Posted in Uncategorized

Theology, Biblical Archeology, Philosophy and Poetry all in One. A great poem written in response to recent findings claiming to challenge Christ’s celibacy!

Susan Daniels Poetry

there is a gospel of mary
on a fifth-century papyrus
that is not canon
& an infancy gospel of thomas
where the child Jesus
rolled 12 sparrows from clay & spit.
they flew away, singing.  not everything old
is true, & not everything true
is comfortable.  or relevant.  or gospel,
even if that word is in the title
glyphed in aramaic or greek

we who sing through mouths
lit holy know salvation does not fly
with a tale of 12 sparrows
or a celibate Christ, or a married one;
but the divine breathing, bridging & dying
a way for us to God through flesh
& sacrifice. a scrap of papyrus
does not change the Christ i know
who walked through death.
the cross & the tomb are empty.
thomas the doubter
put his hands inside that body
before he believed.

it is not what is known
but what is risked that saves

without touching

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Posted in Uncategorized

Beautiful poetry by Susan. A must read! Prompted this clumsy reaction – your song, Susan
floats softly like feather strokes
flashing like the dazzle of white teeth
on darkened Serre gums
how such tender caresss words still cut
like a sharp serrated knife,
piercing deep, stroking and stoking
is the paradox of a song
that blows, glows, warms and melts
all at once, four as once

Susan Daniels Poetry

if i could stretch my spirit
to where you are, i would haunt you
through the door we call dreaming

but it is difficult to spin a strand of self
that far, so instead i will call you here
sculpted of shadow where i want skin

sometimes distance is distance
& sometimes longing feels a little bit like loss.
perhaps we will dream an us together,
want drawn by want to a place where desire
is answered by touch, tangible
& real as the weight of your mouth moving over mine,
the heat of your breathing.

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Posted in Poetry

Urban Jungle Blues – A Duet

By Noel A. Ihebuzor and Susan L. Daniels

Another wandering day finds worn out minds
worrying on a wavering road wound tightly around anxious
feet lost and soles tired, tiring,
endless stomping, souls emptying, core eroding
trapped penniless in hard bone want
rides and crosses opulence heaving full breasted
never meeting anywhere or nowhere, desert islands, different
indifference, whether in narrow winding slums spawning hovels, grime, crime and anomie or in suffocating metallic structures that pierce the sky
seated on wide arteries on gridlocked checker boards
where automobiles choke the lungs with fumes of affluence,

Here, this city no longer smells of steel galvanizing
but oats baking into cereal O’s, and the main street
pedestrian mall frames four tracks for trains that do nothing
but run from the banks to the university
in a 30-year straight line, all the stores closed
except pharmacies, pawn shops, Chinese take-out,
stores that sell bright synthetic shoes for drag queens and prostitutes
or lottery tickets, cigarettes, and beer

The city sprawls, growls, as grim faces with automated smiles
and ATM voices greet and grit set teeth
co-travellers on the subway, rush without seeing, not feeling
and when seeing move on before sunshine thaws well frozen
protector shields of indifference and anonymity
to open a space now dreaded in this place where we pace
in a metal jungle of tubular bars, well rehearsed smiles,
a maze that breathes fear
behind stale glass windows or airless hovels
that color eyes and imprison minds
and minds stagnate in the stupor of sterile promises
that become hazier as mind become heavier, and stubborn dreams
slowly tip to cheap end points, needles, skins, threads and ropes

This is my downtown, my city of brown and black faces
strangled by surrounding white arms, where all the jobs grow
past the bus lines and reverse commutes from suburb to suburb;
but still in this heart blocked by abandoned factories
rises an energy.  Students fill the coffeehouses and jazz clubs,
wrapped in black, borrowed sophistication after a night
in the theatre district or gallery parties, and warehouses shift to lofts
and still more galleries, pop-up shows mushrooming between the cracks of sidewalks

like brilliant intoxicating fungi
as street festivals paint the air
with basil and cinnamon, mixing with those oats

urban centres call
sell hopes that reach for a sky
darkened by hard hearts

those sidewalks

littered landscaping
of trash cans never emptied
dreams full of promise

so emptying

***Susan and I explore the challenges of urban life in this duet. Though our backgrounds are different, our duet brings out some of the universal features of life  in an urban setting  – hence, the title, Urban Jungle Blues. As always, this was fun!  Susan’s voice is in italics, Mine is in regular type. Kindly let us know what you think of the duet!

