I Promise

The sunlight was
A new type of hot,
Warming my chilled skin,
Never burning, just warming.

I was not accustomed
To this kind of sunlight,
I was more used to
The kind which beat down
On me until sweat
Trickled down the dip of my back
And disappeared into
Forbidden places.

I made my way up la rue,
That’s what they call it here,
Favouring the sunlight,
Avoiding the shadows,
Which held a chill
That I doubt I would ever
Grow accustomed to.

I was on my way
To a café
Where I was to meet Marcel.

Marcel,
The name he gave me.
Marcel,
The name I took.

I was not like the others,
Who made up stories
About their clients.

Monsieur so and so,
Distinguished businessman,
Loving husband,
Proud father,
Insatiable sex fiend.

I nipped into the café,
Just as it had started to rain,
I immediately started to look
For a middle aged man
Wearing a gray suit and a red tie.

He said that was
What he would be wearing.

In a few minutes,
We would be leaving the café,
Catching a cab
To a small hotel in a quartiere
Far from his home.

We would perform our transaction,
And he would go his way,
And I would go mine.

And yet,
Every time,
I would enter a café,
I always have the urge
To step back out,
Perhaps into the rain
That is now falling.

Let it wash away my sins.

And every time,
I would shake off the urge
And introduce myself.
This time,
I promised myself,
Would be the last time.

I promise.

The Chalice of Courage



  source

                       

















On a mountain top,
In a distant land,
Lived a fierce dragon
With talons sharper
Than the great butcher’s knife
And a breath
Hotter than a million suns.

His sole purpose for being
Was to protect a chalice.

This chalice was no ordinary goblet,
It was cast in gold
And encrusted with diamonds,
Emeralds, rubies and pearls,
But what it was made of
Paled in comparison
With what it held within.

Legend has it
That within the chalice
Was an elixir of courage.
An endless supply of
Pure Courage,
But no one had ever
Ventured to the mountain top
To sip from said chalice.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow ain't here yet,
Its still hours away
And when it comes,
I hold onto it
Only to realize it's an illusion.

In my grasp
Is today, and today
Is not enough,
Is not what I expected.
Once again, I hedge my bets
On tomorrow.

Then a million tomorrows
Pass me by,
Or so it appears
When I look back.
Looking back at the wasted
Yesterdays, I put back on
My rose coloured shades
And look towards tomorrow.

I, eventually, regretted my yesterdays
And dreamt of tomorrows,
Then one day, I looked
At the today that stood
Before me, recognizing it what it is.

Today was the clay,
I could still mold
Into the tomorrow I yearned for.

Today was the marble
Ready and waiting for my chisel.
The blank canvas
Prepared for my paint.
The blank page
At the ready for my words.

Slowly, with much resistance,
I put aside my rose coloured shades,
I pulled up my sleeves
And dealt with today.

I used the tools and lessons
Of yesterday and my desires
And wants for tomorrow,
And I made today
The foundation for a beautiful
Tomorrow.

The beautiful tomorrows
That became beautiful todays.

Donkey & Santa's Reindeer

One Christmas,
Santa took it upon himself
To give his reindeer
A vacation.

They had worked so hard
Over the years
And he thought they deserved
And would like
A little fun and sun.

So the week leading up
To Christmas Eve,
Santa and his reindeer
Made their way to Antigua.

One day,
As the reindeer were soaking in the sun,
Along came a donkey,
Named, well, Donkey.

“Now, what are you all
Suppose to be?”
Donkey asked unceremoniously,
Eying the reindeer up and down.

“Oh, well we are reindeer,”
Answered Dancer.

Now Donkey had heard of reindeer.
While passing a classroom,
He overheard the teacher
Telling her students about them.

“Well, what brings you here
To my neck of the world?”
Asked the very curious Donkey.

“We’re on vacation with our boss.”
Answered Blitzen.

“What! Hold up,
Hold up one minute!!”
Since when did reindeer have bosses?
And what kind of boss
Take their employees on vacation?”

Quite patiently, the reindeer
Explained who they were
And who their boss was
And what they did.

Now, this caught Donkey’s interest,
And the gears in his head
Started to turn,
Donkey was up to something.

The day before Christmas Eve,
Donkey found the reindeer
Where he last saw them,
And started to sweeten them up.

“So, you all have been having a good time?
Did you get to see the sights?
Devil’s Bridge, Shirley Heights
And the view from Mount St. John’s?”
Asked Donkey.

“Well, no,
I’m afraid we haven’t,”
Replied Rudolf.

“At least, you got to
Go on the Safaris,
Or on the zip lines in the rainforest,
Or went to the night clubs?”
Asked Donkey.

In unison,
The reindeer shook their heads.

“Well, you can’t leave Antigua
And not see all the sights
And do all the activities,”
Donkey said with authority.

With the quickness,
Donkey loaded up the reindeer
In his friend’s vehicle
And off they went to see the sights.

From East to South,
And South to West,
The reindeer and Donkey went.

From Betsey’s Hope
To Walling’s Dam,
Donkey told the reindeer
Everything he knew about
The little island once known as
Wadadli.

At the end of the day,
Donkey returned the exhausted reindeer
To their villa, and all
They wanted to do
Was fall asleep until the next day,
But Donkey had other plans.

After dinner,
Just as the reindeer
Were falling asleep,
There was a knock at the door.

“Up, up lazy heads!”
Donkey said turning on all the lights.
“We, my friends, are going dancing!”

From South to North,
They went to all the night clubs,
And it was about 5 in the morning
When the ever so tired reindeer
Were able to close their eyes.

At 9am, after breakfast,
A rested Santa made his way
To the reindeer’s villa.

After the second,
Or was it the third knock,
Santa heard a groggy voice
Say, “It’s open.”

In the villa,
Santa found reindeer draped
Over beds, tables, sofas,
There was even one in the bath tub.

“What is wrong?
Why aren’t you ready?
We are due to return
To the North Pole to prepare
For our long night’s work,”
A panicked Santa exclaimed.

Out of a thick duvet,
Rudolf’s head emerged,
His nose barely aglow.
“I am ever so sorry, Santa,
But we are too tired
To even make it to the door.”

As Santa left the villa,
Trying to figure out what to do,
Donkey so happen to be passing by.

“Hey, what’s with the long face?
But wait, aren’t you Santa?
Aren’t you supposed to be jolly?”
Questioned Donkey.

Santa explained his predicament
To the donkey.

“Well, you are in luck, St. Nick,
My name is Donkey,
And if you didn’t know,
I so happens to be
A beast of burden.”
Boasted Donkey.

For a minute or two
Santa stared at the donkey,
Pondering if it was
Possible to use him.

“Well, it’s not as though
I have a choice,”
Santa said, at last.
“We leave immediately.”

Before he knew it,
Donkey was on his way
To the North Pole
And Santa was explaining
What was expected of him.

By the time
They reached the workshop,
The sled was packed
And Donkey realized
The mammoth task ahead of him.

While Donkey was being hitched to the sled,
Santa slipped away
And changed into his flying suit.

Upon return, he said,
“Well, we are set to go.
Do you have any questions, Donkey?”

“Well, Santa, there is one question
That has been bothering me.
How exactly am I going to fly?”
Asked a nervous Donkey.

“Ooops, I did forget that,
Didn’t I?”
Santa then proceeded to
Sprinkle magic dust on Donkey,
Then he climbed into the sled.

The dust truly was magic,
As it made Donkey feel
As though he could
Do anything, including pull
A sled full of gifts.

And that he did,
Starting in the East
And flying West,
Santa and Donkey delivered
Gifts to boys and girls
Around the world.

And in one night,
With dusk to the front
And dawn at their backs,
The job was completed.

This made Donkey happy,
As the northern countries
Were too cold for his liking
And the southern countries
Were too hot.

When Donkey returned
To his home in Antigua,
He went straight to bed
And slept most of Christmas Day
(Donkey was never known
To miss Christmas dinner.)

