Untitled - She Wanted A Love Poem

The following poem is from the section, "Secrets" of She Wanted A Love Poem, a collection of poems.

Untitled

Brown skin shone

In the half light.
I followed one limb
With my eyes
From the shoulder
To the finger tips.

On one finger
Sat a rock of
A diamond ring.
I wondered
Who gave it to her?
Did he know where she was?

Did he know that
The woman he chose to marry
Was sleeping next
To another man?
Then again, where was he?
Was he in bed with someone else?

During my wanderings
In wondering, she awoke.
At first an expression of
Surprise washed over her face
But it drained away and
Was replaced with a happy knowing.

She leaned over
And kissed me,
A kiss that bordered on
Butterfly kisses and something more,
Her wanting more but
Resisting that wanting.

I asked her to stay,
Stay the night,
Stay with me.
She said she couldn't,
She said she had to go,
She had to go home.

I looked in her eyes
And asked if
She wanted to go.
her head shook no
But her mouth said
She had to go.

She slipped out of the bed
And out of the bedroom.
Soon after, I heard
The shower being turned on,
She was washing
Me away.

She was washing
My scent away,
From my favourite cologne
To the slight funk
Of my sweat
But not everything
Would be washed away.

As I listed to
The shower washing me away,
I debated if
I should tell her
About the broken condom
That laid in the dustbin.

Should I tell her
That there was a chance
That she would be having
My baby not his?
Should I tell her
That I love her?

The shower was turned off
And she appeared
At the doorway,
I beckoned her over,
Telling her I have
Something to tell her.

Once again,
She shook her head
And said that
She had to go
And she was gone before
I could say another word.

To get your copy
of this collection
of poems,
click here.

Called

She calls me Mama
And I call her
My little girl.

It had always been
Her and me, and
When we first met
She almost killed me.

Out of my womb
She came and with
My love, she almost
Took my life, but
It was her cries
That kept me earthbound.

With no husband,
With no close family,
I knew she would
Have no one if
I were to pass
Without even saying
Hello.

She would call me strict
And I would call her
Unruly, a hellion,
But my hellion
And then we would
Fall into laughter as
We knew we were cast
Of the same stone.

I knew what it was
like to be like her
And she knew one day
She would become
Someone like me.

I would call her naive
And she would call me
Un-trusting, never trusting
The men she loved,
The men she would
Dance with in the moonlight
And whisper things behind
Closed doors.

I would call her foolish
And she would call me
Unadventurous. "You
Never take chances,
Mama, never have fun,"
She would pout the exact
Same way she did as
A child but I knew
And accepted that
She was not a child
But a woman
Of age.

She called me Mama,
Her voice strained
As the men pulled
At her, dragging her away.

I held on,
I called to her,
My little girl,
And then there was
A loud crack
And my grip loosened,
I fell with a thud.

She called to me,
"Mama!
Mama!!
Mama!!
Ma-ma!!!"

As my blood
Coated the tiles
In my courtyard,
I whispered,
"My little girl."

A Holy Man

A young merchant was
Traveling through a new district.
Feeling tired, he decided to
Sit at the side of the road
Under an old tree.

From where he sat,
He saw an old man
Traveling up the road
Towards him.

The old man's clothes
Were old and worn,
He did not carry much
Just a small bag, but
It was obvious that
He had traveled far.

"Good tidings, young man,"
The old man greeted
As he approached
The young merchant.

"Good tidings, sir,
Are you from this district?"
Asked the curious merchant.

"Oh, no, I am from
A distant land, making
My way to Mecca,"
Answered the old man
Coming to a stop.

"Will you sit with me
And rest for a while?
I would love to hear
About you land,"
Said the young man.

The old man obliged
And say next to the man.
Not many people had
Given him such attention
Or showed such interest.

Time passed with both men
Sharing tales of their time
On the road. They laughed
And chided each other,
Soon becoming friends.

It was time for them
To go their separate ways,
And as they were saying
Their goodbyes,
The old man asked,
"Which would you rather be,
Rich or happy?"

The young merchant
Thought for a while
Then spoke,
"I would like to be rich."

Seeing the frown on
The old man's face, he continued,
"I want to be rich because
I am already happy."

"My happiness is not something
Given to me by someone else,
It is something created by me,
Borne from within
The depths of my being."

"Everyday, I wake up
And I choose to be happy
And no one can take
That choice away from me."

The old man nodded
In understanding.
He wished the young man
A good journey and
Continued on his.

As he walked to Mecca,
The old man thanked Allah
For putting a holy man
On his path and for
Teaching him, an old man,
An important lesson.

We are bestowed
The great gifts of
Free will and choice,
We should use
These gifts wisely and
Choose to live well.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Stranger Things

Little feet went
Pitter, patter on
Hardwood floors.

I awoke with
A start. The house
Ought to be empty
Save for me and Luke.

Luke being my dog,
Sleeping at the foot
Of my bed.

I kept still,
Listening keenly to see
If what I heard was
Real or but a dream.

Then I heard them
As clear as day
In the dark of nigh,
Two set of feet
Coming my way.

They stopped just beyond
My closed bedroom door.

I held my breath
As the reptile within
Gauged the situation
To decide if I should
Fight or take flight.

I waited,
They waited and
Luke farted.

Then I felt someone
Get in the bed
To my right, I turned
But no one was there.

Then I felt someone
Get in the bed
To my left, I turned
But no one was there.

A shiver ran through me
And I slipped under
The covers, pulling them
Over my head.

Through the comforter,
I heard a little voice
Ask politely,
"Do you mind sharing
That with us."

I bolted up
And ran to the
Bedroom door which was
Now open.

Luke looked up,
Responding to the commotion,
Then said, "Oh behave,
You are overreacting.
They are but babes,
They won't do you no harm."

Then he went back to sleep
As though nothing had happened
But my jaw became unhinged.

A little girl appeared
At my side and took
My hand pulling me
Back to bed.

On the bed, appeared
A little boy who
Pulled back the comforter.

I followed along and
Laid in the bed with
Ghost children at my sides.

Once settled in,
They tucked themselves
Around me. "Tell us a story,
Please," they said in unison.

I spent the rest of
The night telling stories
To ghost children
While a talking dog
Slept at the foot
Of my bed.

Stranger things
Have happened.