Posted in Uncategorized

A good read for men…and women!


By Raymond Bechard

Excerpted with permission from “How to Lose a Woman Forever” on The Good Men Project

Raymond Bechard summarizes Travis McGee’s views on women into 22 rules to losing the love of your life forever.

Only a woman of pride, complexity and emotional tension is genuinely worth the act of love, and there are only two ways to get yourself one of them. Either you lie, and stain the relationship with your own sense of guile, or you accept the involvement, the emotional responsibility, the permanence she must by nature crave. I love you can be said only two ways.

Travis McGee, The Deep Blue Good-By, 1964

1. Don’t protect her.

She’s a big girl. There’s no reason to help her feel safe in the way she needs to feel safe. There are no guarantees in life so it’s not rational to expect security in relationships. (And nothing…

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Posted in Poetry

For the Sun Child

By Noel Ihebuzor


Inert the child lies,

bathed in blood,

still and silent,


the silence of the ward

broken by the mother’s aching sobs



long labour had drained her,

almost turning her blood blue,

till eventually the blade

 brought relief and pain,


baby was curled, drained

 cord twisted and twined

around a narrow neck,

life slowly choked by the connection

that had linked them

and nourished,


the emptying evening drags

as she sits and sobs

imagining how this life

she had known in kicks and movements

would have looked

had the cord that nourished

not also extinguished

pondering this mystery of failed procreation

where lives are twined forever,

scars remain after departures,


sadness slowly strangling her soul,

like a cord, the pains of an empty womb

 now more acute

as her soul bleeds

above and below the lines of suture.


****For the SunChild who lost her baby, and who felt that the sun had gone out! Be strong, Tashie, Ndo!


Posted in Poetry

Crying wants

By Noel Ihebuzor


Weeds of woes grow

 as wants groan and drone,

flourish when frail shallow deeds

 dance and dither puny,

piddle and idle, while

needling needs over-hang heavy,

in a darkling sad sky,


hunger hovers,

rages and glowers,

as hollow bellies rumble,

howling; needs shout

harsh, hoarse

hard to hide


begging vision with action

 to unbind the bound,

not flash bulb shallow flourish,

done to impress,

impotent sterile whimper

dripping like dribble,

trickling away

like treacle stored

in a beautiful raffia bag

Posted in Prose

Idle rambles – echoes from the past, voices of the present, whispers from the future

By Noel Ihebuzor

I hear echoes of my future playing in the present on scripts lip read by this me hewn from a crusty past that now reaches forward to embrace me smiling on a surprised morning

The me I see you see now is not me but visions of me mingled with snippets of your retina, aching stories heard on a tympanum tremulous, this me singing, in another voice, another’s voice, this me that you hear hears you echoing dimly lofty notes of me, singing of roads I walk on dew drunk dreams, nudging sluggish limbs to where I began, to where I want to go to unearth the buried umbilical cord that ties me, my present, my past and my future. And the vision is misty and my voice mushy.

I hear and feel the turning of time. I feel I sense myself also turning in that fine running sand of time, finding my present and rediscovering my past, reliving it and becoming, reaching out to embrace a future that runs from me, slightly ahead even as the distances narrow.

I see the familiar smiles of the new and reach out to feel and wrest it whilst still trying to anchor to the present I know and think I own. I am aware of  the changed yet unchanging times, the turning times, time returning and reappearing, the changing of the seasons, the trees that weep and mourn, the trees that announce new beginnings as green leaves sprout, unfurl and unfold and wave to  a smiling sun, lovely greening days, swaying in the cycling circle of time.

And I think I hear the voice that reaches from eternity to say – nothing really changes, save the way humanity looks at unchanging times, and me saying – “even knowing that change in a unchanging change is good enough for me”.