A few days later,
Donkey passed by the reindeer’s villa
To say his goodbyes
And to wish them well.

“We know what you were up to,
Donkey, but we are happy
That it did not get in the way
Of the Christmas deliveries.
If anything, we now have someone
Who could fill in for us when necessary.”
Said Vixen.

“And who pray tell,
Is that someone?”
Asked Donkey.
“Because I know you aren’t thinking of me.”

Confused,
The reindeer looked at each other,
Some whispering among themselves.

“But you did such a good job,
Why not you, Donkey?”
Asked Dasher.

“Well to start,
The North is too cold,
The South is too hot.
Then when I did get home,
I spent most of Christmas day sleeping.
I almost missed Christmas dinner!!”

“No you can keep your job,
And I will stay in Antigua.”
And with that said,
Donkey trotted out of the villa.

But every Christmas,
Donkey would stay up
Until he saw the red glow
In the sky.
He would let out a big chups
And trot into his house.

And yet, as he curled up
To go to bed, a smile
Would stretch across his face
And Donkey would mumble sleepily,
“Better them do it, than me.
Merry Christmas, Santa’s reindeer
And Merry Christmas to you.”

I'm Afraid

visualize.us

I'm afraid of
Falling in
Love.

I'm afraid of
Giving my all
And learning
That it's not
Enough.

I'm afraid of
Trusting,
Falling back,
Hoping to be caught
Only to find that
No one is there.

I'm afraid of
Hoping, wishing,
Wanting, desiring
The One,
And when I get it,
I'm not
The One.

I'm afraid,
And still,
I choose to
Love.

A Nice Man

Simon smelled divine, tonight.
The scent must have been
A mix of sandalwood
And some scent
I just couldn’t identify.

Unfortunately,
I didn’t get the opportunity
To savour the various notes
As Simon was raping me.

He’s such a nice man,
My mother would say
As we would pass him
In the street,
Just after he gave us
A polite nod and a warm smile.

To end
Her glowing endorsement of him,
I accepted Simon’s invitation
To dinner.

Over salmon and lamb,
We discussed everything
Under the moon,
And I honestly thought
That Simon had potential.

It was just as the date
Was winding to an end,
As we stood in my doorway,
Simon overwhelmed me.
The wind was knocked out of me
And reality faded away.

I woke up with
Him on top of me.
My dress was torn
And I was so exposed
With Simon grinding,
Pumping, sweating,
Face contorting with a mixture
Of pain and ecstasy.
All I felt was pain.

The pain caused by
His weight pressing me
Deeper into the floor boards.

The pain caused by
His invading my body,
Ripping me in two
With each thrust.

The pain that emanated
From where he struck me.

Before long,
He was done
And only at that moment
Did he realize that
I had came to.
“You liked that,
Didn’t you?
I know I enjoyed it.”

He got dressed,
Complementing me
On how nice my apartment was.
He especially liked
The hardwood floors.
He giggled at his own joke.

I waited for the “nice man”
To exit my apartment,
Then called the police,
Then my mother,
Who sobbed outside
As the doctor collected evidence
For the rape kit.

As news spread
Of Simon’s arrest,
Women came forth
Claiming that he had raped them.
They were ashamed at the time,
They were party girls
And Simon was such a nice man.
Everyone would have
Believed whatever he said.

A year and a half later,
Simon was sentenced
For raping me, and
The police were investigating
The other claims of rape.

From that night forward,
I am wary of any man
Who is described as
A nice man.

Women with Words - dub insomnia by Amahnee

While checking out Black Girls with Long Hair, I discovered Women with Words. According to it's About Page,

WomenwithWordz is an interactive blog where women of all races, ages and backgrounds can post and share their writings, rhymes, poems, stories, scripts, and words. This virtual space is welcoming of all types of work: a quiet reflexive song, an angry loud poem even silly fun lyrics and stories are accepted and celebrated.

The WomenwithWordz blog was born from the Women with Wordz writing circle held every Wednesday at 1900 Sheppard Ave in Toronto. Supported by Literature for Life, the women are led by their instructor Motion to let go and write freely and openly about what is most important to them.

This blog is an invitation, an extension of the beautiful works that pour out of the writing circle, to all women who stumble upon the blog and have a song to sing, or poem to write, or a story to tell. Please take your time and read (and respect) the words within the blog and feel free to respond or submit your own writing.

I really got into it and even submitted one of my poems. I think it's a great way for writers and poets to share their work. I don't know if it is the same for others, but I've been able to interact with like minded people through blogging and it is always a great way to share one's work beyond one's shores and/or borders.

Below is a poem by Amahnee, one of the Wordsmithz on the blog.

dub insomnia

Night thoughts chase the dawn

As day breaking dreams are born

In the madness of midnight suns

Makeshift cock calls riddle his eardrums

And he presses the snooze button on the alarm clock

Although he hasn’t slept yet

Dressed yet?

He still wears the slacks with the syrup stains

And the crumpled lunch receipt in the back pocket

Can’t remember what he had

But he knows it was awful

Stomach grumbles

As he reaches for another packet of ramen

“Shit, I shoulda never left

Sun rays for snowy landscapes

Coal pots for coffee cups…

And Mama.”

Night thoughts chase the dawn

As day breaking dreams are born

In the madness of midnight suns

The sky’s sparkling black pupils scorn his footsteps

“How dare you disturb this world’s slumber.”

But down under, he’s just another number

On another block, in a far away city

And even he haffu eat

So he stumbles on to the street

Sneakers saddening pavement as baby sleeps

Sweating for dimes

Fingers slipping through time

Souls caked in mud

Does hope die with the settling son?

Night thoughts chase the dawn

Day breaking dreams are born

In the madness

of

midnight

suns

His Name

His name was Jean,
Not John
Or Juan.
His name brought to mind
Images of cute bistros
And passionate love
And cool confidence.

Even if his name
Was your average name,
Paul, Peter or Steven,
He still would have
Brought those images to my mind,
Simply by the way
He walked, talked and existed.

Jean was my first.
My first love,
My first boyfriend,
The man I first made love to.
At the time,
I thought that he was the one
I was holding on to my virginity for.
Jean was my first
And my last.

It was one autumn evening,
As we huddled on the back porch,
Watching day turn to night.
A lone tear
Rolled down Jean’s cheek
And the words,
“I’m sorry,”
Spilled from his mouth.

He didn’t look at me,
He just spoke
About how much
He loved me,
About how he wish
He could undo it all,
About how he didn’t know
Until it was too late.

When it was all said,
I didn’t know if
I wanted to hug him
Or hurt him.
Neither of those things
Would have meant anything,
I buried Jean that winter.
I only hope I will see the next.

Every now and then,
I would see the woman
Who infected Jean.
I never made a scene
By calling her a whore
Or letting people know
That she had AIDS.
Her time will come soon enough.

Although Jean left that winter,
A part of him
Was born the next summer.
Thankfully, he was born
Without the virus.
There are days when
I want to give up,
But I would look into
Our little boys face
And am reminded
That I have to keep going
For him.

His name is Pierre,
Not Peter
Or Pedro.
His name reminds me
Of the first man I ever love.
He reminds me of Jean.

Love Jones

I debated if I should post this on this blog or my other blog, Kimolisa Was Here and this blog ended up with it because of the poetry.

To begin, I've been wanting to watch this for a long time and it wasn't on the website on which I would watch movies. So here I was thinking, I'm going to have to go hunting for it on Ebay or something. Then by chance I thought I want to at least see a scene from it, and badabing, there is the whole thing on YouTube. Of course, I sat down and watched it at last.

It got me to thinking too, why is it so hard to say "I like you, I love you, I want you in my life,"? Have we become so tenderhearted to give our all? Anywho, it's nice to see this movie at long last. Below is the movie, enjoy.

