Homeless Man Haiku
homeless man feeds birds;
i’m full, yet still long for more.
who’s the crazy one?
Love Experience Part 1
when i sleep,
i drool enough to keep a goldfish alive for the night.
one morning, i awoke
with my wet cheek attached to the bare chest
of my man holding me tight.
he opened his eyes and looked down,
then took one hand,
wiped the drool off,
kissed me on my forehead
and went back to sleep.
and i felt love.
Battle of the Sexes
hardened as i may try to be,
i can’t run away from the fact
that i am in fact,
a woman.
i am strong without a doubt,
able to do whatever i set my mind to,
but inside i am soft as tissue,
sensitive like scarred skin,
delicate as seraphim and cherubim
and spend my energy cherishing
everyone around me.
sometimes the weather gets cloudy
and i forget my anatomy,
think i have pecs instead of breasts,
a mustache above my lips,
unrecognizable hips
and a voice deep and rich as chocolate.
but i am not this basic idea or definition.
i am the kiss on your forehead when your confidence is missing.
i am the gentle touch when trouble gets to be too much
and the loving ear that will always be there.
i care.
i am the mirror on the wall that tells you all,
the pep in your step to take you from one success to the next.
i am a woman,
mother of creation,
removed from your rib so that your stomach is a little empty
so that when you get hungry, you’ll know that you need me.
i am the appetizer, main course, and dessert,
the one that you love but still tend to hurt,
the one who loves you but still likes to search
for herself outside of your help.
i am not the same as you.
we complement each other like orange and blue,
like honey and dew,
sweet and tickling.
oh, what a feeling
to stop pretending
and start claiming
my womanhood.
This Ain’t About You
man, how do i write about you without
writing about you?
i feel like poems are special,
and though i suspect you’re just that,
i’m not ready to admit that.
words are powerful and when they are teamed up
to make melodies that melt souls and water eyes
and wet tongues and underwear,
they can take over the world.
but i suppose if i had to succumb to anything,
it would be the pleasure of this feeling,
the curiosity that i’m keeling over with
like a cat drunk from exploration.
if anything should kill me,
let it be my quest to find out why my chest gets warm
from my heart jogging back and forth.
not feeling the burn yet,
just a little bead of sweat
starting in the middle of my forehead
and slowly falling to the top of my lips
and into my mouth as i smile
widely and honestly,
gently but guarded.
look at what you’ve started.
The Power of “Yes”
your eyes reveal as you look down at me
that with your shy politeness,
you could give me
my “yes” back.
my “no” has been ignored in the past,
pushed down so far that screams turned into gasps
and fight melted into surrender,
but for some reason,
i don’t feel like fighting when i see you.
i feel like saying “yes”
and enjoying the way it comes off of my tongue,
how the middle of it raises to the roof of my mouth
to make the “y” sound
and how i have to open my teeth
and let a piece of you in for the “e”
and how my “s” turns to a smile
when you’re around.
yes,
i may let you in and
yes,
the spark in my eye was born when i saw you
and yes,
maybe one day i’ll whisper sweet somethings in your ear
and yes,
i might be silly and imagining that a connection is even here
for you to even ask a question
that would require a positive affirmation
but just in case you do,
my breath, my mouth and my soul
will be ready.
The Nameless Woman
she told her friend that she liked him a lot
but she was scared because
he’s kinda rough and once told her that
he’d fight for anything,
including love.
after a few months,
the next scene cuts
to her banging on her friend’s door late at night
with blackened eyes and a bruised face
and she’s crying hard,
scared for her life
and begging her friend to let her in
but her knocks go unanswered.
she sits on the front steps with a cigarette
on the right side of her mouth
and a blunt on the left,
hoping that smoking both at the same time
will fill her lungs, blacken them
and quicken her death.
she closes her eyes and remembers happy times–
of when she and her boyfriend first met
and recalls the first incident of violence
with pangs of regret.
the phrase, “this is my fault”
is a bullet shot from the back of her brain
that ricochets painfully, driving her insane
and she contemplates the different ways
she can end her life
and then looks up and sees headlights
and a window that rolls down
and the driver is a scared man-child
who wears tears of his own and a frown
and he stares–
watching the young lady he says he loves
pick the shattered pieces of herself up,
walk to the car and get in.
and then they drive off.
