My Life In Word

A POEM A DAY 243

June 20, 2026

You Will Hear

When the wind blows,
you will hear me
in the hush between the leaves,
in the soft bend of branches
that know how to bow
without breaking.

You will hear me
where the screen door sighs,
where the old house settles
into its bones,
where curtains lift
like hands remembering touch.

I will not come loudly.
I have never been thunder.
I have always been
the small sound after—
the breath left behind,
the whisper beneath the storm.

When the wind blows,
listen close.

I will be there
in the grass leaning one way,
in the chimes trembling silver,
in the trees telling secrets
they were never brave enough
to speak while standing still.

You will hear my love
even if my name
has fallen from your mouth.

You will hear my ache
even if time
has covered it with dust.

You will hear my prayer
moving through the pines,
soft and stubborn,
still searching for the window
you forgot to close.

And if the night grows heavy,
if loneliness sits beside you
like an old familiar coat,
do not be afraid
of what the dark carries.

Some things return
not to haunt us,
but to remind us
they were real.

So when the wind blows,
you will hear
what I could not say.

You will hear
what I tried to survive.

You will hear
the part of me
that never stopped reaching
for home.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Alistair MacRobert on Unsplash 
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.

A POEM A DAY 242

June 19, 2026

The Cry Behind the Smile

There is a cry behind the smile,

a small, trembling thing
pressed against my ribs,
listening to laughter
as though it belongs
to someone else.

Most people never hear it.

They see the curve of my lips,
the practiced ease,
the sunlight I offer
like a welcome mat.

They do not see
the storm cellar beneath.

The cry lives there.

It gathers every disappointment,
every goodbye,
every moment I needed saving
and was told to be strong instead.

It knows the taste of swallowed words,
the salt of tears dried before dawn,
the ache of standing in crowded rooms
feeling invisible.

Still,
the smile appears.

Not because the cry has vanished,
but because life asks me
to keep moving.

So I carry both.

The smile,
bright as a lantern.

The cry,
heavy as a stone in my pocket.

One helps me greet the world.

The other reminds me
that wounds do not disappear
simply because they are hidden.

Sometimes, late at night,
when silence loosens its grip,
the cry slips out.

Not as a scream.

Not as a breaking.

But as a whisper.

A soft confession
to the darkness:

I am tired.

I am hurting.

I am still here.

And somehow,
that is enough.

By morning,
the smile returns.

Not as a lie,
but as evidence—

that the cry and I
have survived another night
together.

Simona A.  Brinson

Photo by Andreia Cunha on Unsplash

Wind in Britches

June 18, 2026

Daddy say it low like thunder rollin’ through the kitchen air,
“Girl, that ain’t no man—just wind in britches, nothin’ there.”
I hear him by the sink, water tappin’ like a tired song,
Talkin’ ‘bout a man who always right but always wrong.

“Wind in Britches,” Daddy spit, eyes fixed on the floor,
“Blow in with a promise, then he gone right out the door.
Don’t feed his kids, don’t pay his dues, just drink that check away—
A sorry man is what I call him, every single day.”

Daddy sigh soft, fryin’ cornbread, grease pop-pop-pop,
Says, “He come 'round sweet talkin’ till the money stop.”
I smell that skillet, hear the crackle, feel the heat rise high,
Like truth too hot to swallow, like smoke up in the sky.

Daddy laugh but it ain’t funny, more like gravel in his throat,
“Boy won’t keep a job long enough to keep a steady coat.
No account, no backbone, just driftin’ like the dust—
A man who won’t take care of his own? That ain’t a man you trust.”

And I see him in my memory—leanin’ in the doorway frame,
Smell of liquor on his breath, always someone else to blame.
He’d say, “I’m fixin’ to change,” voice smooth as honeyed air,
But change don’t live in empty words or pockets always bare.

Now Daddy voice get quiet, like church before the choir,
“Wind in Britches never builds, he only builds desire
To run from what he started, leave it crumblin’ where it lay—
That’s a sorry man, baby… nothin’ more to say.”

