Category Archives: writing

fear wrestling

The merlot on my tongue
won’t allow me to speak.

I stain my pillow with attached prayers of something
better
betwixt the Ghana of my mane.

Afraid,
I walk with a cane looped to my belt to beat a fall
design distance from cerebral lessons

fear wrestling.
I wear tight shoes to ensure carefully calculated steps
abandon spontaneity
and disavow chances and dances with love.

taken from the book:

PocketHoneyWindHips

Get your autographed copy here

 

lovin’

There’s something intensely intimate about cooking a meal for a man
then having him hold your hand across the table and say  / grace.

animated-couple

In between the “I love you’s”
this is how we reconnect:
I straddle and clutch on to him
for my dear life       and       he /
recharges himself inside of me with all I have to offer  /  then
me and my man          we go out and change
the
world.
from the poetry book, Pocket Honey, Wind & Hips

a Note on Time (meeting me2)

She left this morning.
conveniently smooth like tap water /
Promises taped to her right palm for her to befriend the wild with food

She just wanted to be great.
Capsize time and defend her sister and brother
Look her father in the eye with familiar
Write down her Grandmother’s genius words
Learn the earth at the expense of her Grandfather’s back

She came. / throttled tone with soprano cheeks
shy girl
social as corners
barely

Intimately speaking is how she preferred things
but stories pierced her earlobes
diamonds to shine / hoops to dangle
pages to escape poverty

Like you / she survived through chances
stand offs against never and silence
She left this morning
after a cup of coffee
but prepared these words for you.

best of both worlds

My mother taught me how to make a living.
My father showed me how to create a life to live.
She was deemed responsible.
He was deemed selfish.
… I want to be selfishly responsible from here on out.

single white woman raising a little black boy

Actually, I think they both already left
but still there for the little black boy
with fair skin.
Whose hair and lips tell the world who his daddy is

I hope someone is there to hold her
when her sons eyes go to a place she won’t be able to reach.
a depth she can’t fathom one humanly possible to survive
cause, she’s gonna’ leave the father.
he works sporadically
nothing reminiscent of her father
who bought home the steak and potatoes
he says / it kills his spirit
and she don’t understand that.
call him lazy.
they yell through the walls
she’s gonna’ leave
and live life as a single white woman raising a little black boy

he’ll / only believe the world stares at him
cause he looks exotic for so long
then he’ll feel cornered
and she’ll beat at the walls and tell him he’s free
until she’s blue in the face,
literally.
with coruscate eyes
he’ll look at her and tell her
something is killing his spirit
…she just don’t understand that
but she’ll dare not call him lazy or leave his side
so she yell at the walls

I hope someone is there to hold her
when her sons eyes go to a place she won’t be able to reach.

passion

We need passion for life
We need passion like ancestral sweat on jungle spring African violets
We need passion like the quieting of an infant’s cries for his mother’s nipples
like the drying desire to drink
let us do what we do best
Create.
detach from the world and all it has to offer
like the fall of sky tall pine trees
like a Muslim nauseous at the smell of swine
let us get away from here!
Like we did the first time
let us hungrily read Genesis to Revelation
and discover one another
let me be imperfect
not what the music and magazine say
but who I am this very second
the extent of me and you in divine disguise
the scent of me in heat for some passion
Like a 4th of July dog scratching against the screen door
We need passion for life.
We need passion like surrendering in a rain shower,
like the uncontrollable moans of a multiple orgasm
let me get this out!
let me get this out!
like the vulgar urges of bulimia
let me get this out!
I yearn this
I yearn this like Thursday evening paychecks
want me
want me like the smell of your mother’s kitchen on Sunday
protect me
protect me like a father holding his child’s hand
let us discover God together
We need passion
Like the heaving chest of a woman giving birth
Like the finger sore of BB strumming the blues
Like a poem with a thousand metaphors
Let us make love over and over and again
We need passion like, like, like…right now.

Get a Poetic Recap before the finale tonight!

Get a poetic recap to the hit drama, “REBEL” before the season 1 finale airs tonight!  Make sure you check your local listings and TUNE IN this edge of your seat finale.