A Prayer For The Stranger Who is My Husband
God, i pray for my husband–
that he will be logical
and strong enough
to handle
me.
sometimes i operate so emotionally
that i treat my heart with irresponsibility,
not only wearing it on my sleeve
but throwing it at the back of a man’s head
in moments of distress,
hoping that once it bounces off
and leaves a knot,
i will feel at rest.
i will need a husband
whose skull will be hard enough
to counter mine,
who will pick up my heart after it’s been thrown,
brush the dust off with gentle hands
and place it back in my chest
to beat calmly again;
one who possesses
a gentle enough face
for me to feel a twinge of guilt
for wanting to make him pay
unjustly for my
distorted perceptions of the truth;
a husband who
will love me out of the habit
of abusing the most crucial organ in my body
and give a long enough embrace
to keep my restored heart
in its proper place,
and pull me out of the way
of thinking that tells me
that violence is a way to be heard,
show me the true meaning of love
that in today’s society seems absurd.
i pray that he is a teacher,
a fighter,
a healer,
a lover,
a meditator,
a mediator,
a thinker
and a son
who like a piece of clay,
You have molded and shaped
into a pot
that even in my emotional states,
i am unable
to break.
Confrontation
i listened to a grown man with a breaking voice
attempt to maintain masculinity
as he told the story of his six-year-old nephew
that left me questioning you.
as he showed a picture of a cute tan boy
with black hair and a wide smile
and bright brown eyes,
tears grew in his eyes
as he recounted how one week before,
doctors found cancer in the boy’s right eye
and this morning, that eye
was successfully removed.
i thought,
how could you?
lately i find myself spitting in your face
because you let people spit in mine
yet still find it a worthy cause
to preserve this body of mine
while a little boy
has to learn to live with one eye.
disproportionate grace keeps me
from wanting to get the facts straight,
partially afraid
that if you were to sit back
and reflect on all i have done,
you would wash your hands and move on,
leave me in my mess
and work to save little children again.
i have had sight but chose not to see,
been given many warnings
that i chose not to heed,
smiled many bright smiles
but never had my picture shown for an audience
as a story of tragedy.
my heart aches for that little boy,
feels the heaviness of the crookedness
that may soon accompany his smile.
i have rug burn from the rough voice
of a grown man trying to hold it together
while his family falls apart.
i do not understand and perhaps should not.
i just see the sad story of an child who used to smile
who now no longer has his right eye
and on the tip of my tongue burns the question:
WHY?
Limbo Game
i set the bar high
to see if you are tall enough.
this time i will not lower it
in this limbo game,
i will not sing “how low can you go?”
because i already know.
i don’t want a man who
dances close to the dirt
when dealing with me.
my head is held high and so are my
standards.
if he’s willing to reach,
then maybe we can play
but until then,
just stay away.
Ode to Black Man
black man,
you are the still waters where bystanders pass time by
throwing pebbles on
with the hope that they will skip.
i see you as you ripple every which way
from that which is thrown at you
but still you manage not to break.
you are fluid,
cool, transforming when you need to
but still remaining faithful
to the form that is you…
beautiful.
your strength is like metal chains
that after time build rust
but still are solid enough
to keep the gates of innocent lives shut.
danger shakes when she sees you,
chooses to walk on the other side of the street,
shudders at your power
and that’s what it is about you
that captures me.
black man,
i love you despite the ones who look like you
who hurt me.
i’ve learned to treat them as exceptions
and regard you as excellent.
your smile
has the capacity to stretch my heart that once shrank
and let it cover all of me
so that beating flesh moves from my chest
and onto my sleeves.
you are as pure as guitar strings
strumming acoustic sounds
that speak to my soul.
you are a drug which relieves tension
and melts away all that i try to control.
i won’t go as far as to say
you fill the hole in me,
the one that nags at me late at night
because despite the happiness you might
bring to my life,
you are not God–
but you do look like Him,
like when you laugh,
i see His reflection
and when we embrace,
i catch a glimpse of God’s face.
black man,
you hold the world on your shoulders
with strong arms, solid legs
and a back that has been stabbed
and i see you bleeding.
i wish i had enough rags to stop the blood,
wish i had enough sand to stop your flood,
wish i had enough patience to wait for your love
and enough discipline
to not be sitting on the side of the water again,
throwing pebbles at you
with the hope that they will skip.
i see you as you ripple every which way
from that which is thrown at you
but still you manage not to break.
