My Albatross





I hear it in the scream of the caged albatross,

Trapped within the caves that make up my heart:

The plea, the prayer, the demand.

An asking for open gates and swift

Air beneath the wings, a rising, up, high,

Unafraid, untamed, uncompromised,

The claim, inherent by blood and life,

To expand the wings and fly.

A right to dream, to hope, to dare.

To expect more out of every day,

Out of every rising sun, to wish –

No, to call for, so much more, than

The breadcrumbs I am supposed

To be satisfy with.

I was born to be free.

From the fears, from the threats,

From the monsters in my mind, the mean

Step-sisters living in the inside,

Burning me in the acid attack of their hate.

Now I know I was created for more.

I was born to dance all night,

To charter the stars,

Climb the mountains on my path,

Go down into the dark

Of the cave, mother of wisdom

And fright, holder of the mirror

Of who I am.

I was made for the laughter and the

the mirth, the lovingness and the caress.

To live life, deliciously.

In awe of all the potentiality

Within myself.

In greatness I was born,

To change with the moon,

To play with the sun…

Anything less than so is too

Small for me and the

Sovereignty of my life.

I have seen the truth.

I have left the fear behind.

I have stolen the key from my jailer

And crash open the cage wide.

The wings of my liberty, strong and big,

Unfold, unfurl, extend.

My albatross is set free.

And it soars to the edge of the universe.

Life and I



I’m going to walk it out,

The hurt, the ache,

The burdensome pain,

Eroding my bones away,

My soul, cracked into

A wasteland, parched,

Longing for a little rain,

A little hope, a little faith.

But right now there isn’t any.

On my hands and knees

I tremble, wondering if

I have it in me: another

Stand, another

Fight, another

Rise from the dark to

Confront the rage.

As I crawl on the floor

The answer is, I don’t know.

I hurt, hurt so much,

I want to roll into a ball

And just forget. I am not that strong.

But life doesn’t care.

It kicks and bites

And I feel as if I am about to die

And the last thing I will see

Will be the hate in its eyes,

And part of me refuses to accept that.

Life screams. It throws another blow.

And I realize I had enough.

That I will rise up,

Again and again,

I will do it until the end,

Whatever the end may be.

Life steps back as my knees straighten.

Its hand slaps, but I hold on.

It punches and I bend, but do not fall.

I rise up.

I walk the fear away.

Life smashes, breaks. I get up again.

It shakes, my heart’s bumping deafens

Me to its cries. It pushes. Up once

More I go. I rise up,

Rise up and up,

Repeatedly, once more, until my fear

Jumps to life’s eyes and it stops.


The world stops. The pain, the gore,

The terrified beating of my heart.

The horror, the terror.

Life staring, silent and cold.

And I rise up,

One last time.

My demons shattered and caged.

Life steps back and I

Walk it out,

The pain, the hurt, the chains

Now broken, coiling at my feet.

And I go, free at last.

Free at last to live.



Just For Today

woman drinking tea


Just for today  I will get up again,

Dust my knees once more.

I will forgive myself for

Breaking my essence like

A stamped-on shell,

Cracked to the core.

And for today I will clear my eyes.

I will believe in fairies and talking stars;

That I can make it; that I can fly.

That mercy is there for me,

Born from the depths of my heart,

Where I am loved, purely, as I am.

And just for today I will shine,

Shamelessly, joyfully, in

The night sky of my life.

And I’ll have dreams, high and might,

Where all possibilities already are,

And I need to prove nothing,

No excuses to validate my existence,

For I am worthy, today,

I deserve all and every good thing,

Today, I will love myself, today,

I will cherish every quirkiness of my soul

And rise, up, to a place of light

Deep within. And I will no anger, nor worry.

I will trust, bloom, flourish.

Just for today I will embrace myself.

Every day of all the days

Where there is a today, I

Will adore who I am.

That’s my commitment from now on.

Just for today.

When it comes to myself.

I will love, love and love.

And then rise.




I feel the sun rise in me, the long night slowly pushing back, fading, the storm clouds gathering, away from the moon. They will come back, I know, and so they should. There are many nights in the Night. Some are gateways to dreams and stars. Some are the meadows of mares and fears, and unbridled terrors of headless riders. They will come again, I know it. But today the sun is rising, my day is dawning and the light is softly touching land escapes in my soul I had forgotten; places I did not know existed; a sea, soothing, turning pink and yellow as the sun travels up the sky.

I feel no fear.

Not today.