The Mongoose and Ms. Daisy

One night,
When I should be
In my warm bed,
Dreaming of sheep
Jumping over fences,
I sat at my window,
Listening to a discourse.

Said discourse was
Between the sly mongoose
Who lived in the empty lot
Beside my house and
My yard fowl, Ms. Daisy,
Or so the mongoose called her.

"Now, see here, Ms. Daisy.
I've been checking you out,
Me love you long time,"
Said the mongoose,
Laying down his raps.

"For true? eh eh,
What you love 'bout me?"
The brown chicken asked,
Warming to her visitor.

"Well, see,
Me love the fullness
Of your body, I can
Tell you grown, not
Like dem spring chicken
Clucking around the place."

"Mmmm, go on, nuh,
Tell me more,"
My yard fowl decided
At that moment to take
A seat.

"Your eyes, you eyes
Bewitch me, dem mek
Me want to know what
Going on behind them,"
The mongoose saddled up
Next to the hen.

"Is that so?"
Daisy blinked as though
She had something in her eyes.

"It's true, how about
You come back to my place
And I'll tell you more
Like....." he leaned in
And whispered into Daisy's ear.

Daisy giggled or was
It clucked hysterically,
Whatever it was,
It caught the attention
Of her daddy, Mas Rooster.

With a stealth
That would make one
Wonder if he was
Part mongoose, Mas Rooster
Crept up behind of
The two courting creatures.

Just as Daisy was
About to give into the mongoose,
Mas Rooster called out
"A wha go on here?!?"

Both Daisy and mongoose
Jumped. Mongoose turned
To find a large Rooster
Towering over him

"Nothing, boss, nothing.
I was just going,"
Mongoose said at last.
"I be seeing you, Daisy,"
He then slithered through
A hole in the fence.

"Not if I can help it,"
Harumphed the old rooster.
What followed did not
Hold my interest so
I went to my bed.

The next day,
I found Daisy brooding
At one side of the yard
And on the other side,
Sitting next to a hole
In the fence.

I never heard the mongoose
Speak to Daisy again.
Last I heard, he moved
To the other side of
The village. Then one day,
Daisy disappeared and
Mas Rooster was there
Brooding on the other side
Of the yard.

I Love Men

Jackson said
He loves women.

This statement was not
Meant to underscore
His sexual preference
Or send gay men
Fluttering to their next
Man of interest.

The statement was more
Of a declaration,
Albeit a subtle one.

Its subtlety was to
Soften the edges of
The truth that
He could not,
Would not
Commit himself to
One woman.

To Jackson,
My silence was a
Quiet acceptance
Of what he was
Proposing and the
Type of man
He chose to be.

The truth was
I had accepted
His choice as
It was my choice
As well.
I love men.

I did not make
A statement of my choice,
What was good
For the goose was
Good for the gander.

Unfortunately,
For Jackson,
He could not handle
My side of this
Secret arrangement.

He developed
An unfortunate case
Of a broken heart
When he found me
In the arms of Pierre.

We did break up,
His idea, not mine,
But for the life of me
I could not figure out
Why it was okay
For him to love women
And not okay for
Me to love men.

As I packed
The last of my things,
I took a good look
At Jackson.
His face was a mask
Of pain and sadness.

His stance spoke
Of his vulnerability
And the open wound
That I had caused.

I should have walked
Out of the door and
Walked out of his life,
Instead I reached for
His hand and pulled
Jackson close.

I looked into his eyes,
Searching for a reason
To stay and asked him
If he wanted me to stay.

He said yes,
So I stayed, but only
Until I found him
In Monique's arms.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Pinned

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Help Me

source



"Help me....."

She whispered
To no one in particular.

Her eyes were trained
At her reflection,
A sole tear trailing
Down her cheek.

"Help me...."
She beseeched the woman
Inside, the one who was
Supposed to be in control.

The one who lost control
Leaving the little child,
The little monster that
Destroyed everything it touched.

"Help me make it right,
Help me....
Help me be the person
I'm supposed to be."

Her voice cracked
Into razor sharp shards
Which cut deeply,
So deeply.

The shards cut to the bone,
Cutting to her core
Waking up the woman
Who's help she needed.

The reflection spoke,
"And what is it
Do you want?"

"You, I want you
To take control
Of this body
Of this life,"
She answered.

"If I take over,
If I take control,
What is to become of you?"
The reflection asked.

She sniffed,
"I will fade away,
I do not belong here,
I'm too weak,
Too scared."

The reflection stared at her,
It's eyes absorbed
Every inch of her,
Then it spoke."

"No!"

She gasped,
He hand covering her mouth.

"This is not my life
To live, it is yours.
I come when I must,
In that moment before
You break, never before."

"I'm breaking,
Don't you see the cracks,
Can't you feel the pain,
Can't you feel it!"
She touched the mirror
As though trying to
Transfer the pain.

The reflection looked away,
Hating to see desperation
On her face,
"That is not pain,
This is pain."
It positioned its hand
In line with hers.

A jolt of pain
Ran through her,
It ebbed and flowed,
It felt alive and
Coursed through her veins.

When she could take no more,
She pulled away.
She braced herself
On the face basin,
Her head hanging down.

She looked up
At her reflection
Through a curtain of hair.

"That, my dear, is pain
And people have taken
That pain and survived,
No, they've thrived."
The reflection's eyes
Were steely.

"Do you understand
What I'm telling you?"
When no answer came,
The reflection asked again,
"Do you understand!?!?"

She stood taller,
Looking into the reflection's eyes.

"Do you understand?!?!?"
The reflection roared.

"I understand that
You won't help me
So I better help myself,"
She replied at last.

The reflection smiled
A knowing smile,
"I already helped you,
My dear, I helped you
Find your backbone."

The smile disappeared,
The face reflected
In the mirror was
One that held a deeper purpose,
One that was in control.

It was her face.

Deep in the quiet
Of her mind,
She heard a stern voice,
"'Help me,' she says,
She can help herself,
She always could."

The woman within
Went back to sleep
And she became awake.


Submitted to Poets United Poetry Pantry #128

Sweet Words

source

She would whisper
Sweet words
Into the ears of men.

Sweet words
That would lick
And stroke their egos.

These were the words
They wanted to hear,
Craved as though
They held a sustance
Their existence lacked.

These were words
They never heard
In their everyday lives,
As they ran the rat race.

