The wind blew
Through the grass and
The grasshopper jumped
From one blade to another.
He stood in
The doorway,
A mere silhouette,
A story up.
I could not see
In the room beyond him
But I knew
What existed there.
Men standing,
Sitting, leaning on walls,
Beers in hands,
Eyes on women.
Women twisting and turning,
Gyrating and writhing,
Nude and almost nude,
All out in front of
Strange men.
I could not tell if
The man in the doorway
Was looking in
Or looking out.
Was he another zombie
Staring at the flesh
Of innocent women
Trying to make a buck
Who may go so far
As offer a fuck
For said buck?
Or was he staring out
Into the night sky
Where it stretches out
To meet the sea?
Was he staring longingly
At women he could not
Cover and even if he
Got their bodies,
Their hearts, their souls
He could never have.
Or was he looking out,
His spirit seeking out
Another spirit that fits
Perfectly with his,
Trying to escape
The debauchery that lay
Just behind him?
I called out to him,
My curiosity at its zenith,
And he turned to me,
His eyes adjusting to
The darkness that surrounded me.
When he realized that
He knew me not,
That I was fully dressed,
Not an ounce of tender flesh
Exposed, he turned away.
In that moment,
All my questions were answered,
He was a zombie,
Slack jawed with eyes
Boring into the tender flesh
Of women gyrating,
Writhing, trying
To make a buck.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Original,
poem,
poems,
poetry
8
words I am thankful for
Ring, Ring, Ring
Ring, ring, ring!!
Someone is blowing up
My cell, but I'm busy,
So I decide that
I'll call them back.
Ring, ring, ring!!
That's strange,
Who would be calling me
This fine Sunday morning?
Perhaps that guy
I just started talking to.
Ring, ring, ring!!
He walks in,
A shadow from my past.
"Hey you," I say,
It's been a while,
I think, still looking good.
Ring, ring, ring!!
"What's wrong with my phone?
The phone wasn't ringing.
Oh, you mean my cell."
Ring, ring, ring!!
I give him
The answer to
His work related question.
Next customer.
Ring, ring, ring!!
He's gone,
I'm unsettled
But I try to act
Normal, cool even.
Ring, ring, ring!!
Three missed calls.
It wasn't like
I was going out of my way
To hurt him, but the way
He searched my face
For some semblance
Of malice got me
To thinking.
Thinking of all the times
I would answer.
Did they subconsciously matter
To him? and the three times
I didn't left him unsure.
It's not like
I was in his life
And he was in mine,
Not like we were
Lovers or friends,
More like acquaintances,
Associates, nothing more.
Then it dawns on me,
An epiphany bitch slapping me,
This cell, which I paid for,
Is mine and that means
I decide whose calls
I answer, I decide
Who I let into my consciousness,
My day, my life.
This little device
Is one more way
I can keep unhappiness,
Insecurity at bay,
Just through the simple act
Of pressing the ignore button.
So when my cell goes
Ring, ring, ring,
And I see it's him,
I'll let it
Ring, ring, ring
Because it's time
We both moved on
And I am looking for
A different kind of ring.
Day in,
Day out,
The same thing
With no way out.
No place to rest
My head but on
A pillow with
No heart, no soul.
No arm to curl
Around me,
To comfort me,
To tell me to forget
My worries, my sins.
No smile to add
A little more sunshine
Into my day
With promises for my night.
Be strong,
Be unyielding,
Be a modern woman,
They say.
But I am tired,
I am weary,
And there are times
When I want to do nothing
But curl up and cry.
But I never do,
Even when my back
Is to the wall,
And I'm being mauled
By the world.
My face is granite,
My chin is high
And never a tear
Falls from my eyes.
I am strong,
I am resilient,
I am independent,
I say, and still
I pray that
I don't fall apart.
Day in,
Day out,
The same thing
With no way out.
He found her
Beautiful.
His little bit of
Chocolate
That melted both
In his hands
And his mouth.
He found her
Intelligent.
There were times
He would spark
Debates, simply for
The joy of participating
In verbal warfare.
He found her
Heady.
When she would
Put on that dress,
Wear that perfume,
Walk in those heels,
She left him wanting.
He found her
Engaged
To a man
She swore she loved
And yet she sought
Him out in the dead
Of night.
He found her
Wanting to be
With him, but
Needing to be
With her fiancé.
He found solace in this.
Eventually,
Solace was not enough,
And he slowly released her,
Pushing her to the man
Whose ring she wore,
Forcing himself to forget.
In time,
What he found was
Lost to him, but
He knew it was
A matter of time
Before he found
Someone new.
I awoke with a start
And in a fog of
Confusion, I assessed
My surroundings.
This was not my room.
This was not my bed.
This was not even a bed,
And what was that sound?
I turned to my left
And found him fast asleep,
And in that moment,
It all came back to me
Like a wave crashing
Against the shore.