It Was Fun

weheartit

It was fun
While it lasted.
These were the last words
I said to Henri.

Our whirlwind romance
Was winding to an end
Like a tired hurricane
Somewhere over Canada.

It wasn't as though
We expected forever
From each other.
It was more like a season,
Maybe two.

We experienced
An intense sense of like
Which took us on long walks
On beaches as the sun dropped
Into azure waters.

Our time together included
Visiting perfumeries
Spritzing each other with divine scents
And taking the opportunity
To be closer to each other than usual.

There were times when
We would lounge around his place,
Listening to his collection of cds.
I would tease him about his Britney Spears cd
Which he swore belonged to an old girlfriend.

In cages,
Over cups of strong brew,
We would share serious conversations,
Plato, Aristotle, Socrates,
And other philosophies,
As well as who was the better super hero,
Batman or Superman.

Somewhere between our first hello
And our final goodbye,
We kissed.
It was like a fine piece of music,
Starting slow and gentle,
Building in intensity
Till it hit a crescendo,
Leaving us satisfied and wanting more.

But like all good things,
It came to an end.
We both knew we weren’t the ones,
The ones who caught our breaths
At the first glances.
The ones who made us want
To commit ourselves to them.

We always spoke of todays
Never broaching the topic of tomorrow.
We understood that each moment
Was precious and would be remembered fondly,
So we never wasted our time
On arguments,
Agreeing to disagree.

Our time together
Was like a rose,
Starting as a tiny bud.
Then day by day it grows,
And one fine day,
It blossoms in all its grandeur.
Then a few days later,
It slowly dies away
And is nothing but a beautiful memory.

I sometimes miss Henri,
But I stand behind my last words,
It was fun while it lasted.

Sinnerman - Nina Simone

The Tree of Wishes

weheartit

Nora sat on the precipice
Overlooking her existence
Under the tree of wishes.

It took her many moons
To find this tree
And many more moons
To learn that she had to look for it.

With soul tired
And spirit weary,
She sat and listened
To the wind blowing through the leaves.

Strangely enough,
The sound started to make sense
And she was able to make out something.
She could understand.

“What do you wish?
What do you desire, child?”
The tree speaks,
How wonderful.

After A While

©1971 Veronica A. Shoffstall

After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
and you learn
that love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't always mean security.
And you begin to learn
that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of woman,
not the grief of a child
and you learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down
in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
if you get too much
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye, you learn... 

I just wanted to share this, it is worth reading.

Have I Made It?

As I was going through my emails this morning, I came across a FaceBook message from someone I didn't know. Seeing it was in my Inbox and wasn't automatically kicked into my Spam box, I figured it was safe. I opened it and found this:

Dear (Kimolisa),


My name is XXXXX XXXXX, i am doing an assignment on poets. My teacher has given my group your name as a local poet i would please like to know more about you to complete my assignment.

yours respectfully,

XXXXX XXXXX.

Her name was removed as she is obviously a minor.

I was honestly blown away, more because I have yet to easily label myself as a Poet. Yes, I write poetry. Yes, I've done my share of poetry nights, open mics and I think I have a few pieces published in a newspaper. Yes, I'm 85% done in writing my first book of poetry. But do I see myself as a local poet and am recognized by others? Nope.

You know what though, I feel like I'm flattered by it and I know as time passes, I'll move on. I'll go back to writing my poetry, sewing my clothes and living. My poetry is my voice, when I couldn't vocalize how I felt, I could always express myself through my poems. Once again, I appreciate all my followers and I thank you for following.

XOXO

I Found It Hard

weheartit

I found it hard
To let go,
Pulling back the vines
Of my conscious
That curl around
The idea of you.

I found it hard
Not to pick up the phone
And dial the number
That is as familiar
To me as my own.

I found it hard
To not sit and remember
The good times we shared
Or what I believed
To be good times.

I found it hard
Not to remember
Your voice,
Your smile,
Your touch,
Your taste.

I found it hard
But not impossible
As I knew it was time
To let go,
To move on.

Soon,
Hours will fade into days,
And days will melt into weeks,
Then weeks to months,
Then years
And by then, you will be
A Whisper of a memory.

So right now,
I will struggle
To forget you,
But I promise you,
It is a struggle
I will overcome.

You have already begun
To fade.

Goodbye

My Modern Met


Goodbye.
I never thought
I would say that word.
It would be a word
That would represent
A temporary state,
Always holding the promise
Of another meeting.

I took this day
To escape from my death,
The ending of my life.
Just before my body
Ceased to listen to my commands,
Just before I become dependent
On others for even
The most basic of things,
I took my bike
And rode away.

I rode to the fields
Beyond the city limits
Filled with wild flowers
That scented the air
Leaving me heady.
I pick a few
Till my basket said
No more
Letting some spill on the ground.

I rode to the seaside,
And looked out
To the horizon.
The sea was a reflection
Of the overcast sky.
I didn’t care.
There is something heavenly
About the sunlight breaking
Through the clouds.

Somehow the sight
Made me feel safe,
Ready, even for when
I take my last breath.

I no longer hope for cures
Or treatments that will
Make me live a little bit longer.
Today, I got the chance
To say Goodbye
To the world
That mesmerized me,
That accommodated me,
That I loved.

Not a tear will fall,
Not a sob will escape my lips.
Simply,
Only,
Goodbye.

This is my last poem inspired by Sator Arepo's photography. I hope you liked them and if you want to read them again just click on the Sator Arepo tag in the tag clout to the right. So what replace my Wednesday Sator Arepo poems? Well, I'm thinking of posting videos of my reading or reciting some of my poetry. I have to figure out how I'm going to do that. It should be interesting.

A Perfect Man

He was not
A perfect man.
I would not
Lie to you
And say he was.

He was a man
As imperfect as the next.
He was a man
Who understood the value
Of hard work and
The rewards of hard work.

He was a man
Who grabbed the opportunities
That life presented him
And took advantage of them,
Never looking back
Always looking forward.

He was a man
Who saw this island change
From one of sugar cane and grounds
To one of hotels and commerce.
From one of donkey carts
And motor bikes
To one of trucks
And mini vans.

He was not
A perfect father.
He did not cuddle
Or shower his children
With praise,
But he showed them
How to work hard,
How to aim beyond the moon
And reach for the stars.

He was a man,
Who took pride
In the success
Of his children,
Wanting them to be
More educated,
More well read,
More well spoken
Than him.

He was a man
Who provided
For his family.
He provided
Shelter,
Food,
And the knowledge
And desire
To surpass what
He, himself, had achieved in life.

No, he was not a perfect man,
But there is a small part
In me that believes
That God does not take
Imperfect people.

It is when we have achieved
Perfection,
It is when we have learned
All that we are here to learn
That God takes us home.

He may not have been
A perfect man,
But in death,
He achieved perfection.

Today, my grandfather is being laid to rest. This is the poem I am reading during the funeral service.

Wake Them

Wake them!
Wake them from
Their dreamless slumber.
A slumber with
Eyes wide open
And minds tightly shut.

Wake them!
Wake them from their desires
To remain boxed in
In Xboxes and PSP’s
In IPhones and Crackberries.
Connected with friends,
But truly, are they connected?

Wake them!
Wake them from a new world
Constructed solely for their minds,
Paying no attention
To their bodies and souls.
Connected and yet
Disconnected from the world,
From themselves.

Wake them,
And let them rise and shine
With the greatness
All men possess
To imagine,
To innovate,
To create,
To invent,
To be better that
The people they believe
Themselves to be.

Let them shine
With the awareness
That life is of
Their own making
And not something
Constructed by society
And thrust upon them.

Let them shine
With the desire
To make this world
A better place
For their children and grandchildren
And in turn inspire
Those children to take that desire
And change the world.

Wake them!
Wake him and her!
Wake you and me
And let us rise and shine.