They never heard
These words with
The alarming clock
Or on the commute.

These words were not
Found at work
Or as they settled in
To watch their
Favourite TV show.

Their wives, girlfriends,
Significant others used
To say these words
But that was then
And this is now.

So they seek
Her out in quiet
Places, secret places.

She would whisper
Sweet words
Into the ears of men.

"I value you,
I need you,
I care for you,
You mean a lot to me."

Sweet words.

Wanting - Spoken Word

Another attempt at spoken word:


To listen to more spoken word, check out my Sound Cloud page here. I'm trying it out right now, let me know what you think by leaving a comment.

Old Man On The Cliff

One day,
A sinner sought out
A holy man who
Lived on a deserted island.

After securing his boat,
He found the holy man
Sitting on a cliff
Looking over the raging sea.

When the holy man
Noticed the sinner,
He bowed deeply
In the direction
Of the sea then
Turned to his visitor.

"Greetings one who is most holy,
I, a sinner, seek your wisdom,"
The young man said.

"Tell me, are you truly a sinner?"
Asked the holy man,
"And why do you say
That I am most holy?"

The man hesitated,
The sound of the sea
Filling the silence.

"I have sinned,
I was told that
I am a sinner."

"Many have told me
That you are a holy man,"
He answered.

"Is this rough?"
The older man asked,
Gesturing at the waters
Beyond the cliff.

"Why, yes,
Look how it crashes
Against the rock,
It is indeed rough."

"But is it not
The same as that
That exists over there
By your boat?
That is so calm and still."

The waves crashed
Against the rock,
Spraying them with
A fine mist.

The old man nodded,
He pulled a mat
From a bundle at his feet,
Handing it to his visitor.

He sat down on his own mat,
Waiting patiently for the other man
To do the same.
He studied the younger man.

"You are not a sinner.
I am not most holy.
We are more than our actions.
We are greater than such labels,
Because like this body before us,
We are fluid and ever changing."

"Strip away all your labels,
Those given to you by
Others and by yourself,
Then tell me who you are."

The old man sat
Facing the horizon
Waiting for the man's answer.

The sun travelled
Across the sky, slipping
Into the horizon, and
Still the man said nothing.

When the old man looked
At his visitor, he say
Tears on his visitor's face.
"I am nothing."

"You are nothing and
Everything. And this,
My friend, is by the beginning.
Come, it is too late
To travel back.
We will talk inside."

By morning,
The older man imparted
All he knew. He knew
He could speak
But it was for
The young man to listen.

As he walked with
The young man to the boat,
He bent down and
Scooped up water.

"Be like water,
Be fluid and constant,
It is the water
That carves the rock
And it is water
That sates our thirst."

The man sailed away
And the old man nodded,
The seed had been planted,
He can only hope that
The young man nourishes it
And allows it to grow.

He nodded once more
And dissolved into the water.
Only taking form when
His wisdom was being sought,
When one needed to be
Guided to their greatness.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Pinned

I believe this will be my quote for the month of December into January, I love it. Check out more of the images I pinned on my Pinterest page dedicated to poetry by clicking here.

Her One Regret

"I am waiting to die,"
She said in a matter fact
Manner. She sat at a desk
And looked out the window,
Staring at the carrion birds
Picking at the carcass of
Some unidentifiable animal.

She looked back to me,
Then sighed. She stood and
Walked towards me,
The fabric of her skirt rustling.
She touched my cheek,
Her hands cold and skeletal.

"Do you think I want to die?"
She asked, her eyes searching mine.
I knew not the answer so
I said nothing allowing
Silence to fill the room
Wondering if she would
Accept it as my answer.

"I don't want to die,
At least not the animal part.
That part will always
Fight to live but
That is not the only part,"
She grew weary and
Walked back to the
Desk, bracing herself.

"I am tired,
I am weary,
This body can only
Take me so far,
And I don't think
It has much farther to go."

She sat back down
And looked out of
The window, "Do you...
Do you still miss him?"
I looked to the door,
I would rather leave
Than answer that question.

"You don't have to answer,
I know you do,
I would, if I were you."
I looked back at her
To find her looking at me.
Was that regret on her face?

Did she regret
Sending him away?
Did she regret
Locking me in my room?
Did she regret
Cutting off all communication
Between him and me?

She pulled a key
Out of her pocket
And unlocked a drawer
In the desk, she then
Pulled out a stack of letters.

She tossed them at me,
They landed at my feet.
They were from him.
"Go on, pick them up,
Go on to your room and
Feed on his words."

I stooped down and
Noticed that the date
On the last letter was
But a few days ago.

"Soon enough,
You will leave me.
Soon enough, but
It doesn't matter,
I will sit here, patiently
Waiting to die.

She did die,
By the time
I consumed all his letters,
By the time
I packed all my belongings,
She took her last breath and
Died, releasing her one regret.

Sinful

I felt like being
Sinful, today.

I felt like doing
Something I wasn't
Supposed to do.

Something that
Would have old women
Covering children's eyes
And men giving me
The evil eye.

I felt like today
Was a good day
To do naughty things.

Things mother said
Good girls wouldn't do,
But we all know
Good girls were doing it
Anyway, they just
Didn't get caught.

I felt like Sin
And I were bosom buddies
Who would sit together and scheme.

We would be the
Scheming kind that had
Pleasant faces and
Dark minds who played
The game to the very end.

Although, my friend
Stood on the front step,
My ace boon hooting
And hollering for me
To come out, I find
Myself slinking to
The back of the house,
Pretending I was not in.

I felt like being
Sinful, today, but
I chose to be good
This time around.

Good Morning - Spoken Word

For some time now I've been playing around with the idea of going into audio in the form of a podcast or just spoken word tracks. This was inspired by a lot of things, one was a couple scenes from "So I Married An Axed Murderer" when Mike Myers did spoken word with music accompaniment. Also when I lived in NYC, I was addicted to a Jazz radio station and one evening, they played a poet with a jazz accompaniment. I loved it! Over the years I came across poetry in this format and I was lucky to experience it in person when Expressions: Poetry At The Pub had a musician playing in the background during the open mic. That was one of the best moments at that particular open mic. Another source of inspiration is Tanya Evanson who I met a few weeks ago. She's a spoken word artist from Vancouver, Canada who does amazing work.