We were in his living room,
And the night before
We were lounging
On his couch.
Between the two of us,
We finished a bottle of red wine
And tucked away
A medium sized pizza.
In the background,
John Legend, Adele and Jill Scott sang,
In the foreground,
Our voices shared
Our dreams, our beliefs,
Our lives spilling effortlessly
From our lips.
There were moments when
I wanted to reach across
And kiss him, but
I didn't want to change
What we had into
Something physical,
Going somewhere we could
Never return from.
Yet during the course
Of the night,
I ended up in his arms,
My head resting on his chest,
And I fell asleep
To the lullaby of his
Heart beat.
For once,
I felt safe,
For once,
I felt accepted,
Not hunted down
Like an exotic bird
That was to be caught
But never kept,
Never loved.
I didn't have the urge
To escape from his embrace,
Instead I snuggled in,
Inhaling his existence.
I didn't know
What was going to happen
In the next week,
In the next day or
Even in the next hour,
All I knew was
That I was going to
Savour that moment.
Hopefully,
This was just the beginning.
And in a fog of
Confusion, I assessed
My surroundings.
This was not my room.
This was not my bed.
This was not even a bed,
And what was that sound?
I turned to my left
And found him fast asleep,
And in that moment,
It all came back to me
Like a wave crashing
Against the shore.
We were in his living room,
And the night before
We were lounging
On his couch.
Between the two of us,
We finished a bottle of red wine
And tucked away
A medium sized pizza.
In the background,
John Legend, Adele and Jill Scott sang,
In the foreground,
Our voices shared
Our dreams, our beliefs,
Our lives spilling effortlessly
From our lips.
There were moments when
I wanted to reach across
And kiss him, but
I didn't want to change
What we had into
Something physical,
Going somewhere we could
Never return from.
Yet during the course
Of the night,
I ended up in his arms,
My head resting on his chest,
And I fell asleep
To the lullaby of his
Heart beat.
For once,
I felt safe,
For once,
I felt accepted,
Not hunted down
Like an exotic bird
That was to be caught
But never kept,
Never loved.
I didn't have the urge
To escape from his embrace,
Instead I snuggled in,
Inhaling his existence.
I didn't know
What was going to happen
In the next week,
In the next day or
Even in the next hour,
All I knew was
That I was going to
Savour that moment.
Hopefully,
This was just the beginning.
I am who I am.
Yes, I smoke
And drink and
Have tried every drug
Under the sun at least once,
Some of them,
More than once.
Yes, I have a man,
Or two,
Or half a dozen,
But who is really counting?
Yes, there are nights
When I would cry
Myself to sleep or drown
My sorrows in a bottle
Of Gin, Vodka, if
I've got an extra penny
In my pocket.
At least,
I know myself
And don't need
Some man in the sky
To tell me how to live
My life.
I'm not like you people
Programmed by society
To live your lives in boxes.
You all boxed into your cars,
Your houses, your computers,
In your storage spaces.
You all so busy living
In your boxed in worlds,
Living the "master plan" of
Get an education, get a job,
Get married, have kids,
Get a car, Get a house
And live happily ever after.
But are you really happy?
I know for sure that
Most of you are scared,
Scared of what exists
Beyond your little boxes,
Scared of the unknown,
So you hold on to what you know,
What makes you comfortable.
Well, here is a little secret,
We were not meant to be
Comfortable.
We, as a species,
Did not get to this point
By being comfortable,
We had to struggle
Physically, mentally and spiritually
To become what we are today.
And if you think
That we have arrived,
That there is nothing else
For us to achieve,
For us to work hard for,
To struggle for,
Then we might as well
Lay down and die
Because it is all down hill
From here.
Even the phoenix
Crashes down to earth
When it reaches the sun.
I believe there are two things
That should govern the life
Each and everyone of us lives.
One is that small part in you
That comes alive when
You do the thing you love,
When you be the person
You ought to be. And
Every time you bring it to life,
It gets bigger and stronger
Until you can't tell
The difference between you and it.
It is who you ought to be.
The other is that impossible dream,
That crazy dream that
People say is too out there,
But somehow it makes
Every molecule in your body
Hum with nervous excitement.
It doesn't matter if that dream
Is so far out there,
Surrounded by the moat
Of the unknown,
If you go after it,
You will become
The person you ought to be.
Now you can take
My words as the ranting
Of a person that
Don't know nothing,
Ain't never going to be anything,
But something in you
Knows it's the truth
And the truth can set you
Free.
I am who I am.
I might smoke and drink
And do my fair share of drugs.
I have a man or two,
More like half a dozen,
But I know who I am,
Who are you?
This is more of a performance piece, where the speaker is smoking and drinks from a hip flask. It came to me out of the blue and somehow it feels like a kick in the pants to push myself in all I do. Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse.