I did this poem for a spoken word competition with the theme being “Wake them and let them rise and shine”. Unfortunately, I went to the wrong venue and never got to read/recite this poem. There will be other competitions.

Baby Went Home

weheartit

Borderline
Alcoholic sitting at the bar
Sipping on a Gin and Tonic,
Trying to give the impression
Of a seasoned drinker.

The liquor
Visited her tongue
And slipped down her throat
And immediately wished
She ordered whiskey.

She wanted to savour
Each delectable note,
Just before it burned
Its way down,
Hopefully,
Burning away her sins,
Her fears,
Her past.

She spun the tumbler around,
Thumb pushing,
Fingers pulling,
A whirlpool forming.

“Come home, baby.”
The words echoed
In the cavern of her mind.
She wanted to go home but ……

Would he forgive her?
Could he forgive her?
Did he still love her?
Could he love her?

“Come home, baby.”
The words came out of nowhere,
Strong arms enveloped her
And pulled her into a warm embrace.

She was afraid
To turn around,
To face him,
To look him in the eye.

“I’m sorry, I..”
“Shh! It wasn’t your fault,
Come home, baby.”

“Are you mad?”
“I was mad,
I won’t lie.”

“Can you forgive me?”
“I already did.
I love you.”

“I love you,”
She turned around
Finding the familiar expression
Or love written across his face.

Such an intimate moment
In such a public place.

Fingers entwined,
They left the bar
Leaving a half full glass of
Gin and Tonic.

Baby went home.

I Had To Share

vi.sualize.us

Convince Me

Convince me
That you are worthy
To exist in my space,
Proving that you are not
Another brother with a cute face.

Convince me
That you are man enough
To stand by this woman,
Not a little boy
In grown folk’s clothing.

Convince me
That I am the queen
You’ve been waiting for
And that you’re not another hoodie
Looking for a hood rat
To be birthing your babies.

Convince me
That I don’t need
Diamonds and pearls,
What I would find in you
Is worth ten times
Those baubles and glass.

Convince me
That you see the God in me
And that you want to show me
The God in you.

Convince me
That you are the man
Who would stand beside me,
In front of everyone we knew,
Professing your love for me.

Convince me
That you will protect me
From everything and everyone
Who would hurt me,
Even if everyone
Includes me.

Convince me
That in the beginning
And the end,
I am you one and only
With no talk of women on the side.
You are allowed to make mistakes,
But your mistakes should never
Become habits.

Convince me
That you are man enough
To be the father of my kids,
Showing them how a real man
Loves a real woman.

Convince me
That if we had something,
It would be a relationship,
That it would be the real thing,
Not two people playing house
Waiting for something better
To come along.

But if you can’t convince me,
You better be on your way,
Because I’m not going to
Waste any more time on
Another trifling brother.

But if you can convince me
Of most, if not all these things,
I am willing to convince you
That I’m worth keeping.


A couple of days, my grandfather passed away and that evening I assessed the womenfolk of the family and I saw an underlying similarity. Now when I saw womenfolk, I’m talking about blood relation to my grandfather. What I noticed is that all of them were not in a strong relationship, so I assessed my own life and realized where I fell down in that area.

My grandfather didn’t have his father in his life and as a result he never received love from a father. He also didn’t know how to give that love; as a result my father didn’t learn how to give that love. We all know about the idea of Daddy’s little girl, but we don’t realize it is by being daddy’s little girl that we know that we are princesses, that we are of value. Take away that, and we grow up to be women who don’t know our value and take up with any old, no good man. Just give us a little love and we hold onto it like it is a million dollars.

In a couple of weeks, my grandfather’s remains will be put to rest, and at the grave yard I’m going to leave all those negative beliefs. The poem above is my anthem, I want a man to convince me that he is worthy of me, because I am worthy and if he can’t convince me, he can run that game some where else.

When I Think Of Amanda

My Modern Met

Red coat,

Black boots.
That is what I remember
When I think of Amanda.

It was one of
Those spontaneous days
When we would hop in the car
And drive to nowhere in particular.
We would drive.

It was only
When something caught our attention
That we would stop.
Sometimes, a food place
We wanted to try.
Sometimes, an amusement park.
Sometimes, a friends home.

This time it was the seaside.
We got out of the car
And walked along the shore
Playing truth or dare.

I dared her
To jump up and down,
I chose to tell her the truth
That I loved her.
This made her jump
Without being dared to do so.

That day,
Changed the dynamic of our relationship.
That day,
We learned that we loved each other.
Red coat,
Black boots
Is what I remember
When I think of Amanda.

Je T'Aime

The city stretched out
Before us
And the Sacred Heart
Stood behind us
Perched on the hill
Known for its windmills.

This city felt like home,
Its essence vibrated
In my veins
And I felt a connection,
A love that tied us together.
Still, I was scared.

I felt Jean's breath
On the back of my neck
Just before he wrapped
His arms around me.
His warmth enveloping me.
His scent filling my lungs.

"Ne me quitte pas."
The words slipping from his tongue
And kissing my ears.
I didn't want to leave him,
I didn't want to leave the city,
But I was leaving the next day.

A lone tear fell
And I wiped it away.
I won't let him see me cry.
I turned and returned his embrace,
Reaching up and kissing him.
Every moment recorded
And filed in my brain.

The evening started her
In front of Le Sacre Coeur
In Montemarte,
And ended with us holding on
For dear life in a mess of sheets.
My last thoughts before slumber
Escaped my lips.

Je t'aime, Jean.
Je t'aime, Paris.

In This Place

My Modern Met

Sometimes,
The world can be
So overwhelming.
Life can be
So overwhelming,
Leaving me
With the desire
To curl up
In my bed
And shut out everything,
Everyone,
Every emotion.

Just when I am
At that breaking point,
I grab my keys,
Toss my cell
And jump into my ride.

Within half an hour,
I am standing
On rocky ground
Looking out
At a watery horizon.
I return to the the one place
That saves me,
Brings me back
From the edge.

The Trade Winds
Fills my lungs
Recharging every atom
In my being.

The wails of the dead rise
From their watery graves
Reminding me that
I should be grateful
That I am alive.

In this place,
All my senses
Are engaged.
I see and hear the waves crashing,
I smell and taste the salty spray
And I feel the wind
As it rushes by.

In this place,
I am renewed
And can now take on
The world.

A Green Beetle

My Modern Met

One day,
I grew tired
Of my champagne sedan.

Champagne.
That is what
The dealer called it,
As though giving it
An expensive name
Made it less of
A boring colour.

So when Bobby
(That's my husband)
Wasn't looking,
I traded it in
For a green beetle.

Green.
A colour that
Took me back
To a time
When smiles were found
More often than frowns,
When mommy had
All the answers
And when my favourite colour
Was green.

At first,
Bobby would go through
The five stages of loss.
Denial.
Anger.
Bargaining.
Depression.
Acceptance.

I will be waiting for him
At Acceptance
In my green VW Beetle.

Quite Beautiful

My Modern Met

The sun made it's descent
Into the distant horizon,
Being chased by the velvet night
In shades of blues and blacks.

I watched the whole show
In the reflection of still waters
Which distorted the reality
Into an artist's rendering
Of the world I grew tired of.

So in the evenings,
You would find me
At the water's edge
Watching the world
I never take notice
Turn into something
Quite beautiful.

In Reality

He said that
The job would be easy.

My sole purpose
Was to be eye candy.

So why was I lying
In a pool of my own blood?

Why was this bullet
Burried in my stomach?

Whay was he stowing the loot
In the trunk of his family car?

Where were the others?
Luke who was posing
As a security guard.
Tony and Sylvester,
The shooter and driver, respectively.
Where were they
And why weren't the stopping him?

In a blink of an eye,
He was over me.

He was stuffing papers
In my pockets,
But I was too weak
Too much in pain
To fight him.

As he strode away,
I managed to pull out
A piece of paper
From my left pocket.

