Not A Poet

A conversation with my son reminded me that some parts of ourselves never truly leave us.

There are moments in life that arrive quietly but leave a lasting echo. This poem was born from one of those moments — a conversation with my son that forced me to confront the distance between who I am and the parts of myself I unintentionally placed on pause.

Motherhood, responsibility, survival, work, and the shifting seasons of adulthood can sometimes soften the volume of our passions, but they do not erase them. This piece is about remembrance. About reclaiming the voice that still lives beneath the noise. About understanding that our children are always watching how we love ourselves, our dreams, and our purpose.

Today’s Wednesday segment is deeply personal. Thank you for continuing to walk this creative journey with me, investing not only in my work, but also in your own reflections, memories, and becoming.

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One regular day

Spending time with my son

We get into a back-and-forth

About a few things bouncing

Around thoughts and ideas

Just exploring

He simply says

Mom’

You’re not a poet

I paused

He continued

You’re not a poet

You don’t

Write, or perform

Like you use to

I let this sink in

Absorbing the reminder

That your children

Are observing you

With precision

His words

Pierced through me

Eardrums

Awaking the piece

Of me that I never quite

Let go of

I instantly responded

Assertively

Yes, I am

Carefully projecting

My love for words with

Conviction

I let the grip loose

Between my fingertips

In the whirlwind

Of the chaotic

Path of life’s windstorm

Forgetting the heat

Of the burning eyes

Upon my body language

Around my actions carefully

Identifying with the execution

Of a dream

I wanted my son to

Remember the passion

He felt from the front row

Watching his momma

Own the space within the stages

Crevices that wrapped me like home

I never forgot my why

My reasons in feeling the

Forever love of this artistic

Swing

The way I dance with

The words and soak up

Windy road they travel

Me down I am owning this

I closed my eyes

To reminisce on the

Time, I realized that I was a poet

Sitting in the rawness of

Every breath of spoken word

Had to offer, feeling the radiating

Heat from Nuyorican Poets Café

Ambiance and the way poetry

Seeped into the wooden stage

This was home.

This be the place I inhaled

Slowly knowing I was home

Standing on my truth

In storytelling

Becoming one with the Griots

I positioned myself amongst

The greats

I am bold

Fearless

Words

Empower me

Symbolically

Embody the prose

I become

I am

I’m becoming

Always will be

A poet

©Naima Yetunde Hammonds. All Rights Reserved. 2026

If this poem speaks to a part of you that has been resting quietly beneath life’s responsibilities, I invite you to share your thoughts in the comments.

When was the last time someone reminded you of who you truly are?

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