When I think of
New beginnings,
I don't think of
New Years or
Birthdays, I think of
A seedling.
I think of
A pair of baby leaves
Emerging from a ruined seed,
Ever so slowly
Until they open up
Completely as though
They are saying
"Here I am world.
Behold my existence."
For me,
That is what
A new beginning is.
Here is something
So small,
So ordinary
And yet capable of
Becoming a grand tree,
Strong and sturdy,
Watching other creatures
Be born and die.
I think of
The potential we all have
To be great.
We are all like that seedling,
Some of us
Are comfortable in that seed,
But we all have it in us
To push out,
Stretch and become
Extraordinary.
So when one makes
A remark about
New beginnings,
I think of the seedling
That will become
A grand oak tree.
This poem was written for the Best of Books open mic, unfortunately, I didn't get to read it because of transportation and communication issues. Submitted to The Poetry Palace and imaginary garden with real toads.
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.
Her name was
Matilda Sinclair.
Her skin was the colour
Of coals, her hair
Was a briar patch
Of gray and silver strands
And she was the keeper
Of secrets.
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.
Her name was
Matilda Sinclair.
Her skin was the colour
Of coals, her hair
Was a briar patch
Of gray and silver strands
And she was the keeper
Of secrets.
The poet in me died
Last night.
She was shot in the head
With a high caliber hand gun
And left to bleed out.
I found her curled up
In the farthest corner of my mind,
Tears leaking from unseeing eyes.
I pulled her into my arms,
And as I rocked her,
Whispering nonsensical words
Of apologies and promises,
She roused.
She stared at me
As though I was a stranger,
An unknown entity touching
Her person.
I wept soundlessly.
She refused to speak,
Instead she wrote
On the ground
With her index finger,
With her blood.
"For me to live,
You must write."
She then pointed
At a desk upon which
Sat a note pad and a pen.
That last gesture
Was too much for her,
And she fainted away.
I made my way to the desk.
As I sat, I felt a sense of
Peace, of coming home.
With pen in hand,
My mind filled with words
Fighting to be released,
To be written.
With each stroke of the pen,
The poet grew stronger.
The bullet popped out,
The wound healed,
The blood disappeared
And the poet came to.
I was so focused
On what I was writing
That I didn't notice
That the poet had approached
The desk.
It was only
When I felt her hands
On my shoulder that
I noticed that the poet was there,
And she whispered in my ear.
"When you don't write,
I die and when you write,
I live."
She placed the gun
On the desk next to the note pad
And walked away, fading away.
And so I write
So that the poet may live.
Submitted to Poets United and imaginary garden with real toads.
Last night.
She was shot in the head
With a high caliber hand gun
And left to bleed out.
I found her curled up
In the farthest corner of my mind,
Tears leaking from unseeing eyes.
I pulled her into my arms,
And as I rocked her,
Whispering nonsensical words
Of apologies and promises,
She roused.
She stared at me
As though I was a stranger,
An unknown entity touching
Her person.
I wept soundlessly.
She refused to speak,
Instead she wrote
On the ground
With her index finger,
With her blood.
"For me to live,
You must write."
She then pointed
At a desk upon which
Sat a note pad and a pen.
That last gesture
Was too much for her,
And she fainted away.
I made my way to the desk.
As I sat, I felt a sense of
Peace, of coming home.
With pen in hand,
My mind filled with words
Fighting to be released,
To be written.
With each stroke of the pen,
The poet grew stronger.
The bullet popped out,
The wound healed,
The blood disappeared
And the poet came to.
I was so focused
On what I was writing
That I didn't notice
That the poet had approached
The desk.
It was only
When I felt her hands
On my shoulder that
I noticed that the poet was there,
And she whispered in my ear.
"When you don't write,
I die and when you write,
I live."
She placed the gun
On the desk next to the note pad
And walked away, fading away.
And so I write
So that the poet may live.
Submitted to Poets United and imaginary garden with real toads.
I would want to run
Away from the person
I am, I was.
Run swiftly away
Leaving her in the past
And run to a place
Quite unknown
To her or me.
Run till the memory
Of her and her life
Fade until they become
Fine stranded cobwebs
In the corners of my mind.
I wish I could run
'Til my muscles strained,
My breath was all but gone,
And every ounce,
Every fiber of my body
Demanded I stop.
But I would only stop
When all I was,
All I was destined to be
Became shadows
As I stood bravely
In the light.
In that light,
I was not
What others thought of me,
What I believed of myself,
What society, family, friends
Thought I should be.
In that light,
I would be as pure
As that light,
Unencumbered with
False notions and realities
Taught to me since
I was a babe,
I would be more….
Every now and then,
I would want to run
Away from the person
I am, I was,
And every time
I would stay.
Submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
- Follow Us on Twitter!
- "Join Us on Facebook!
- RSS
Contact