So last Saturday, I started to play around with GarageBand on my Mac and this is one of the pieces. What I found amusing was my recognizing the different intro music to the podcasts I listen to. I had a lot of fun making the following and the others that will be posted over the following weeks. You can only imagine how many times I had to read one poem to get it almost perfect and then to play around with the sound. I hope you like it. Comment and let me know what you think.



P.S.
This was a major feat as I'm not a major fan of my voice so be kind. LOL.

Untitled

The jack rabbit
Raced through the desert,
Stopping only to
Smell the air.

In the split of a second,
He changed direction,
From North to West,
Evading a rattle snake.

The sound of the rattle
At the end of the venomous snake
Died away as it slithered
Along the desert floor.

The predator passed
A pair of scorpions,
Claws snapping, tails raised,
Waiting for an opening to
Deliver a devastating blow.

This fight to the death
Did not even register
As important to
The vultures gliding
On the updrafts,
Waiting.

Waiting for the mountain lion
To have its fill of
A jack rabbit who
Chose to go West
Instead of North.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

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The Poet's Corner - Introduction

For a month now, I've been playing with the idea of posting a series of blog posts under the title of The Poet's Corner. I've always been a fan of Inside The Actors Studio, for one, but my main reason was I wanted to get to know the poets I've grown to know through their comments on this blog and when I visit their blogs. It's one thing to read a person's work, but it's always nice to peek behind the curtain and see who they really are. A little like in The Wizard of Oz.

source

Through these posts, I will be interviewing poets from the US, the Caribbean, Canada, the UK and hopefully further afield. I will be asking about their backgrounds, their work and their thoughts on poetry in general. I believe everyone has a story and I'm always drawn to listening/reading that story. It's a reminder that even though we are different in so many respects, we still have similarities, we all have hopes and fears and we all have moments and situations that make us vulnerable. There is a person behind the beautiful/funny/insightful/thought provoking poems and I want to share that person with you.

I will be honest, I was all set to get this started when I came across another blog that had posted an interview with a poet and I was intimidated. For one, I felt that if I started The Poet's Corner so soon after they did their post, I would be viewed as a copy cat. The crazy/funny/cool thing is the idea did not go away, it was one of those things I was meant to do, like this blog. I see this series going on for years to come.

So to those poets I've already reached out to, thank you for taking part. To those who I will be contacting, I hope you come on board. To those who are interested in taking part, visit The Poet's Corner page. And to one and all welcome to 

Alive

source

She curled up
In the warm blanket
In front of the fireplace.

The temperature had dropped
And it had started
To snow, but
It still felt perfect.

It was the first time
In a long time that
She was completely alone.

No husband looking for something,
No kids sliding up and down
The emotional scales
From moody to hyper active.

The cabin was in the middle
Of nowhere, the cell phone
Reception was shoddy at best.

She was alone, and
Even though everyone said
She would be scared and lonely,
She felt peaceful and safe.

The wind howled,
the wood crackled in the fireplace
And the time had come.

Reluctantly at first,
She slipped out from the blanket,
Allowing it to pool
At her feet.

Then slowly she unbuckled
Her belt and undid
The fastening of her pants.

It soon sat on top
Of the blanket,
Her top, then underwear
Joined her pants.

She stood naked
Before the raging fire,
Allowing it to warm her bare skin.

As though she was in a trance,
She walked out of the cabin
Into the dying snowstorm,
Her step, steady and sure.

She walked until
She came to a clearing
Bathed in moonlight.

She stood in the center
Then fell to her knees,
She opened her mouth and
A song she never heard
Tumbled out.

Her voice was as clear
As tolling bells and it
Rose above the tree tops.

The song ended and
She sat back as though
It drained her.
She waited.

Minutes passed, then
An hour slipped by
Without her noticing.

Out of the corner of her eye,
She saw him,
He circled around her,
Suspicious at first.

He sniffed the air,
She smiled, it was him,
She knew it.

As he walked slowly
Towards her, her eyes
Changed from black to
A tawny shade of yellow.

The closer he got,
The more she changed,
Becoming more like him.

When he, at last, stood
Before her, she was
As he was, two beasts
In the moonlight.

He reared up, but
It was all in play
And soon they were
Racing through the woods.

By day, she rested,
By night, she played
And by the end of the week,
She had come alive.

On the last night,
She bade him not to come
Closer, to keep his distance.

She asked him to
Let her see him as
She was, in human form,
At least once.

He shook his head
And walked away,
Melting into the woods.

For the first time,
She felt cold,
For the first time,
She felt alone.

As she walked back
To the cabin,
She did not dwell.

She did not dwell on
The pain, the feelings of
Abandonment and rejection.
She packed them deep within.

As she neared the cabin,
She saw a man standing
By the porch.

He was as she was,
Human and naked,
He was as she was
And she knew it was him.

That night,
They made love
For the first and last time.

The morning found her
On the road home,
But was it really home?
Will it ever really be home?

She never returned to the cabin,
She lived and died
In the bosom of her family,
But never again did
She ever come alive.


I've noticed that I've been writing longer poems of late, so I've decided to post these on Fridays seeing that the Martine series has come to an end. Also the Martine series will be available to read on the blog up until the end of the year, after that it will only be available as an eBook. Thank you for reading and following my blog and there will be more interesting posts  in the future.

Diff'rent

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She didn't look
Much diff'rent from
The others.

Her skin be
The color of cocoa,
Her teeth, shiny and white.

Her way of speaking
Ain't much diff'rent
Either.

Sure, she speak like
Mr. Thomas at the school house
But when she's around
Us folk, she speak just fine.

But still,
That young 'un was
Diff'rent. You could see
It in her eyes.

Them eyes seen more things
Than any eyes in the county.
She would tell us about
The desserts and oceans
She'd seen.

Yet that child never
Step foot past
The state line,
Much less the borders.

She'd tell us about
Places and people
We never knew existed.

That there child
Was something special,
I would put flowers
On her grave every
Sunday right after church.

She was special but
Not many people
Take a liking to anything
They don't understand
Or won't accept.

Sometime,
It's hard being special
In this world of ours,
But I'm sure wherever
She is, she's somewhere
Where the accept a person
As they are.

I Remember

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I remember a time
When it was just
You and me.

A time when
Everything seemed
Perfectly created
For us.

I remember a time
When we would
Whisper our shared
Dreams into the darkness
As we nestled deeper
Into blankets and sheets.