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by mediha ekici on Unsplash

Friday Favorites: Why did God make me Black?

May 15, 2026

by RuNell Ni Ebo

Lord, Lord
Why did You make me Black?
Why did You make someone
the world wants to hold back?

Black is the color of dirty clothes,
the color of grimy hands and feet.
Black is the color of darkness,
the color of tire-beaten streets.

Why did You give me thick lips,
a broad nose and kinky hair?
Why did You make someone
who receives the hatred stare?

Black is the color of the bruised eye
when someone gets hurt.
Black is the color of darkness,
Black is the color of dirt.

How come my bone structure’s so thick,
my hips and cheeks are high?
How come my eyes are brown
and not the color of daylight sky?

Why do people think I’m useless?
How come I feel so used?
Why do some people see my skin
and think I should be abused?

Lord I just don’t understand.
What is it about my skin?
Why do some people want to hate me
and not know the person within?

Black is what people are “listed”
when others want to keep them away.
Black is the color of shadows cast.
Black is the end of day.

Lord you know my own people mistreat me
and I know this just ain’t right.
They don’t like my hair.
They say I’m too dark or too light.

Lord, don’t You think it’s time for You
to make a change?
Why don’t You re-do creation and
make everyone the same?

God answered:
Why did I make you Black?
Why did I make you Black?
Get off your knees and look around
Tell me, what do you see?
I didn’t make you in the image of darkness,

I made you in likeness of ME!
I made you the color of coal from which
beautiful diamonds are formed.
I made you the color of oil,
the black gold that keeps people warm.

I made you from the rich, dark earth that can
grow the food you need.
You color’s the same as the black stallion,
a majestic animal is he.
I didn’t make you in the image of darkness.
I made you in likeness of ME!

All the colors of the heavenly rainbow can be
found throughout every nation.
But when all of those colors were blended,
you became my greatest creation.

Your hair is the texture of lamb’s wool.
Such a humble little creature is he.
I am the Shepherd who watches them.
I am the One who will watch over thee.

You are the color of midnight sky.
I put the star’s glitter in your eyes.
There is a smile hidden behind your pain.
That’s why your cheeks are so high.

You are the color of dark clouds formed,
when I send My strongest weather.
I made your lips full so when you kiss
the one that you love, they will remember.

Your stature is strong, your bone structure thick
to withstand the burdens of time.
The reflection you see in the mirror…
The image that looks back is MINE.

Originally posted on my blog: https://harvest-life.org/2020/09/25/poem-why-did-god-make-me-black-by-runell-ni-ebo/

Photo by Nick Owuor (astro.nic.portraits) on Unsplash

A POEM A DAY 239

May 14, 2026

Ghost in the Fog

In the hush where morning lingers,
A pale spirit parts the mist,
Silent as an ancient secret,
Soft as winter on the wrist.
Eyes like weathered moons are watching,
Calm beneath the silver sky,
Holding storms it never speaks of,
Letting passing shadows die.
Ghost-white mane in quiet motion,
Breath dissolving into air,
A lonely king of fog and stillness,
Wrapped in silence, there.
No trumpet call, no thundering gallop,
Only presence, deep and slow—
Like a dream the earth remembers
From a thousand years ago.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Sayan Ghosh on Unsplash

WORDS OF WISDOM #76

May 12, 2026

A POEM A DAY 238

May 11, 2026

Where Love Goes

Love doesn’t leave all at once.
It loosens first—
a thread pulled from a seam
you didn’t know was holding everything together.
It settles into ordinary places:
the quiet side of the bed,
the mug you stop reaching for,
the space between sentences
where something used to answer back.
It lingers in the body,
a muscle that remembers
how to reach without thinking,
how to turn toward warmth
that is no longer there.
Some of it hardens—
becomes caution,
a practiced distance,
the instinct to step back
before the ground gives way again.
Some of it softens into memory,
edges blurred,
voices lowered,
like a room you once lived in
but no longer enter.
And some of it—
the part that was always yours—
does not die at all.
It waits,
unclaimed,
learning a new shape
in the quiet.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

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