Here you can find all things “REBEL” including the four poems I wrote for, “Rebel Yell”:

Almost a Lamentation
Bang Bang
Reverse Opinions
Score Board

2017-05-23_18.24.43

20 Reasons We Love “REBEL”

Being a woman is not a story, we cannot be placed as non-fiction on your shelf
It is a movement
a dance
an expansion of bones.
being a Woman is a lesson in astronomy.
cooking chili is a recipe and then it is done
being a Woman is not a story.
We are not dialogue to be used in moving a plot forward
We are more than fixtures in the home after work and school
We hold more than bedtime consultation sessions
We are not chili to be written as a recipe and then close the book once the dish is done.

rebelwithgun (2)

And this is what “Rebel” is about

      1. She is beautiful hairstyles and more
      2. She has impeccable taste in good looking men and more
      3. She is fearlessly learning the tango in predominately male environments
      4. in a home life with a father and brother to the military to the police force
      5. She is showing the peculiar walk of being African American in America
      6. the tightrope performance of being a Woman with self determination
      7. She speaks the language where

    “Im ok”, means terrified
    “And I’m good”, means I’m paralyzed
    but She makes it look like manicured oak trees on an antebellum tour

    8. She’s a mixture of Big Mama with a Ph.D. in Street Knowledge
    9. demanding that profit in death precedes her brother, not with or after

  1.          /his slain will not be in vain / this can’t be another Emmett Till / another                        Medgar Evers / another Oscar Grant
  2. we now know when we refuse to be silent
    10. we shut down freeways! block bucks that drench downtown power
    we raise bail money for the forgotten
    we move our stories from the page to the stage
    from minors to the big leagues
    we make everyone Say Her Name
    We tittie to mouth our babies at the pews on Sunday and at tea time on Monday
  3. We hold writers accountable to tell our truths / color our beauty, litter her with life

    11.  And they show Her allowance in letting Her body being pleased
    12.  Her occasional leisure in blowing trees to the wind

    being a Woman is not a story that is non-fiction and simply closed.

  4. This show insists we talk about
    13. care for the elderly
    14. the vulnerability of our Veterans
    15. homophobia
    16. when children become the parents
    17. when being black is stronger than blue
    18. when being black is stronger than making green
    when right is stronger than wrong
    19. when persistence forces police lieutenants to make night calls
    knocking on doors like parental phone calls after 9pm / humbling
    20. We love Rebel because she fights like            the race of stretch marks across once raised wombs
    She fights like lightening stripes, thunder bolts and tiger claws
    She is full of mistakes but not abandoned from perfection.

    If you haven’t seen “Rebel” you DO WANT TO BINGE WATCH the series before the finale on Tuesday.  The finale is an edge of the seat 60 minute ride! Go to BET.com for episode information.

her side

woman-crying

She say for her family
she do what she can
when in reality it be for her man
who wants another mother like her son

so she wipe both they asses / and then her tears cause it be from the same shit

too tired more / more tired than / her mother who
taught her how to stay
who lived and died the same way
the palm reader etched on her palm.
now that she know,
she can remain calm
when he comes to bed
smelling like fuck nut and dried saliva

he’ll say it’s all in her head
so she close her eyes and have nightmares
of forever being a fool.

from the poetry book, Pocket Honey Wind & Hips
available at

amazon.com/author/nikkiskies

tiresome tuesday

applaud Her broken heart poetry
then pass Her a notepad and fresh ink

She dies when rape is spoken of so desensitized.

Like a chipped fingernail or
wrecked car She can call and get
a claim number for
It doesn’t get renewed!

She just let it get used and disown its’ power
so next time he wants to
punch it
or break her back
or dig in dem guts
It won’t hurt
Her.

_____________________________
She chose to be one of the “unreported” stats.
I confronted my homophobia.
I re-defined my definitions of rape.
15 years later, I wrote The Town Dance.

TDcoveronly

PURCHASE AT The Town Dance Paperback and Kindle