I remember when
You were a part
Of the equation
To my happiness.
You + me = Happy.

I remember when
We promised to
Not hurt each other.
No, it was more
Like an understanding.

I remember when
It was just me and you
And the world was
Out there, but we were
Safe in here.

Sad to say that
That time slowly faded away,
You went your way and
I went mine, but
I still remember those times,
Do you remember them, too?

Pinned

Check out the complete Poetry board on Pinterest.

Martine - Part 11

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In case you missed the first part of Martine, click here to catch up.

"Big Brother!!!"

One moment, Alain was standing on the doorstep of the Carter household, the next he found Sophie plastered to his front, squeezing him to death. Bianca was leaning on the side wall, she rolled her eyes then went tin the direction of the kitchen, mumbling something he couldn't hear.

"I'm guessing your parents told you, Sophie," Alain said, patting her awkwardly.

"Yep," Sophie released him, grabbing Alain's hand and dragging him into the house. "Maman, Dad, guess who's here." She called out as they entered the kitchen.

"Alain, of course, who else would be here?" James said, smiling at them from the refrigerator. "Bianca told me you gave him quite a greeting. Sorry about that Alain, but she does that to all the relatives. Well, with the exception of Great Aunt Geenie."

"Yeah, she's on the fragile side, plus it's hard to give a good hug to someone in a wheel chair," Sophie piped in.

"It's okay, Mr. Carter, Sophie, I'll just have to get used to it," Alain said, giving Sophie a side hug.

"Does that mean you're going to be a part of our...."

"Sophie, can you give me a hand in the dining room, " James interrupted, "you too, Bianca," he proceeded to to herd the girls out of the kitchen. "Oh and Alain, call me James, Mr. Carter is a bit formal for the father of your sisters." He patted Alain on the back and exited the kitchen.

Just Beyond

I would listen
To the bird song.
The melody light and airy,
Reminding me that

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There was still beauty
In this world.

Beauty that laid
Just beyond my existence,
Just beyond my grasp.

I would lay in my bed,
Waiting for the next man,
The next John, Harry
Or would it be Ian.
Did it really matter
What they called themselves?

They all wanted one thing,
A warm body, soft
And pliable to use
For an hour or an evening.

A body upon which
They can release
The frustrations of their day,
Their lives. And as easily
As they discard a paper napkin,
They will discard me
From their memories.

Days dissolve into weeks,
Weeks into months and
With the passing of time,
I would listen
To the bird song
To remind me that
Beauty was still there
Just beyond my existence,
Just beyond my grasp.

Do You Love Me

"Do you love me?"

The words were muffled,
Coming through the pillow
Covering her head.

He started to remove it,
Wanting her, not only to
Hear his answer, but
To see it.

She held the pillow
Tightly, only wanting
To hear his answer
As it beat the drums
Of her ears.

In this moment,
She was vulnerable
And she could not
Bear for him to
See her so bare.

Hearing nothing,
She tossed the pillow aside
And bolted for the door.

His silence, to her,
Was an answer.
He didn't love her.

Just before she escaped,
He grabbed her,
Pulling her close,
Embracing her,
He answered her.

In his embrace,
Her question was answered.
No words were needed
As this simple act
Spoke volumes.

In the crook of her neck,
He asked her,
"Do you love me?"

When she did not speak,
He looked into her eyes,
Searching for an answer.

She answered him.

She answered him
With feather light kisses
On his lips, cheeks,
Brow and nose.

Each kiss growing
In intensity and
Centering more on his lips
Until they lingered there
Until they were breathless.

They pulled away,
Looking at each other,
They answered the question,
"I love you."

Pinned

I came across this idea of sharing my pins through one of my favourite bloggers, so I would like to introduce you to Pinned. It is a weekly post sharing my Pinterest boards. This one is based on Poetry, click here to see the complete board.

Martine - Part 10

 

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In case you missed the first part of Martine, click here to catch up.

The girls found their mother in the living room, sitting on the couch. She beckoned them to sit on either side of her. She took a deep breath and began to tell Sophie and Bianca the truth.

"When I was about two years older than Bianca, I moved to a small town in France with my Aunt Josephine. I was one of three black students in my school and it was hard making friend as the local kids grew up among each other. It was hard being a new kid, then a boy a year older that me befriended me. At first, we were just friends, but then we became more."

Although she was talking to her daughters, Martine was staring ahead as though she was looking into the past, "He took me to my first concert, we went to the seaside during the summer. We became intimate and it was my first time. I was so in love with Pierre," Martine sighed.

"I missed my first period and I thought it was because of stress. When I missed my second one, I got married, so I took a bus to a town two towns away. I found out I was pregnant, I was scared but happy. I was carrying Pierre's child. I returned home and went straight to him. I told Pierre that he was going to be a father. He grew angry, he said awful, mean things. He said he didn't love me, he only wanted to sleep with a black girl because he wanted to see how it was different. Plus he questioned if the baby was his," a tear streaked down Martine's cheek.

Are You Worthy - Dark Warrior's Katana

As I made my way
Down from the temple,
I touched the new tattoo,
Curious as to where
My next battle will be.

Nothing happened,
No vision as clear as day,
Not even a glimmer.

"You are not ready
To see the next battle ground."

Beside me stood
The little boy,
His face a mask
Of authority.

"Your body needs time
To heal and your mind
Has shifted out of a plane
Of total confidence,"
He said, starting to walk.

"Besides you barely won
In your fight with Kure-ji-ichi
Do you really think you
Can win in the next battle
The way you are now?"

We walked in silence.
He was right,
The battle at the temple
Was harder than
The one with the samurai.
The next battle,
Without a doubt, will
Be much harder.

"You need a katana,"
The boy said at last.
"Fighting with a different
Katana on the higher levels
Will lead to your defeat.
You need a katana that
Is as much a part of you
As your arm or leg."

I stopped walking,
Looking at him skeptically,
"Let me guess,
You know where
I can get one."

A large grin spread
Across the little boy's face.

"I know someone,
Come, I will take
You to him."

The journey through
The little town
Went by in a blur
As we walked quickly.

Our destination was
A little shop on a side street,
The inside was dark and dusty
And I wondered if anyone
Ever came in to buy anything.

"Old man!
Old man, I have a warrior
Looking for a katana!"
The little boy's voice echoed
Through the store.

