Writer’s Wish

i wish i could write for days,
then write some more.
only stop to eat words
and drink metaphors.
bathe in poetry,
lather with lines laden with alliteration
and life-giving meaning,
rinse with prose
(because as a writer, i’m supposed to be well-rounded),
and lay down in free-verse
and have words be my lullabies.

i wish i could take the time to be dumbfounded by life,
pause for a few moments to enjoy what i like,
stop running and just
write.
free myself and others.
or maybe just myself.
and others could read and listen if they like,
but if they don’t,
i’ll still write,
laugh a little,
cry when truth is revealed,
heal.

God’s Softer Side

he kisses me when my nose is snotty,

and doesn’t mind if his face gets wet.

when he’s thirsty, he drinks my tears,

exchanges sugar for salt.

he grabs my love handles

and tickles my stomach,

reminds me that i am not fat,

but blessed.

Shiver

i still shiver
when fingers touch my neck without forewarning.
if a man tries to whisper in my ear,
my body freezes
like the temperature just dropped.

this body used to be
raw honey for black tea,
good music for a weary soul.

my voice used to sing simple songs
about my day or foods i like.

but this tongue grew numb
and i still get nervous
when the weight i purposely gained
slips away.

i’m still suspicious of strangers;
plot escape plans
when i walk in alleys alone:
if i’m wearing heels,
i practice in my head
how i’ll stab a crazy man in the eye;
if wearing boots,
i plan to knock him down, stomp, and run;
if any other shoes,
then knee must be used.
all this preparation for a woman
who’s never been attacked by someone she didn’t know;
all these thoughts of violence for a woman
who thought love conquered all.

but i had one failure,
trusted when i should’ve been cautious,
stayed when i should have left,
entertained when i should have ignored…

and sometimes i still
shiver.

From the Day We Met (Haikus)

from the day we met,

God has grown closer to me

indefinitely.

 

from the day we met,

past pain doesn’t feel so bad;

smiles have replaced tears.

 

from the day we met,

“more than i ever prayed for”

is how i see life.

 

from the day we met,

i lose myself in laughter

and love feels so good.

 

from the day we met,

each time i look in your eyes,

my heart skips a beat.

 

from the day we met,

my life hasn’t been the same.

i’ll never look back!

Aunt Sarah’s Chirren

Photo by Brandon Allen Photography

what are my chirren’s names?
i done had so many,
seen lives blow through wind like ragweed, mm hmm.
my woman-parts at one time were like
a train station–
men whistlin’, comin’ and leavin’.
i never loved the ones who came,
but the ones who left?
chiiiillle,
they carry pieces of my heart with them in their pockets,
pull me out of their wallets like crisp dollar bills at the liquor sto’
and roll me and smoke me in their funny cigarettes.
baby, i am like ash,
shakin’ free,
black and grayish-white,
once on fire
but lookin closer to death than life.

My Hair Is

my hair is amorphous,
without form, rhyme, or reason.
my hair hates politics–
she’s been duped one too many times by extremists
so now she’s independent–
tickling my back when she feels like it;
exposing my scalp to sun and air when summer hits;
kinky and free,
straight and demure,
curly and flirty,
she is me.

and i wish someone would dare tell me or her how to be!

my hair is expression,
escaping when i can’t.
and i love that.

Bubble Burst

burst bubbles
leave wetness in the air.
then remnants of fun disappear
from what was once floating, happy.
i thought you were my friend,
thought you liked to play with me,
run around with wands and create magic,
but instead you wreak havoc,
have hands that cleverly and cruelly crush my creations.
you pretend to participate.
you destroy with a smile.

lucky for me,
i have enough joy in my jar to last me past today;
sudsy water, love and hope
to survive your hate;
enough to make me a huge bubble to float along sun-shining skies,
higher than the place where i care about how you feel
and low enough where just being happy for myself
is more than enough.

Mr. Colorful

Mr. Colorful,
you try to stay low-key
in earth tones and gym clothes,
but i see through your facade.
i observe not only your smooth, brown skin,
but also the rainbow spectrum that glows within.

your soul is red and strong,
like that of a man who loves hard and long.
your tongue is orange and sweet,
fleshy and messy
but neat,
not barging over your yellow
that streams into my consciousness
like sun rays in the morning.
the peace of your green
covers my past mourning and nagging
with calm,
no more blues with you–
just blue:
cool and mysterious like the indigo nights when i lay with you
and violet fills the room
until white walls around us
no longer matter.

baby, can I live in your ROYGBIV?
be your silly black girl
who sometimes pays the rent late,
but always greets you with a smile?
will you be my colorful Valentine
and rub off on me
just a little?
kiss me
just a little?
hold me
just a little?

cuz you’ve made my life better
a whole colorful lot.

Growth into Beauty

i feel like i am
JUST
growing in to my beauty.
before, my skin was
sunset:
confidence fading into cloudy horizon,
but bright morning has finally come
and when i smile,
i swear i can hear birds singing!
eyes bright
from all the yawning around me,
skin glowing.

love of self
was a hard seed that just needed nurturing,
extra time soaking in the water of my tears
until sprouting occurred.
now it is flourishing,
deeply rooted like a tree,
arms stretched, strong enough
to hold the weight of the little children
i‘ll be responsible for
feeding reminders of their worth.

it’s as if i gave birth,
belly no longer swollen with doubt,
removal of morning sickness
and mother
to past, present and future experiences.

and i am
STILL
growing into my beauty,
hoping to be
an adult one day.

Unsettled (for Jarronn)

there is something unsettling
about young life lost in its prime
like all sugar sinking to bottom of lemonade glass
or shredded gritty leaves escaping tea bags,
sneaking on tongue;
like a bitter horse pill too hard to swallow on first attempt,
resulting in lingering taste
water won’t wash away.

looking at an older face of the dead,
although deeply sad,
still sometimes provides the comfort of knowing
that they at least had the chance to live a full life:
to experience highs and lows,
to birth children and watch them grow,
to fail and still have years to bounce back,
have a chance to fail again,
suffer consequence, repent
and change for better.

but looking at a picture of a young face–
an image captured shortly before spirit slipped away
is like having a dream of losing all one’ s teeth
and waking up to discover
that they’re actually cracked and gone;
a reminder that one day we’ll all be gone,
that no one’s time on this earth is too long
and that for many,
it’s too short,
lost at an age
too young.