and you touch mystery.
Look upon it with reverence,
and you see the handwriting of God
upon flesh.
Here hunger softens,
longing becomes creation,
desire meets its answer.
It is gift,
not possession.
Blessing,
not burden.
So speak of it with respect.
Speak of it as you would
the sun,
the river,
the ground beneath your feet.
It is flower,
it is fire,
it is freedom.
It is woman.
And in its beauty
lives a truth unshakable:
that life,
in all its splendor and sorrow,
begins here,
and nowhere else.
Man, I am Handsome
Men are not taught to see themselves as wonders.
We are raised to be stoic pillars, to bear weight in silence, to give and rarely pause to admire the giver. Yet here I stand, seeing myself with unashamed eyes, and for once, I speak it.
I am the most handsome man.
Mirrors tell me so,
Life itself sculpted me into this. I walk into a room and the air hesitates; I am presence. Followed by the rest—ah, perhaps one or two who might come close, but even then, I remain singular.
O God, you must have stayed on me.
When you carved the curve of this jaw, the arch of these shoulders, the stretch of these long bones reaching six feet tall. You painted my skin the deep color of rich earth after rain, dark, fertile, alive, and filled it with juice sweeter than the tongues of poets could ever capture.
Look at this frame: built with labor, yet graceful; strength that does not shout but simply exists, unyielding.
And within, a mind—ah, this mind!sharp enough to draw envy, steady enough to draw trust, restless enough to seek and never settle.
What else, man? What else could I ask for?
Potential thrumming in my veins, character like bedrock under my feet.
I am art. Not perfect, no, but what masterpiece ever was?
So here I am.
Appreciating me.
Because if I cannot honor the marvel of my own making, who will?
@okelododdychitchats
New, and New Again
There is a lantern burning in the darkened orchard, its flame steady though the winds conspire against it. So is my heart, unshaken by storm, for it has taken your name as its eternal wick. No night has been so deep that your light did not find me there.
There is a river that bends and bends again, yet never loses its way to the sea. My devotion follows. Each thought of you is a current, each dream of you is a tide, until all of me is poured into the great ocean of your being.
There is a star that stays when the dawn has claimed the sky, a lone sentinel of night’s mystery. That star is the memory of your eyes, refusing to fade though the day demands dominion. Even in the crowded brilliance of life, it is you I see, burning beyond the reach of time.
There is a music that no instrument can summon, yet I hear it whenever your spirit brushes mine. It is the song of beginnings, the hymn that shepherded the first lovers through gardens of wonder. It comes to me as though the world were created anew each moment I think of you.
There is a door that opens in silence, where absence becomes presence, and distance is folded into breath. Each time you cross my mind, you do not return as you were, but as something more, a revelation sharpened by longing, softened by tenderness.
There is a secret, older than scripture yet younger than every heartbeat: that to love is to discover eternity within the hour. I touch your soul not as one who has known, but as one astonished still, as though my lips had just now learned the miracle of your name.
There is, at last, this vow, not sculpted in stone, but written in the quickening blood of a heart undone. I will meet you again and again as though for the first time, a pilgrim at the gates of wonder. And when the world is ash and the sky a forgotten scroll, my love shall still be there, new, and new again.
@okelododdychitchats
In the Dust, A Pulse
I like to seek the treasure hidden in the dust.
To lift what is broken, what others have thrown aside,
and hold it until it speaks.
There is a life in things the eye does not see,
a cup that has forgotten the lips it once touched,
a blade that once sang in the air,
a flower that still dreams of sun though it is ash.
I do not take them as they are.
I search for what they wanted to be.
I listen for the pulse beneath their silence,
for the promise that time could not keep.
And in that quiet,
I find something greater than beauty,
the truth that nothing is ever truly lost,
only waiting to be seen again.
@okelododdychitchats
I HAVE SEEN BEAUTY BEFORE, BUT NOT YOURS
Not for the dress alone, though it was red,
and carried the room like fire carries light.
Not for the beauty of the face alone,
though it was gentle, and proud, and true.
But for the smile,
the first I saw,
that held no vanity,
no asking,
no disguise.
It came like rain to thirsty ground,
quiet, unbidden, and remembered.
Since then I have wished one thing:
not to stand afar as a passerby,
not to be lost in the drift of strangers,
but to be near,
to be counted on,
to be the voice that answers
when your night turns heavy.
Take this as my beginning,
a word instead of a rose.
If you will have it,
let it open slowly,
like trust,
like morning.
@okelododdychitchats
okelododdychitchats 