It showed the route
Of the armor truck
We just boosted.

I looked up
When I heard a click,
Fearing it was the click
Of the safety of his gun
Being removed, instead,
It was the sound of
The car door closing.

I watched the family car drive off
With the Baby on Board sticker
Fading into the distance.

In reality,
Things don't according to plan.

In reality,
Not everyone knows the complete plan.

In reality,
I will die in a few hours
From a gunshot wound.

In reality,
I will be blamed for a crime
For which I was only supposed
To be eye candy.

Sometimes,
Reality can be a bitch.

XX

I have a couple poems that were a bit on the hot and bothered side, so instead of posting it the regular way, I've put links to them in this short post. So if you're over 18, click the links in the first sentence and enjoy.

XOXO

P.S. Consider yourself warned.

Sweet Amanda

My Modern Met

The vintage car pulled up
To the pier,
And a feeling of dread
Engulfed me.

Mr. Peterson was,
In one word,
A Prick.
According to his press releases,
He was a self made man
Who built his fortune
From a little lemonade stand
He had when he was about 7 years old.

The sad thing is
That prick was my boss.
He owned the yacht I worked on
And twice a year,
I had the displeasure
Of being in his company.

To ensure that he never
Knew my true feelings towards him,
I plastered a smile on my face
And greeted him
Like my favourite uncle,
Going into a spiel
On how well the boat was doing.

This time,
He appeared to be distracted.
His eyes darting to me,
The pier, then the car.
Something was off.

“You’ve been doing a great job
On the boat, Tom.”
Don’t I know I do
A great job on this mega yacht.
“How about you take
The weekend off.
I’m not taking it out,
But I need some alone time.”
No problem,
Lara was talking abut going upstate
And this weekend was as good as any.

Something is off.

I packed up my stuff
And made my way to my ride.
On the way home,
I called Lara
And shared the good news.

Saturday morning,
The ride was packed,
And the road was calling,
But I forgot my pocket knife
At the yacht.

It was no problem,
I’ll just stop on the way.

It was still pretty early,
So I decided to sneak on,
Find the knife
And be on my way
Without disturbing Mr. Peterson.

As I passed the main stateroom,
I heard moaning
And something akin
To a struggle.
I slowly cracked the door,
Making sure not to make any noise.

What I found
Was Mr. Peterson on top
Of his twelve year old daughter,
Amanda.

He didn’t see me,
But she looked right into my eyes.
Her eyes spoke volumes.
They told me that this
Was not the first time.
They told me she didn’t
Want to be here,
Doing this act with anyone,
Much less her father.
They told me that
She was about to give up.

At this moment,
I chose to do the right thing.

Sure, I could have walked away,
I could have called her mom,
Called the police.
I could have done
These things anonymously,
But I didn’t.

Instead,
I pulled Mr. Peterson
Off of his daughter,
Shoving him against the wall.
As he was a bit shocked
By the intrusion,
I was able to get off
A good uppercut
That knocked him out.

I threw clothes at Amanda,
Giving her time to get dressed,
As I waited just outside of the room.

Five minutes later,
She stood at the door.
“Do you want me to
Take you back home?”
She shook her head. No.
“Where do you want to go?”

It took a while
For her to answer
And I was not expecting the answer.
“I want to go with you.”

As we approached my ride,
I read the questions
That were written across Lara’s face.
“Later,” was all I said.

Later, as we drove
To Lara’s parent’s house,
We learned about
The Petersons,
And what emerged from
The lips of Amanda Peterson
Shook us to our core.

Amanda, in our minds
Was not returning home,
Amanda was never going
To step foot on the mega yacht
Where her father violated her.
The same boat he called
The Sweet Amanda.

Fortunately, the Petersons didn’t want
The scandal to smear their “good” name.
They told friends and family
That Amanda was attending
A Swiss boarding school,
But the truth was they signed
Guardianship over to Lara and me.

We moved to the west coast,
I’m still working on boats,
Lara found a good job,
And Amanda,
Well, Amanda is doing great.

The Policy

The wind enveloped me,
Pitching the skirt
Of my dress around me,
Giving life to the fabric.

I didn’t feel it,
My whole body,
Not just my eyes
Was trained at the
Nozzle of the gun.

My gun,
Being held by
My husband,
The man I vowed
To have and hold
Until death do us part.

A new feeling
Swept through me.
A feeling as alien
To me as the desire
To touch an earthworm.

Terror
Held me still
And yet, it set my heart
Racing.

“What is going on?”
One of the questions
Crisscrossing in my mind
Like the Nokia snake.

“Who was this man?”
His eyes cruel,
Dead, evil.

There was a movement
To the left,
But I kept my eyes
On the gun.

He looked,
A smile,
A nasty smile
Pulled at the corner
Of his lips.

It was now
Or never.

I rushed him,
Pushing the gun up,
While slamming the heel
Of my hand
Up his nose.

He roared,
Dropping the gun
And I dropped,
Dodging his frantic hands
And catching the gun.

I removed the safety
And held the business end
To his temple.
It was his turn
To feel terror.

He licked his lips,
His eyes begging,
His mind reeling,
His heart speeding.

It’s a funny thing
When a man
Takes out a million dollar
Life Insurance Policy
On his wife.

I can forgive him
All the women he slept with,
Like the bitch
Cowering in the corner.

I can forgive him
Putting us deep into debt,
Spending money on toys
And whores.

I can forgive him
For being an impotent,
No good, piece of ……..

But I can never forgive him
For planning to kill me.
He saw that this one act
Was unforgivable.

Terror twisted his face
Stealing all the confidence
He possessed five minutes ago.

The terror
Became my loving husbands
Death mask.

It was self defense,
His prints were on the bullets
He loaded in my gun.
The bitch could not dispute it,
My attorney made sure of that.

The jury heard about
The debt he put us in,
The women,
The life insurance policy.

I was the victim
That survived.

I was found
Not guilty
On the grounds
Of self defense.

After the trial,
I disappeared
From public view.
I let the months slip by
As I reclaimed my life.

Three months later
I filed my husband’s
Life insurance policy.
Two million dollars!
I deserved all of it!

No Promises

weheartit.com

As I lay
In the crook of his arm,
I traced the outline of his lips.
The same full lips
That left my lips swollen
And loved.

I whispered in his ears
A truth that was mine.
the truth that I would
Leave him wanting more
And yet leave him confused.

There would be times
I would be in his grasp
And others when he questions
If I really existed.

I whispered,
As our bodies entwined,
Hard and soft united
As one.

This moment here,
I whisper, should be savoured.
Each sensory stimuli recorded,
Each emotion noted
Because I can't promise him
It will happen again.

In this embrace,
He falls asleep,
His breathing growing slower
And slower,
His face relaxed.

I watch him in this state
Memorizing every line and curve
Of his face.
A mental photograph.

In the morning,
I'm gone,
Leaving behind warmth
Fading next to him,
My taste on his lips,
My scent in his sheets
And the memory
Of our night together.

He will find a note
Next to the coffee
I left to brew.

"No Promise."

A New Story

weheartit.com


I don't want to be pregnant!
I don't want to be pregnant!
Please, God,
don't make me be pregnant!
A constant chant
Marching through my cerebral cortex.

Any other time,
I would be jumping for joy
At the prospect of
Carrying a little person for nine months,
Going through excruciating pain
Giving birth to said little person.

This was not that time.

I could not adopt
The concept that I
Would be linked
To that man for 18 years.
Having him have a say
In how my child was to be brought up?
No sir, no ma'am.

So, why did I
Let it get so far?

I guess
I wanted to be normal,
I wanted to be loved,
I wanted what I saw in movies
And read in novels.
The sad thing is
That was not the reality.

The reality was
Men who wanted my body,
More than my soul.
Men who put their needs,
His wants before mine.
Men who wanted me
To have their babies,
But made me question
If they wanted me.