"Hmph, why do you yell?
I'm not deaf,"
A little, old man
Shuffled from a room
To the back.

His posture stooped
And his weight was
Propped on a beautifully
Carved cane.

"Warrior, you say?
So you've won the temple
Battle, Dark Warrior?"
He spoke to me as
Though I was his student.

"Yes, and I've come
To purchase a katana,"
I said, bowing to the man.

"Ha, purchase a katana!
I don't sell katanas."

I looked at the little boy
In confusion, but he was
Busy looking through
An ancient book.

"Young warrior,
You can not buy a katana
From me, you will find it
With my help. You already
Have it, but I will help
You be able to access it
When you need it,"
The old man said.
"Come with me."

I looked at the boy,
Once more and he nodded.
"You've come this far,
Why turn back now?"

I followed the old man
Through the back of the store.
As I walked out the back door,
I expected to find
A dusty courtyard,
Instead I walked into
A forest clearing
Which was a perfect circle.

"Who made this?"
I asked in awe.

"No man made this,
But their actions did.
Many battles were fought here
And now the plants and trees
Dare not to enter the circle
Less they lose a limb or two,"
Responded the old man.

When I turned back to him,
I noticed he had
Two wooden sticks that
Were shaped into katanas.

He tossed one to me,
Then went to the far end
Of the clearing and propped
His cane against a tree.

He turned back to me,
He now stood taller,
He stretched and I heard
Bones cracking.
For an old man,
He was well built.

He returned to the
Center of the circle
And took a stance,
"Shall we begin?"

I had barely nodded my head
When the old man attacked
With a speed I had not expected,
I had barely enough time to
Evade his first blow.

The first half hour was spent
Evading the old man's attacks.
Instead of waning,
His strength,
His speed,
His intensity
Was growing.

"Do you even know
How to fight, young one?"
The old man asked, stepping back.
"How did you win against
The samurai and Kure-ji-ichi
If all you do is evade?"

"Yes, I know how to fight,
Old man," I spat back,
Wiping sweat away from my brow.

"Then show me that
You are worthy of
A katana of your own,"
The old man dared me.

Without warning,
He attacked and this time
I countered his attack,
Then attacked him.

With each blow,
I tossed away my vices.

With the blow to his side,
I released my fear.

With the blow to his shoulder,
Self pity melted away.

Soon, all that was left
Was confidence, resolution
And power.

Although I had gotten
The upper hand, the old man
Was able to knock
The wooden katana
From my hands.

He held his to my chest,
I should have felt fear,
I should have felt defeat,
Instead I felt unstoppable.

A warm sensation emanated
from my right shoulder,
Snaking its way down my arm.
When it reached my hand,
I felt something solid.

I looked down
To see the end of
A mini tornado dying away.

In my hand
Was a black katana.
I looked up at the old man,
And on his face was
A knowing smile.
Then he was gone.

He flipped and somersaulted
To the far end of the clearing
Where he picked up his cane.
With a click,
He unsheathed a katana
From the cane.

"Your katana finds you worthy,
But are you worthy enough
To leave this clearing with it?"
The old man attacked.

Sparks flew,
Blood was spilled,
Sweat gleamed on our bodies,
And we fought,
Never stopping even though
Our bodies ached and
Begged for mercy.

Hours passed and still
They felt like minutes.

Then the old man
Walked away,
Returning to the far end
Of the clearing to retrieve
His katana's casing.

As he assembled his cane,
He turned back to me,
"You are worthy, you one,
You are worthy of that
Katana and you are worthy
Enough to leave this place.

As he spoke,
I felt the black katana
Vibrate as though
It was agreeing with
The old man.

"It's getting late and
The last train to Tokyo
Leaves in an hour,"
The old man said,
Walking to the door
Leading back into the store.

Like before,
I followed him through the store.
When we reached the front,
I noticed that the old man
Was shuffling, depending on his cane
And his body and clothing
Showed no signs of our battle.

I looked down,
And the same was true for me.
Not a cut, bruise or tear in my
Clothing could be found.
The only proof I had
That there was even a battle
Was the black katana
In my hand.

I looked up to find
The old man and the boy
Looking at me as though
They were proud parents.

"You are ready to continue
To the next level, but
You must rest a few days
To be able to fight
At your best,"
The little boy said
With authority.

"What is that written
On your katana?"
He asked.

The script was old Japanese
And the only characters
I could recognize was
"Dark Warrior".

I turned to the old man,
"Can you read this?"

Without looking at the katana,
His eyes staring intently
Into mine, he told me.

"The Dark Warrior is prepared
For battle, be forewarned!"

To be continued.......


I must be honest, I feel this poem is the first draft. I don't feel incredibly confident so I'll let it sit for a while and come back to it. Thanks Glen for the pic of the katana.

Fall

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Trees set themselves on

Fire, the wren takes flight to find

A green place to perch.

This is the last of the haiku as tomorrow is the Expressions: Poetry At the Pub's haiku challenge. I must say, I've grown to enjoy writing haiku and you never know I might post one every now and then.

Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Martine - Part 9

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In case you missed the first part of Martine, click here to catch up.

"So what happened, yesterday?" It was Sunday morning and James and Martine were still in bed, but they had been away for about half an hour.

"Well, he came about an hour after you guys left, he hadn't eaten so I made him breakfast and then we moved into the living room and we had a good, long talk," Martine responded. "I gave him the options of being in our life or just me being in his life."

"And?"

"I didn't want to pressure him for an answer, so I invited him for dinner tonight. I told him he can tell me what he decides then. Are you sure you are okay with this?" Martine had been lying on her back and turned to look at James. After being married for fourteen years, she could tell when he was lying.

James turned to look her in her eyes, he reached out and caressed her jawline. He looked at her as though  he was seeing her for the first time, "Martine, I am more than okay with it, in fact, it would be nice to have another man around. I won't feel so overwhelmed by all of your feminine charms."

Spring Is Here

 

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Sunlight warming the 

Cool Spring air, daring blossoms

Sitting on my table. 

A Frog's Life

Tadpoles swim in the

Pond. The old bull frog croaked

For the very last time.

Another attempt at Haiku, I think this is the closest I've gotten to the traditional, Japanese form. 

Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets Open Links.

Martine - Part 8

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In case you missed the first part of Martine, click here to catch up.

