Tag Archives: writing

A Poem

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It’s a poem if the words can live without you.

If the allegory can make blinding light shine from tombs
awaken memories
breathe them back to – reality.

It’s a poem if,
there are possibilities for similies linking people
universally
from fallen walls to picket signs
drawing scents of lemons
shake hands of farm girls to vegetarians
likening poetry to biblical days
with your comrades
logging different chapters
forcing the community for just one night
to look
directly into the sun
That’s a poem.

from the poetry book, Pocket Honey, Wind & Hips

a time to celibate

I told her to celebrate celibacy

cause his semen spat
crack and wet rocks
her nipples leaked e&j

A drunken tomorrow.

poisoned tongues for her to swallow karma
his phalyx welt like drowned ivy vines planted everywhere
no sunshine to polish the chlorophyll
just dampened highway underpasses
abandoned by 2 a.m.
strangers.

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waking up

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“I can’t be a writer as a career.”
-then you won’t

“No one will understand my words.”
-then we won’t

“What the world doesn’t need is another writer!”
-then you won’t be one

Everyone doesn’t wake up with the notion to be a writer. A poet. A playwright. A novelist. But if you did,  follow that feeling with a sincere belief there is reasoning behind it and seek it.

Where ever you go, there you are so you might as well be happy.

with no interruptions

I’m not there yet but
maybe one day.
I’m talking about the pink ribbons and all.

For right now,
I’m going to allow
myself to feel what I feel.

A part of the reason a lot of folks didn’t know…
I didn’t want my thoughts to be interrupted anymore than what they already had been.
I didn’t want your love to inform my experience.
If it taught a lesson I wanted to learn. If it hurt I wanted to cry.

I wanted silence.

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See, my moon is in Cancer and my sun is in Leo
so when I go in my shell it’s with roaring determination

and some days I couldn’t sit
cause the infusions made my chest feel
like heavy clouds were moving through them
and some days I couldn’t stand

cause the neuropathy numbed my toes

and I didn’t know they wouldn’t bend
until I tried to walk one day / and fell.

and some days I would just
close my eyes
cause my nervous system was so jacked up
my eyes twitched until
I had a piercing headache.

I wanted silence.

Continue reading with no interruptions

a prose: lamentation

It’s cleansing – the way the rain falls
Dampens and thickens clothes to my soul
now, I can cover myself like others

But / my twisted tongue prays
and the valley crumbles boulders on my shoulders
That only a man should carry.
then he despise me for not wearing skirts
Uphold other women for their softness and high heels
as I scratch the skin off my feet
for following his wide path and narrow view
That even he abandoned when he realized
it was a crooked way.

maybe he didn’t hear my cries of SOS
Or maybe he just wouldn’t admit
He couldn’t swim.

Missing Rifle / Missing Woman (for Harriet Tubman)

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sky readers / moon believers
before the sunrise prayers
Wisdom Born Mamas sew star, sun, earth, heart shaped
patterns on
quilts to warm babies
and free souls
hearing from the wind when to hang ’em
high on the clothes line
Before rooster crow / before master know
patterns on quilts mapped out which way to go
to wade in the water
Missing Rifle / Missing Woman.

**Dedicated to the courage of Harriet Tubman and the slaves and quakers that made quilts and hung them to slyly map the way to freedom**

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harriette tubman

from the poetry book, Pocket Honey, Wind & Hips