"You can go in now."
The nurse pulled me
Out of my fog of thoughts.

Dead woman walking,
More like
Pregnant woman walking.
My steps were heavy
And yet I was able to move quickly.

The doctor greeted me
With his usual effervescence
And I try to match it
Point for point.

As I sit across
From my gyno and relate my suspicions,
The door to the outside closes
And a new story begins.

An Urban Prima Ballerina

My Modern Met

I first saw one
When I was visiting
Gigi’s apartment.

Mrs. Ortiz had the TV
On one of those cable networks
Dedicated to the arts,
While piles and piles
Of laundry covered the furniture
In the small living room.

As Gigi ran to the bedroom
She shared with her two sisters,
I stood transfixed
By the woman
With an impossibly short
Mini skirt over a bathing suit.

“You like?”
I heard the smile
In Mrs. Ortiz’s voice.
“She’s the prima ballerina,
The star of the ballet.

That afternoon,
I sat on the Ortiz’s floor,
My eyes trained on the telly
While the woman of the house
Told me everything she knew
Of ballerinas, ballets
And the like.

Momma couldn’t afford
To send me to ballet lessons,
She said as much
When I asked,
So every Tuesday and Thursday,
After school,
You would find me
At Gigi’s place
Watching ballerinas jump
And twirl with Mrs. Ortiz.

I would memorize
Every move
And on the way home
I would mimic
What I saw.
I would practice
And practice
Until I become known as
The neighbourhood ballerina.

Then one evening,
Just as I completed
A complicated routine,
A lone round of applause
Echoed in the alley.

In it’s entrance
Stood a petit woman
With an enviable presence.

“Come with me.”
An expression of admiration
Was written across her face.
She introduced herself
As the owner of a ballet school
Located a few blocks away.
She was directed to my alley
And there she would find
An urban prima ballerina.

And so,
I went with her.
She taught me
Free of charge.
We fought.
We reconciled
And under her tutelage,
I became a real ballerina.

Over the years
That followed,
I work very hard
Until I became
A renowned prima ballerina,
But always in my heart,
I will always be
An urban prima ballerina.

Happiness Finds Me

weheartit.com

The hot air
Licked the back
Of my neck
Like a lover.
Kissing, licking
And blowing warm air.

I didn’t bother
To put on the fan
Sitting at the foot
Of the hammock.
All it would have done was
Circulate the hot air
In and about the space
That embraced my body.

Instead,
I reached for an ice cube
From the bowl next to me.
I licked it,
Letting my mouth
Become acquainted to the coolness.
Then I wrapped my lips
Around the cold delight,
And sucked,
Melting it
Before swallowing it
Whole.

I set the hammock
To swing,
Kicking off with my foot
In an idle fashion.
Book in my hands,
Blue sky all around
And Coltrane playing
In the background.

This was happiness.

I didn’t need
Gucci bags,
Louboutin pumps
Or a Lamborghini
In my favourite shade of
Pink.

Those things did not
Let my heart grow
Two sizes its size.
They did not create
A feeling that can only
Be described as Joy.

I found happiness
In a good book,
In the company of good people,
In the presence of nature
At it’s most beautiful.

And sometimes,
Fifty percent of the time,
Happiness finds me.

My Field Of Memories

My Modern Met

It was just before
The time when
The sun would
Dip low and kiss the earth.

I found the field
Empty and waiting
For me to return.
An old friend waiting
For an old friend.

I walked around
The field,
Stopping at places
That brought back
A memory.

The memory
Of pretending
I was a plane.
Arms stretched out
To the sides,
Dipping and soaring
As I imagined
An open sky
In front of me.

The memory
Of my first kiss,
Awkward, yet sweet.
The foundation
Or many more.
Some good,
Some bad.

The countless memories
Of dancing.
Dancing for joy,
Dancing to release stress,
Dancing just because.

Then there were
No more memories.
I had stopped
Visiting the field.

Life happened
And there was no time
To visit,
To create new memories.

Now my time
Has ended,
I will not be
Making new memories.

One moment,
I was in my hospital room,
The next moment,
I was walking
Through the woods
To the field.

I’ve said my goodbyes
To all my loved ones
Except one.

As this day ends,
Taking with it my life,
I say goodbye to
My field of memories.

The Cocktail Party

weheartit
Squeezed together
with drinks and nuts
you have to talk,
circulate with ease,
discuss the weather,
and try to please.
You open yourself
to a person
you like best.
He or she looks
over your shoulder
to see who is next.
We keep sniffing
each ohter,
all smiles and laughter
trying to find out
what the other person
is after.
It is a marvellous way
to get to know people
without really getting
to know them
at all.

This is a poem from Ivar Ditlef-Nielsen's Selected Poems (Poelosophy).

Other People's Words

Unfortunately, the last couple I've written, I can't post as yet as on I wrote for an open mike Saturday after next, another is for a funeral and I have to wait till I read it at the funeral, and the last is one I want to put in a book. So instead of my work I'm posting some clips from Def Poetry Jam.

Enjoy!!

Lover's Typewriter

My Modern Met

Lover was not a modern man.
He was one
Who still listened to records
And drove a 1976 hoopty.

Lover was a writer
With a love
For all things old.
His first love
Being his old school
Typewriter.

No word processor,
No personal computer,
No laptop
Graced his desk,
Nor will they ever
Cross the threshold
Of Lover’s apartment.

Late into the night,
I would be awaken
By the clickty clack
Of the old typewriter’s
Keys being struck
By his slender fingers.

I was never jealous
Of the inanimate object.
I saw it as a part of him.
Without it,
He would not be whole
And I loved him
In his entirety.

It also didn’t hurt
That it was on that typewriter
That he typed
Words so heavy with love
That they could not be spoken.

On that typewriter,
He typed a possible
Future for us.

On that typewriter,
He typed the possible
Names of our children.

Soon that typewriter
Held a special place
In my heart,
And I would fall asleep
To it’s clickity clack.

Lover was not a modern man
But he was my man.

Courtesan

Sydney Morning Herald

I want to be
With you,
But I love her.

She s my everything,
I would never leave her.

He said all this
As he lay in my bed,
His head resting
On my belly.

God,
It was a heavy head!

I was the other woman,
The one he would
Seek out
For conversation,
For warmth,
For sex.

I would listen
To his problems,
Give him advice,
Be a pillar
For him to lean on.

I was his
Courtesan.

Such a pretty word
For a woman
Who was used
And tossed to the side.

Such a dainty word
For a woman
Who invested her time,
Energy,
Affection
On a man
Who will eventually
Turn his back to her.

As I laid there,
His head
Resting on my belly,
I let his word
Wash over me.

I imagined he was
Affirming his love for me
Not her,
The woman who had
His heart.

I looked down at him
And made a promise
To myself.
I promise to resign.
I promise to be
A woman who held
A man's heart.
I promise to never
Be a courtesan again.

This was our last night.

Waiting

My Modern Met

Waiting,
Waiting for you,
Waiting for us,
Waiting for the bus
To take me from here.

To take me
To the city.
To take me
From the farm.

The farm
Where he touched me.
The farm
Where he raped me.
The farm
Where Mother looked away.

Mother looked away
Because she could do nothing,
Because she was afraid,
Because she wanted
To hold onto what she knew.

What she knew
Was the farm,
This man who left bruises,
Who provided shelter,
Who provided food,
Who provided.....
Babies.

I was waiting
For you
To give me strength
To wait for the bus
To take me
To the city
To give birth
To you.

What Are Your Colours?

“What are your
Colours?”
His eyes boring
Holes into me.

He expected me
To answer
As though I was
His subordinate.

Instead,
I took a good look
At the depressing room
To which the guards
Brought me.

The walls were brown,
The floor dust
Flecked with dark browns.
Blood.

“WHAT ARE YOUR
COLOURS?”
I can feel
Anger rolling
Off of him.