Just as Martine was settling into her favourite chair in the living room, pressing play on the DVD remote control, the door bell rang. She groaned as she got up, deciding to let the trailers play while she got rid of the person at the door. This was her fist Saturday alone at home, James had taken the girls to the mall and they had planned to take in a movie. She had the DVD of a movie that she had been meaning to see, her favourite snacks and her comfy pajamas. Nothing and nobody was going to disturb her day.

When she opened the door, all the irritation melted from her face. On the doorstep stood Alain, his face gaunt, he had shadows under his eyes, it looked like he hadn't shaved in days and his clothes were rumpled. To add to the tragic scene, it had started to rain. He looked so sad and it broke Martine's heart.

Watching Snow - Haiku

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Snow fell softly

Unto the lashes, eyes

Cast up to the sky.

Thank you Barbara and Gay (Beachanny) for the tips. This haiku is closer to the traditional, Japanese form, but I fell short because my syllables are 4-6-5. I also reference nature and a season. I'm still working on it.

Drawn

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I was drawn
To the sexuality that
Oozed out of him like
Pus from an infected wound.


This is my attempt at Haiku with out knowing the rules of Haiku. Now to go looking for the rules. Expressions: Poetry at the Pub will be doing a challenge at the next open mic. The best Haiku wins prizes. I will be trying out my hand at this form of poetry up until November 13th.

Let me know what you think and leave a comment with anything you know about Haiku that will improve my inability to write Haiku. LOL.

Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets Open Links.

Martine - Part 7

 

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In case you missed the first part of Martine, click here to catch up.

Although Martine had planned to talk to Alain after class on Friday, she had hoped on seeing him before. Perhaps in the halls or crossing the courtyard but she never did, so she patiently waited for Friday.

Friday came, but no Alain, she kept hoping he would be running late and would slip in during the class. As the class ended, Martine kept wondering where he son was, if he was okay.

By the time she got home, she had conceded that the ball was in Alain's court. If he want to talk, he knew where to find her.

"Hi honey, how did it go?" James asked when Martine entered the kitchen. Whatever he was cooking smelled good and she couldn't resist looking in the pot.

"Yum, this looks good, do you need me to make anything?"

"Martine, how did it go?" he asked again, putting the cover back on the pot and looking his wife in the eyes.

Ms. Matty Revisited

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Her name was
Matilda Sinclair.
Her skin was the colour
Of coals, her hair
Was a briar patch
Of gray and silver strands
And life had left
It's mark on her face
Which had hardened
Into a scowl.

The black folk and
The white folk alike
Called her Ms. Matty
And called upon her
They did, although
Proper folk would never
Admit that they sought
Help from the old Negro woman
Who lived in the woods
Behind the Johnson estate.

Black folk had no problem
Saying that Ms. Matty
Was the midwife that helped
Birth all their babies,
But the mayor of
The quiet, little town
Would never admit that
He had summoned
The old Negro woman when
His son was sick with
An illness that Doc Carter
Could not cure.

The fine ladies who sipped tea
At the Beauchamp's spoke
Of everything except how
Ms. Matty helped with
Some illness, some spell
Or some unspeakable act
That will forever go unsaid.

But when the ire of
The ill advised white folk
Rose up like some great wave
And the idea of lynching
Came to many a mind,
Not one man dared
To seek out Ms. Matty,
Blaming her for his problems
And finding reason to
Lynch the "nigger witch".

The good folk, both
Black and white
Would have none of that
And would rather kill
Said man than have him
Kill Ms. Matty.
And if a fool did try
To tie a noose in her presence,
Ms. Matty was prepared
To introduce him to
The Devil himself.

Matilda Sinclair died eventually
Of old age in
Her favourite spot,
On her front porch,
Looking out at her herb garden
Waiting for her next customer.

The night of her funeral,
The townsfolk lit a candle
And set it in a window,
Wishing Ms. Matty
A good journey home.

One by one,
The candle light went out
And one by one,
Ms. Matty said
Goodnight and goodbye
One last time.


This poem was posted in January and I came across it while looking for a poem to use in an open mic. This poem is closer to the original poem I wrote in my note book. I don't regret the poem I posted originally, but I think I should share this one as well.

All The Same

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The sun was gone,

Lost beyond the clouds

And I cared not.

All I cared about

Was this moment

Where everything was still

And for once

I felt I was a part of something.

Something bigger than

My body,

My thoughts,

My actions, 

My world.

In my seeing,

In my feeling,

In my experiencing

This moment,

I became connected

To it all.

The sun eventually 

Came out, I tasted it

On my skin,

And a new moment

Came to be and

I cherished it all

The same.

Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets Open links.

Martine - The eBook

First of all,

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for coming this far with Martine. It's been 6 weeks and we have 5 more to go before the conclusion of this short story. I know it's not easy to read the story in weekly installments and online so I created an eBook which features all 11 parts with slight edits but the story is still the same.

The eBook was published through Smashwords.com which allows readers to download the book in their preferred format, i.e. PDF, Kindle, EPub (most digital readers including Apple iPad), plain text, etc. The cost is only $2.99 US or $8.10 EC. 

This is my first eBook and the first with the Carter/Bouvier family. This story came to me one day and I just wrote it out. For a couple months this story sat in a notebook, but every now and then I would think I should share it with others. I am in the process of writing the continuation of the story which is called Bianca. 

To read the full short story of Martine, download the book here.

Martine - Part 6

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In case you missed the first part of Martine, click here to catch up.

James found Martine in the kitchen washing the last of the dishes. Her back was to him but he could tell that she was conflicted. The muscles in her back were tense and every now and then she would reach up to massage her shoulders.

"It didn't go well, did it?" he asked, coming up behind her, massaging her tense shoulders.

"I explained why I couldn't keep him, but all he would say is he needed me," Martine sighed. "Why can't he see that it was better that he lived with the Bouviers?" she turned to her husband for an answer.

"Was it really better, Martine?"

"Yes! Look at him, he came out to be a good, young man. I don't think I could have done such a good job on my own," Martine replied.

"Martine, you know your side of this, but have you ever tried to see his? Tell me, were there a lot of black people in your little town?" James asked sitting on one of the kitchen stools.

Soon

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The coffee was black,

Darker than the night sky

And as bitter as 

A broken heart.

