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.

Dark Warrior vs Kure-ji-ichi

I apologize for the length and I hope you enjoy the latest in the Dark Warrior's journey in Japan.


I touched the tattoo
For what felt like
The hundredth time
And once again
I had the vision.

It was as clear
As if it was
My own memory.

It was a temple
On a hill top
In a little town.

I was on a train
To the little town
With the directions
Ayako gave me
On a scrape of paper
In my back pocket.

"Ohayou! Are you going
To the temple like me?"

I looked up to see
A young man sitting
Across from me.
His clothing and hair
Were fanciful, suiting
The Harujuku district
Of Tokyo than a little town.

"Ah, this is your first time,
Isn't it?" He asked,
Not waiting for the answer
For his original question.
I nodded.

"I've been to that old temple
More times than I can
Count with all my
Fingers and toes,"
He said, chuckling to himself.

"As for the fighter up there,
He is harder to fight than
That old samurai in Tokyo.
They say he fights
Like a mad man,"
The young man continued.

All throughout the train ride,
The young man talked,
I nodded at the appropriate places
And gave one word answers
To his many questions.

All the while,
I felt a slight
Scratching in my mind,
A sense of something
Just beyond my thoughts,
Just beyond my awareness.

After a couple hours,
The train arrived
At the little town.
"Come on, Dark Warrior,
I am itching for a fight."

I bolted out of my seat,
Blocking the young man's path,
"How do you know
What the samurai called me?"

He pulled out a fan and
Started to fan himself,
"Isn't it obvious, my friend?
You are a fighter
And you are dark.
What else should I call you?
You never told me your name."

Of course it made sense,
I collected my things
And followed the young man.

As he was going to the temple
And was more a nuisance
Than a threat, I chose
To travel up the hill
To the temple with him.

It took us
An hour and a half
To reach the temple,
Taking our time so that
We didn't arrive exhausted
And unable to fight.

At the top,
The young man turned to me,
"Are you ready to fight?"

"Yes, but where is the
Temple fighter?" I asked.

"He stands before you,
He has traveled with you
Thus far," he said with a smile.

He went to the side of the temple
And took out two katanas
Tossing one to me. Then
He led me to an open courtyard
Where a little boy was playing.

With the wave of his hand,
Everything froze,
The little boy running,
A bird flying,
Even an old monk
Leaving the temple.

"I did not tell you
My name, Dark Warrior.
My name is Kure-ji-ichi,"
He said, bowing deeply
Before he attacked.

The fight was fierce,
At first we were even
With the amount of times
We struck our opponent,
But the more we fought,
The more manic Kure-ji-ichi's
Fighting style became.

Soon, I was on the ground,
Kure-ji-ichi's katana inches
From my throat, only
My katana, its tip piercing
The ground, kept it from
Ending the fight.

Then I felt the scratching
In my mind.

It all made sense now,
Why he could intercept
My strikes, escaping
Many just in time.
Kure-ji-ichi was in my mind.

I had only one chance
To see if this was true.
I imagined myself kicking him
On his right side,
And as I had hoped,
He moved to the left.

When he did this,
I shoved him with the sole
Of my right foot.
I jumped to my feet
And attacked with what
Promised to be a devastating blow.

"You have won.
I accept defeat,"
I heard at my right ear.

Hanging from my katana
Was Kure-ji-ichi's clothes
And his katana laid on
The ground where it fell.

He walked from
Behind of me
Wearing nothing but
His underwear.

"Yada, yada,
Look at this,
I had just bought these,"
He clucked as he put
On his clothes.
"No matter, they will be
As good as new in
A matter of minutes."

When he was dressed,
He turned to me,
"You are good,
I didn't think you had
It in you and I believed
That I would win, but
You are a smart one."

He picked up his katana,
"You figured out what
I was doing and used it
Against me. Very smart,
Dark Warrior, very smart."

He now stood before me,
"Not many fighters are
Victorious when they fight me,"
He said, bowing deeply.

As he rose,
He struck out,
His katana slashing
Across my chest.
The force pushing me to
The ground, the pain
Rendering me unconscious.

"It was my delight
To fight you,
Dark Warrior."

I awoke to the old monk
Shaking me, to his side,
The little boy stood,
Staring at me, curiously.

"Are you alright?"
The monk asked,
"Do you need to
See a doctor?"

I shook my head,
Even though there
A slight burning
Across my chest.
I knew it would
Subside soon,
And there was no proof
Of injury anyway.

I stood and thanked
The monk for his kindness.
As I walked pass
The little boy, he asked
"May I see your tattoo?"

Thinking he mus have seen
The samurai's tattoo,
I started to show him
But it was gone.

"No, not that one,
It disappears when
You get a new one,"
He said indicating where
Kure-ji-ichi struck me.

I looked where
Kure-ji-ichi's katana slashed me
For the last time.
There was a new tattoo,
This time, I didn't need
A scholar to tell me
What it said.

When I looked up,
The little boy was gone.

To be continued

Those Things

Sometimes,
Things get in the way,
Becoming grand whales
When truly, they are
Nothing more than a boulder.

Sometimes,
Things get in the way,
And instead of simply
Walking around them,
Stepping over them,
Pushing them out of the way,
We lament about them.

Oh,
Why is this here?
Who put this here?
It's a conspiracy, you see.
I'm sure so and so
Placed it here.

And so we sit there
On this side of
These things, waiting
Patiently for them to
Disappear.

The never do,
You know.

Most times,
Those things will outlast us
And while we become
Old and gray,
Small and feeble,
Those things are as fresh
As a newborn duckling.

Most times,
Those things are created by
Us and sometimes,
They are as easy to do away with
As picking up a feather.

But most times,
They take work to overcome,
Sweat inducing work,
Back breaking work,
But if we do the work,
Oh, we will be on our way.

It doesn't matter which way
We are going,
Or what we will find
When we get there,
What matters is we got there
Despite those things.


Submitted to dVerse Open Link and Poets United.