I decided to answer
But refused
To look at him.
“Black.”

A gasp spread
Across the room,
As though it
Traveled from one man
To the other.

The angry man
Turned to the Ghandi-like man
Who just nodded.
Black was a truth.

In unison,
Everyone stepped back,
Some looked away,
Afraid I might make eye contact.

Black meant death
In this land.
It meant a darkness
That held many mysteries.
It meant I had
Seen many deaths,
Perhaps, I had even died.

“Red.”
Ghandi nodded.
Truth spoken
Into the stuffy room.
Another step back.

Red meant blood
In my presence.
Blood shed.
Perhaps, I had shed it.

“Blue.”
They realized I spoke
Only truth.
Ghandi stood still.

Blue meant seas,
Oceans, endless horizons.
I was a traveler.
I had seen things
They never would.

The angry man smiled.

“White.”
Although my other colours
Spoke of darkness,
I still possessed
The purity all men
Were born with.

The angry man
Spoke to the guards
In their tongue
And two cruel looking men
Took me away.

With rough hands
They took me through the city,
Passing through bazaars
Rich in colour,
Scented with more spices
Than I ever knew existed.

They deposited me
At the gates of the city,
At the entrance
Of the great desert.

At that spot,
I dropped to the ground.
I sat in the way
The eastern men sat,
But instead of a cool
Mountain top,
I sat in a hot desert.

The cruel men
Stood guard
Until they were sure
I would not return to the city.

I felt him
Before he spoke.
Ghandi.

“He sent you here
Because Blue
Is one of your colours.”

“Blue people
Never survive the sand.”

“Then I shall sit here
Until I absorb
The colour of the sands.”
And I sat,
Drinking from my flask
When I needed to.

Each morning,
The cruel men visited me,
Expecting me to be gone.

Each evening,
Ghandi would visit,
Bringing food
And more water.

On the fourth day,
Neither the cruel men
Nor Ghandi found me.

I had entered
The great desert.

Two months later.

“What are your
Colours?”
Queried the man
Who was a dark
As a moon less night.

“Black,
Red,
Blue,
White
And the colour
Of Sand.”

“What are your
Colours, my friend?”

The Letter O

I believe
That O is the
Most sexual letter
Of the alphabet.

The first thing
Out of the lips
Of lovers
Entwined in extasy.

Oh my God.
Oh shit.
Orgasm.
Oh, oh, oh, oh.
Oh yes.

All words
Pulled out of
The bodies
Breaching the edge
Of euphoria.

And then,
There are times
When the sound
Is lost,
And the lips
Form around the letter
But not a sound
Can be heard.

Oh God!
Oh Jesus!
Oh Allah!
Oh, oh, oh, oh!

Oh so simple,
Oh so tantalizing,
Oh so tempting,
Oh so delicious.

I believe
That O is the
Most sexual letter
Of the alphabet.

My Future

My Modern Met

I didn’t plan
To be on this street.

It was a if my car
Drove me to this location.

The same car
Pappi bought from
The widow down the street
From our house
On the other side of town.

This side of town
Was older.
If I looked
Hard enough
I would see the ghost
Of the past bumping
Into each other.

I would probably
See hippies bumping
Into 14th Century farmers,
But I chose not to see,
Ignoring the past,
Looking for the future.

My future just
Stepped out of the building
Across the street.

He was tall,
Not attractive
In the contemporary fashion,
But he caught my eye
And as I got to know him,
He caught my heart.

I wanted to run over
To him to apologize
For all the awful
Things I said,
To ask him for forgiveness,
But I just stared at him.

Pride.
Fear.
Emotions held me
In my little white car
And watched him
Walk away.

He looked back,
Our eyes met,
But I didn’t move
And he continued walking.

I didn’t run
After him,
Nor did I start up
The car and drive home.

I just sat,
Watching
My future walk away.

With A Man No Less

Zing.
Ping.
“You like her,
Dontcha?”

Zing.
Ping.
Another empty can
Hits the ground.

Lazarus
Was my mentor.

He was the man
Who taught me
How to hold a gun,
How to introduce a man
To his maker.

He was called Lazarus
Because every time
He was gunned down,
Every time he was left
For dead,
He would come back
And kill his murderer.

Lazarus.
I never learned
His real name,
Not saying he ever
Taught me it.
He just taught me
How to kill.

We were out
In the middle of nowhere
Shooting cans
And discussing
My next assignment.

I knew the when,
The how,
The where,
But I didn’t know
The who.

Zing.
Ping.
“Like who?”

“Do you like Dana?”

I resisted the smile
That normally
Washed across my face.

I drove out the thoughts
Of Dana and I
Kissing under the Tuscan Moon.

“Nah, Laz.
We just worked together
A couple times.”

He dropped his arm,
And stared at me,
Trying to read the truth.
I stared back.

He looked back
At the cans
And proceeded to shoot.

Zing.
Ping.
He accepted my lie.

“Your next target
Is Joey.”

Joey
Short for Joanne.
Dana’s sister.
A nasty piece of work,
But still Dana’s sister.

“Who contracted the hit?”
My voice level,
Normal.

“Morgan.
Joey hurt her
For the last time.
With a man no less.”

Joey died
Two weeks later.
I sat next to Dana
At the funeral.

Morgan died
Two weeks after that.

Zing.
Ping.
“You like her,
Dontcha?”

Gina

Gina,
You’re a great girl,
But I’m not looking
For anything
Long term.

Gina,
I love you,
But I’m not
In love with you.

Gina,
You are such
A nice girl
And I feel
Like you are
Too good for me.

Gina,
Right now,
I need to
Focus on my career.
When I’m settled
Financially,
I’ll think about
Getting married
And starting a family.

Gina,
I’ve been lying
To you
And myself.
I’m gay!

Gina,
I was attracted
To you, but
After I got
To know you,
I realized that
I don’t like you.

Gina,
I’ve been hurt before,
I didn’t think
I would find
A woman
I would want
To spend the rest
Of my life with.

Gina,
I love you.

Fourteen Steps

Fourteen Steps
To the left,
Seven to the right
Then stop!

The instructions
Were yelled
Over the crackling
Of the walkie talkie.

How low tech!

The walkie talkie
Was in the back pocket
Of my dead partner.
Rigor already setting in.

He wasn’t supposed
To have gone
On his own
But he was always
A stupid shit!

I looked around
Trying to figure out
What the game
This asshole was playing.

Then I looked down,
A red dot
Was an unwanted detail
On my plaid shirt.

Then a sharp pain.

I didn’t move
Fast enough
And blood was dripping
From my left arm.

He could have
Shot me before
But he wanted me
To see the dot.

Such an asshole!

Bullets whizzed by
The stone wall
I hid behind
And I waited
For him to reload.

I worked out
His location
By the projection
Of the bullets.

I already knew
The caliber of gun
By the bullets
Falling around me,

And I knew
How long
It would take
To reload.

Then silence.

I counted down
The reload time
As I crept to the
End of the wall.

I aimed
And as soon as
I saw the nozzle
Of the riffle
I shot one bullet.

Waste not, want not.

I sprinted
To the building,
Ducking and dodging
In case I missed.

I climbed up
The fire escape
And in no time
I was at the
Sniper’s window.

I pressed myself
Against the wall
To the right of the window.
Slowly I peeped in.

I got the sniper,
But he was she!

She was lying
On her back
But a revolver
Was in her hand
And it was pointed
At my heart.

“Surprised?!”
Blood trickled
Out of the corner
Of her mouth.

I said nothing.
I shot her.

She was too weak
To get off a round
And I knew
If I waited,
I would be the one
Found dead.

She was good.
She knew what
She was doing.
She was my ex-wife
And she was an asshole!

Good Morning

(source: My Modern Met)

The sun peeked up out
Of the horizon
She never saw.

As she trudged
Up the steps
To her third floor walk up
She envisioned
Being sprawled across
The pillow top bed
In her cramped room.