Not at my dawn, at the awakening of my young coup bearer, Aurora, stretching placidly from her long slumber. I feel no fear, no rush. No need to prove, to fight, to win the battle, although I will win it, when the battle does come. Today is not a day of war -not in the world of my soul. Today is gentle and sweet, and I smile as when looking at a baby sleep. Today there is a sea, swaying softly, caressing the sand inside of me -the small sail boat gliding with joy; the kite floating effortlessly, painting rainbows with its tail. Today there are picnics between my bones and my flesh. A country fair and kids running, as they eat cotton candy. Today the wind is gentle, and it tenderly kisses me. It plays with the locks of my hair; makes my dress an ethereal dancer of life. Today I am a piano, being touched delicately, pianissimo, by a curious five-year-old. Today I breathe deeply and it is as if I could inhale the whole oxygen of the world, so big and deep am I. Inside. In the place of truth, where my night sleeps -dreams perhaps- and my day shines like a perfect summer day on the beach. Today I am happy.

Today I am free.





I rise,

From my knees, from my bondage,

I rise,

Tall and mighty,

I rise,

Like the lark in the morning,

The nightingale at night,

Singing my song.

I rise,

Poor, lonely or ugly,

I rise,

Oppressed, broken, destroyed,

I rise

And become the sun and the stars

And every flower that ever bloomed,

Bloomed first in my heart,

For I held on to my dreams when

The darkness kicked me, I

Held them tight.

And now I rise.

To a new day that has my name,

My face, my still timid smile.

My day.

And on this day I give out my hand

To you my sister, and tell you,

Let’s rise.

Tall and high.



She- Karem Barratt


I am she,

Who screamed at the night,

Demanding justice for her blood,

Spilled by a knife,

Legs held by the mothers who

Were supposed to love her.

I am she,

Who held her baby tight,

As the bombs teared her world,

Walls falling down, her child

Of light, now the colour of earth.

I am she,

Looking at the boys passing by

On their way to school, laughter

And jokes echoing against her hut,

As she stays, alone, knowing she has been

Left, behind.

I am she.

Crying in the corner, silently,

The shadow of his fingers still

Hanging around her arms, she

Trying to drink her tears, telling

Herself lies, for no one would

Believe her.

I am she.

Alone, unfed, hurt, turned

Into a shade, heavy with burdens

Beyond my age. I am she, seeing

My young face reflected on the eyes

Of those who shriek a name, that is

Supposed to be mine, a name of colour

And religion and place.

I am she, licked by shameless sights,

Riding my body with slimy thoughts

As I sit on the train, just wanting to go home.

I am she, walking fast,

Afraid of lonely streets and half lit parks.

I am she, acting like a man, for

My femininity is a hindrance to my brain.

I am she, full of rage, betrayed,

By blood and kin. I am she. Hiding,

Escaping, fighting, defending, the bitch

Who dared to think, speak, hold a

Governmental sit. I am she, the cunt,

Valued and reduced to the V of

Flesh between my legs. I am she, the

ass and the breasts, the enforced virgin

And saint, the named whore, the menacing

Danger to the future of

Underprivileged boys, the demeaner

I am, the one who forgot her role,

The breaker of family and societies,

The bringer of the ills that have

Wane the greatness they

Once had, for daring to ask

For a little more.


I am Oliver Twist

Trapped forever in Nancy’s hide,

And it is okay that I die,

Twice a week, in the hands

Of my man.

It is fine that my purse is

Lighter, that I am punished

For daring to bloom

Into motherhood. Everything

Is alright, if I am shot

For wanting to go to school.

It is acceptable that I am

Attacked on line for

Expressing my mind.

I must expect threats

Of death and rape,

It comes with the game

Where I am to blame,

For my own subjugation,

For glass ceilings and

Violent bonds. After all,

I did wear the pink dress.

Painted my lips with gloss.

Drank a drink too much.

Defied tradition by loving

The wrong boy,

Spoke to soon, too fast, always

Rising my hand in class.

Believed the fairy tale

That human rights applied to me.

For I am she.

The mother, the sister,

The daughter, the friend.

The woman at the end of the lane,

Of the queue of causes that need

To be fought.

And I am irrational and selfish,

For not waiting for the proper time.

Ungrateful wench, showing no gratitude

For how far she is from where she came.

For I must lower my flame,

Not to blind the stars.

Be more like the firefly,

Humble and small.


But I want more.


I am she, all the “shes”, all the breasts

And wombs and legs and tongues and

Eyes and intellects and hands and feet

Of the She of the world.


And I am brewing a storm.



woman battered

He said he loved her as her flesh received the first hit,

The slap in her ears making the world ring

And shriek -or maybe it was her, screaming,

As he kicked, repeatedly, against her soft womb,

Her stomach, her spleen, her arms and legs, he kicked,

Whilst she screamed and swallowed the blood from

Her absent teeth, push out in one single blow from

His fist -the fist that loved her to death and was

About to prove it.



PRT Farah Enables Afghan Women's Initiatives



Broken hearts, broken oaths,

Broken dreams, broken peace.

The truce is over.

I hope you have chosen your side.