My heart was broken,

Shards still embedded 

In my chest and

I refused to remove them.

Somehow, the pain

Had become a knowing

Companion, a necessary

Friend who would listen

As I told my tale over

And over again.

When others grew tired

Of my ranting and raving

The pain would listen,

But soon even that

Started to fade into 

A dull ache.

So with a cup of

Black, bitter coffee

And a broken heart

On the mend, I sat

At my typewriter 

And started to 

Release the last of 

My pain.

With each strike

Of the key, 

The pain became one

With the words,

With the paper,

With everything

That was outside of me.

With each strike

Of the key,

I let the pain go,

Saying fairwell

To a friend who

Knew me well.

Soon the cup

Will be empty,

Soon my heart

Will be healed,

Soon the pain

Will be a distant memory,

And soon life

Will return to the

Thing we call normal.


Submitted to Hyde Park Poetry's Thursday Poets Rally.

Yes, We Can

 

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Yes, we can
Move mountains,
But do we want to?

Yes, we can
Do anything we want,
But do we try to?

Yes, we can
Do great things,
Be great things
But are we
Doing and being?

Yes, we can
Be rich, both
Financially and spiritually,
But have we tried?

Yes, we can
See the world,
From the deserts
To the glaciers,
But do we take
The first step?

Yes, we can
Change the world,
Feed the hungry,
Bring peace into
The hearts of many,
But have we started?

Yes, we can
Live to our
Fullest potential,
But why are we not
Doing so?

Yes, we can
Be extraordinary,
But why do we
Settle for ordinary?

Yes, we can
But isn't it time
We prove that
We can?


This poem was written for the Wadadli Pen Open Mic. The theme was "Yes, We Can" Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Open Links

Martine - Part 5

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In case you missed the first part of Martine, click here to catch up.

For the first time since that morning, mother and son were all alone, and a nervous silence descended over them. It was broken by Alain, nervously plunking keys, experimenting with a melody.

"What is that you are playing?" Martine asked.

 

"A little something I've been composing," he replied. "You didn't answer my question earlier."

"Why did I let you go?" Martine sighed. "Where do I begin? Basically, I was young and I would not have been able to give you the life you deserved. You deserved a mother and a father, not to wrry if you would eat that day, to have a roof over your head, warm clothes in the winter and opportunities I could not give you. Alain, Your life would have been so hard if I kept you."

"But I would have been with you," he whispered. He stopped playing and turned fully to Martine, "Do you know how hard it was to be the odd one out? Not being black, not being white, then when I go home, my parents not knowing how to console me. I wanted, I needed to see someone who looked like me. I wanted you."

I Kissed Her

I kissed her.

I did not kiss her
Because I had
A desire to experiment
With lesbianism or
For one reason or
Another I grew tired
Of men.

I kissed her
Because I wanted
To taste the mix of
Cigarette smoke and
Peppermint bubblegum.

Because I wanted
To feel the subtle softness
Of a kiss instead of the
Unrelenting pulling of lips,
As though trying to devour
Me instead of savour me.

Because I wanted
To be kissed,
Just kissed,
Not hurriedly kissed
So that we can go on
To the next act,
The main course,
The bump and grind.

I kissed her
And she kissed me
And that was all.
A one line footnote
In our herstory.

She went back to her man
And I went back to my
Existence, and all
Was well with the world.

I kissed her,
Or did she kiss me?

The Return To Blogger Comments

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As some of you might have noticed, yesterday, I switched the commenting system to Disqus. I honestly thought it would have been easier for people who wanted to comment, but it appears to have it's own set of issues. I definitely didn't like being able to access the commentors' websites by clicking on their names, so I'm back to using the Blogger commenting system. It's one I know and if it isn't broken why fix it.

For those who commented on Disqus, thank you for your comments. I read them and am very grateful for your feedback.

I will also like to thank those new to following Kim or Lisa. Thank you, Thank you, Merci, Gracias, Danke. I hope you enjoy the posts and all the good, juicy stuff I have planned for this blog.

Big Hug to all
Kimolisa

The Snow Fell Quietly

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The snow fell quietly
And she didn't see it,
Instead she saw golden sand
And palm trees swaying
In the sea breeze.

He said she would
Love it here, that
It was better than
Anything she could find
Back on the island.

She believed him,
His words echoing
In her head,
"Leave behind
The dirt roads and
The hot sun,
Come with me."

She did,
She came with him
And everyday,
She regretted it.

She walked closer
To the window
And looked down
At her daughter
Playing in the snow,
Her heart ached.

Her daughter.
His daughter.
Their daughter.
Her daughter, that's
What the divorce papers say.

Her sad daughter,
She cried more
Than she smiled.
Her face like granite
And yet she knew
What the little girl thought.

Although the little girl
Was of this land of
Snow and falling leaves,
She craved the tropical sun,
The cool Caribbean Sea
And the bammy
Mama Too made
'Specially for her.

This girl of ice
And spring bulbs
Wanted to go home
And so did her mother.

She turned her back
To the window and
Returned to her desk,
Picking up the letter
That came in the morning mail.

He wanted her daughter
And he is willing to ensure
He financials were met.
He wanted her to
Sell her daughter to him.

The snow fell quietly,
And she didn't see it.


Submitted to imaginary garden with toads and dVerse Open Links

Thanks everyone for commenting via Blogger, I got all of them and thank you for the feedback. They  are not visible because I changed over to Disqus so that it would be easy for anyone to leave a comment. Once again thanks for the comments.

Martine - Part 4

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In case you missed the first part of Martine, click here to catch up.

When Martine walked into the living room, she found it was dimmed with only the lamp by the piano on. Sophie sat on the floor on her favourite pillow and Bianca sat on one of the armchairs. Alain sat at the piano and James sat on the coach. She placed the tray on the coffee table and doled out the mugs to her family, then she curled up next to James, sipping her coffee.

Seeing that everyone was settled and their attention was on him, Alain began to play a lively tune. "This was my favourite song to play when I was younger. It always made me feel happy when I felt sad and lonely," he said. It was so lively that Sophie started clapping in time.

When that song ended, they all applauded their dinner guest who started to play a new song. This song was a bit more somber and before long, James and Martine recognized it as "God Bless The Child" by Billie Holiday. Martine looked at her daughters and then at Alain who was staring at her as he played. "God bless all my children," she thought as she smiled at her son.