Missing Pieces
i kinda miss him
but i don’t know why.
i still desire
the one who broke my heart,
hoping that he kept the misplaced pieces
in case he ran into me again.
maybe he hid me in his wallet
next to a year-old condom
or in the bottom drawer
under his socks with holes in them.
i certainly live in memories
that hold such crucial portions of me,
but it’s physically impossible to reach
into another person’s fantasies.
even if i had the opportunity
to sneak up on him while he sleeps,
i couldn’t enter the territory of his dreams–
so parts of my soul are held hostage by a man
who i barely even know anymore.
and now when i laugh,
it’s hard to ignore
that certain tones and melodies are missing–
it’s the difference between a keyboard and a grand piano.
how much better is the original than a hip-hop sample?
i have dwindled into a preview
when i used to be director’s commentary.
if i could stand on a platform and speak
to girls who remind me of me
the day before i gave me away,
i’d warn them not to.
i’d encourage them to hold on tight to their hearts
like the handlebars of a bike
on their first day without training wheels;
to stick to their sanity
as if they had crazy glue on their fingers
and couldn’t remove them until they absolutely knew
that the love they imagined
was real.
i would drill into their heads to grip those hearts
like old white women do their purses
as young black men walk past them on streets,
to take precaution because
i don’t want them to be like me,
searching for themselves in situations
that no longer exist,
wearing tanktops but
still finding their hearts on their wrists,
saying to themselves,
“i never thought it would be like this”
and shaking their heads when they realize that it is
and that there’s no turning back,
just searching for that
piece of them that they gave away,
discovering a few moments too late
that they’ll need their whole selves again one day.
He Would’ve Had Me
he drove off and waved at me
with a smile that would’ve broken my heart.
this dark-skinned young man
with an old familiar soul
attempted to enter my life
and i walked away,
talked my way out of explaining that
if i had met him five years ago,
he would’ve had me.
but instead i smiled,
summarized my busy lifestyle
and used it as an excuse:
“i’m trying to make moves” and
“time is money”
but part of me now questions if
that’s all the way true.
if mr. right stepped into my life,
would i push him the other direction?
not only for my fear of love and affection
from strangers, but the danger
that would ensue from being knocked off of my tracks,
that the fast-moving train of my life
would derail, leaving all of my accomplishments
in the rubble.
love burns
and i don’t want to have to dig
to find all that i worked so hard to fix.
i don’t want to find no survivors
and hear on my mind’s TV that the only casualty is me.
i can’t be casual anymore
so now i lock doors before knobs are turned,
divert conversation before my heart turns
into a traitor and tells on me.
so as mr. not right now waves at me,
i recall that five years ago,
a man like him would’ve had me.
but i’m happy with the current me–
i no longer live in regret about turned down love affairs;
the capacity for nonsense no longer lives here.
so mister, i’ll see you one day
even though i knew you in my last lifetime
i’m proud to say
that this portion of my journey is mine
and there’s no room for two on this space shuttle
to the comets and stars in which i belong.
i’ll play hopscotch in galaxies while you sit at home.
i’ll smile at you from the sky and bask in the light of full moons
and hope that one day, maybe soon,
the man of next lifetime will be floating on a planet
that will align with the path in which i am moving.
if i meet him five years from now,
he will have me…
gladly
without reservation, hesitation, or waves in
the opposite direction.
What if I
*Written July 8, 2008*
what if i
promoted him like my favorite rapper,
quoted him to fit every situation,
tried to convince others to tune in
when people talk about him on radio stations,
said day in and day out that he’s the best alive and his words are so hot
and that they should listen and try to give him a shot?
what if i
talked about him like he was a new man
who surprisingly made my life so great that i can’t complain?
what if i rubbed him in the faces of everyone around me
so that they would be all too familiar with how his love is insane,
so much so that they don’t even have to ask why i’m smiling,
they just say “There she goes again with whats-his-name”?
what if i
wore him like a fly outfit
that i wanted everyone to see,
purposely walking past perfect strangers three times with him on
just so they could note the beauty that is he,
and how he looks just oh-so-great on me
like an expensive pair of jeans that make my shape look oh-so-right,
that they could all benefit from if they’re willing to pay the price?
what if
i just kept him all to myself and hid him away?
i think that is what i do because every time i begin to feel unashamed,
i face different setbacks and life pushes me astray–
my pride, my doubt inside, and my emotions all cloud my view
so that by the time i think of mentioning him,
the time has passed and conversations are through…
i no longer want to be a fake fan, a false lover, or perpetrator…
i wanna shout out my love for Him to every friend, family member, and hater
promote him like he’s sunshine after seven days of raining,
wear him on my heart, stop hiding and start proclaiming
that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life
and maybe if i stop keeping him secret
more people will want to give Him their life
and maybe if i speak up
i can truly honor the one who changed my life
and maybe if i share what He’s done for me
people could find purpose in their life
and maybe if i just open up my mouth and share
they can know
Christ.
Pearls From Pain 
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