Her roommate
Was probably fast asleep.
Lucy worked at the cafe
Off Broadway,
Her alarm would be going off
In half an hour.
She had the AM shift.

With out seeing
She walked through
The living room
And slipped into her room.

He was asleep,
He always promises
To stay up,
But she knew
He was incapable of that.

Although they've slept
In the same bed for months,
She still undressed with
Her back to him
Facing the rising sun,
Even if he was sleeping.

Instead of the comfy PJ's
She threw on her red lingerie,
The one she knew he loved.
She slipped into the bed,
Into his arms,
Into slumber.

Good morning.

Every Wednesday

Every Wednesday,
Not Tuesday,
Nor Thursday,
I would see her,
Brolly in hand,
Purple dotted with pink
Sheilding her from the sun.

I always found her
Perculiar,
And I wanted
To know more.

I asked everyone
I knew
And even those
I did not
About the woman
With the purple and pink brolly.

Unfortunately,
No one had a clue
Who I was talking about,
And even those
Whose faces showed familarity
Looked at me strangely,
Mumbling something
Then walked away.

On a Wednesday,
Not a Monday,
Nor a Friday,
I followed her.

Through the small streets
And the back alleys,
I followed her
And in the open areas
I kept my distance.

She walked to the boardwalk
And passed that to walk
To the water's edge.
There she stood and
There she looked out.

Minutes passed,
Then hours and
My curiousity grew,
My confidence grew.

I walked up to her,
Stood next to her,
Then I spoke to her.
"Who are you?"

She did not look at me
But she reponded
With a question
Draped in the clothes
Of a statement.
"You can see me?"

"I can see you
As I can see
The birds swooping
And diving above
The surf.
What are you
Looking at?"

"I am looking
At the storm
Brewing in the
Distance."

I saw nothing,
I searched the horizon
And I saw nothing.
I looked beside me
And I saw nothing.
She was gone.

Every Wednesday,
Not Sunday,
Nor Saturday
I saw the woman
With the purple and pink brolly.

As years pass,
I grew older,
I would talk to her,
She would disappear,
But she never grew old.

The woman with
The Purple and pink brolly.

Fuck It!!

One
Two
Three
Fo...
Fou...
Fuck it!
Fuck this.
Fuck that.
And most importantly
Fuck you.

So much for
Anger management.

So much for
Trying to control
The beast
That lived within.

The beast
That wanted
To howl
Into the night's sky.

Back arched
Backwards.
A feral scream
Soaking the silence.
A patient moon
Blanching the twisted face.

Fuck it!
Fuck it!!
Fuck it!!!

Wait!
Did I forget something?
Oh, yeah,
Fuck it!!!!

Everything is not
Under my control.
The puppet master
Has dropped a string.

Still, the play continues.
Still, the seconds tick by.
Still, this too shall pass.
But until that time comes...

Fuck it!
Fuck it!!
Fuck it!!!

Dirty Words

Love!
He spat the word out
Like it was venom
He sucked out
Of his buddy's ass.
A secret they would
Take to their graves.

This was right after
I whispered in his ear
That I love him.

He jumped out of the bed,
Quickly pulling on his clothes
And grabbing his keys.

The pathetic look
On my face
Stopping him in his tracks.

I sat stark naked
On the bed.
The same bed on which
We had mad, crazy sex.

He stooped down
In front of me,
And speaking as though
I was a five year old,
Told me that
He didn't love me.

He would never love me,
I wasn't the kind
Of woman
Men like him loved.

He had a wife.
He had 2.5 kids.
He was the pillar
Of the society.
Why would he love me?

I was something to do
While his family
Was visiting his in-laws.
A little fun.

He stood up
And walked out the door
Without looking back.

I kept my head down,
In case he came back
For something he forgot.

I waited
For his car to start up,
For the roar of his V-8
Fading into the night,
Then I reached
For the tape recorder
Under the bed.

I rewound the tape
And pressed Play.
The sound of
Our mad, crazy sex
Filling the room.

I heard myself
Screaming out his name.
I heard his distinct voice
Talking dirty to me.

I listened to the pathetic speech
One more time,
But this time around
A big Cheshire cat grin
Was plastered on my face.

In a couple days,
I would pay my lover a visit,
I would play a copy
Of this tape for him.
The copy would be his to keep.

I would ask for
A few bills for the original,
And with him a little poorer
And me a little richer
I would leave
This two bit town.

I think this is
What they call justice,
Blackmail is such a dirty word
And a woman like me
Didn't use dirty words.

Queenie

Queenie was curled up
On the sofa,
A lock of white hair
Falling across her
Closed left eye.

She appeared
On my doorstep
Looking forlorn,
Her eyes begging
For kindness.

I let her in
And shared my supper with her.
She was clearly hungry,
Practically inhaling the food.

I asked her
If she would like
To stay the night.
This time,
She didn’t say no.

Most times than not,
She would say no,
The food reinstating her pride.
I was happy she was staying.

I watched her sleep
As I sat in the armchair
Across from the sofa.
I watched my grandmother sleep.

She chose this life.
A life that has taken her to
Many cities,
Many streets,
Many soup kitchens,
Many shelters.

She refused to accept help
From my mother,
From my aunts and uncles,
From me.

And yet,
She would appear
Begging for a little kindness
And we would give it.

We were happy
That she was alive,
But we knew in the morning
She would be gone.

As I watched Queenie sleep,
I didn’t know
That this was the last time
That I would see her.

She was gone
When I woke up,
The blanket folded neatly,
A bowl and spoon
Dripping in the dishwasher,
A little less cereal in the box.

No one saw Queenie
Since I last saw her,
And yet no one cried.
It was something
We accepted a long time ago.

Just like that,
Queenie slipped from our lives.

To all the Queenies
Of the world,
We accept you,
We miss you,
We love you.

The Old Man

Simone was late
With the stash.
Of all the places
We were to meet,
Did it have to be
Outside the bright yellow building
In the alley behind
Of the main thoroughfare.

As I waited,
An old man walked
Towards me,
A black dog traipsing behind.
He reminded me
Of my uncle
Who was much older
Than my mother,
But who possessed
The same mischevious glint
In the eye, just like Mama.

Instead of stopping
In front of the yellow building
He turned towards
The building across from it.
There is where I should
Have been waiting.
A nondescript building,
Grates on the window,
A reflection of the society.
A society, I was part of.

I watched him,
Weaving a web
Of stories that would
Culminate into his life.
I questioned if
An equally charming, old lady
Lived in that building,
Or did he live alone,
His only companion
Being the black dog.
Did he have kids,
Brothers, sisters,
Nieces, nephews?
Was he happy
Or sad?
How long did he live there?

As he disappeared
Into the building,
I ached for home,
I ached for my family,
I ached for all I left
To be here.
Why was I here?

Just as I was
About to leave,
I spotted Simone,
A brown envelop
Tucked under his arm.

He walked in that lazy gait
I grew accustomed to.
Then he fell.
I ran to him,
But he was dead,
Blood flowering from his chest.

I looked around quickly,
Staying low in case
The shooter was still taking aim.
Nothing happened.

Then I saw a glint
In a window of the building
Across from the yellow building.
I walked closer
Trying to get a better look.

There in the window
Stood the old man
Putting away a sniper rifle,
Taking his time
As though he had all the time
In the world.

He looked down at me,
The mischevious glint in his eyes.
I ran back to Simone
And grabbed the envelop.
And I continued to run.
I kept running,
Not looking back.

The next morning,
Simone’s death was in the papers.
They called him a career criminal,
Associated with the drug trade,
With organized crime,
With arms running,
With the sex trade.

I later found out
That he crossed the wrong person,
Traded the wrong girl.
This was part
Of the world I lived in.

From that day forth,
I kept my eye out
For the old man
Who reminded me of my uncle.
The old man
With the black dog
And the sinister history.