I know well enough which one is mine.

I’m standing tall over my own camp,

For this time I chose myself over

All pleasantries, traditions and obligations.

I am my own general and I am waiting

To see the white of their eyes to shoot.

Which side will you call yours?

On whose territory will you stand on?

If be not mine, then hide, run, for

I’m taking no prisoners.

The time of understanding has come and gone.

Now rules the reign of sheer strength and

You would be mistaken to think that in this war,

I am the weaker one.

Be my ally or be me foe.

I’m done with love for now, with

Tenderness and compassion. I shall

Have my demands met or tears will be shed,

Not precisely from my eyes or those who

Join me in arms.

We are at war. Are you at war with me?

Or will you stand by my side,

For this once, go beyond yourself,

And prove the passionate

Comradeship you have profess

Is true and right?

So it’s goodbye, then.

Broken hearts, broken oaths,

Broken dreams, broken peace.

Let the war begin.



Lady V.- Karem Barratt



The second time I stopped believing in God,

I realized there has been always been

Something in me which had never let me down.

Something which had forged my identity,

Unravelled myself up in ecstasy and

And brought me as close as it could, to godhood.

Hence, I sang to Lady V,

The goddess of many names and

Secrecies, loathed and beloved in equal

Measure, right from when she was built

As figurine, all breast and majestic, welcoming pubis.

With no facer nor eyes, to her new counterpart,

Insinuating, pressing herself behind a thin

Veil in Instagram.

Like many a deity before, she has

Been humiliated, mutilated, her blood

Seen as a magical force, to some for good,

To others for wrong. As Kali, there are those

Who fear her power, and like her, she can change

A person to a point of death and rebirth, many a

Non-believer curling his toes and screaming for  god,

Any god, when being enveloped by her.

She’s Aphrodite, demanding her lovers to be on

Their knees and kiss her with every kiss ever written,

From the sweet lick of the humming bird to the devouring

Mouthful of a tiger. She is the portal to the cavern

Of life, where she baptized me a goddess of creation,

Demeter gestating her Persephone, the sun and the moon

Coming together to spark a new being in the darkness of

My womb. As the followers of other rites, hers have suffer

Persecution, dissolution, diminution, execution,

Brain washing, even. And yet, it is her who give us our remarkable attribution,

Our identity, and under her aegis we are all sisters, from

La Patagonia to Tasmania, as we still discover

Her mysteries, hidden behind de revulsion and false revolution,

Those who fear her have cover her beauty with.

The second time I stopped believing in God, I recognized the deity in me.

So now I sing to my vagina: goddess, Creatrix, the mirror I identify with.

Ode to Lady V, Divine Regina, Benedicta, eternally,

Mother, lover, woman, warrior, crone,

The badge of honour that unites half of world.

Boudica- Karem Barrett

The Statues Of London

They came like a storm, like black birds

Picking clean my bones,

Breaking, hurting, raping, slashing

Trusts, honours and backs.

They came like a storm

Of red cloaks and red blood,

And forged the lance in my heart:

Out of my tears, out of my hate,

It rose, out the screams of my babes,

My daughters of flowers turned into mud.

They came like a storm,

Flushing the goodness from myself.

And I knelt before the dark goddess

And asked to be made merciless and brave.

No more tears have I shed.

No hesitation has stopped my steps.

I am the queen who will be no slave,

The bringer of the scream,

The painter of the red.

I have become their lighting and their thunder.

The mid-wife of their fears.

I have crushed their spears and howled

The call of war.

I am the lance and I am the sword;

The avenger of chastity turned blood,

Of freedom chained, of broken oaths.


I am she, who teaches terror, to those who brought the storm.

I can’t say I follow any particular tendency or style. I pretty much let my heart sings and copy the notes into the computer, and then play with the sounds and meanings until I feel the poem, idea or musing have taken their own shape and personality. I am originally from Venezuela and have been in the UK for 14 years. I am a writer, poet, blogger, life coach, interfaith-minister, celebrant, language teacher, Domestic Goddess with an edge,  Tarot reader, mother to a girl (light of my eyes), a dog, a Guinea pig and five plants, and wife to the most patient man in the world, who sometimes appears in my poetry. I feel very lucky to be multi-racial: Spanish, Nigerian, Native American, Jewish, Italian, Arabic and Finnish. Somehow I think that influences my eclectic style, which flourishes in almost everything I do, from my writing to my cooking. Like everyone I have had my ups and downs. I have experience domestic violence (first hubby) and ridiculously sweet loving (second hubby). I am immigrant and right now I am witnessing the loss of my country (long story) and yet I have been very much welcomed in the UK and have grown to love it very much. I am bipolar, psychotic, suicidal and suffer from psychosomatic epilepsy, which can make life a challenge at times, and, at others, weirdly fun.

I blog at Singing Heart