Below The Surface

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The surface of the pond
Was a mirror reflecting
The cloudless sky.

I cared not for the reflection,
Instead I cared about what
Laid below the surface.

I cared about what laid
Below the surface of the man
Who smiled with shiny teeth
And skillful words.

I cared about what laid
Below the surface of the woman
Who laughed with me
With a booming laugh
And puffy eyes.

I cared about what laid
Below the surface of the rich man
With the big house and
The supposed empty bed.

I cared about what laid
Below the surface of the
Sweaty pastor pounding the Bible
Like a gavel.

I cared about what laid
Below the surface of the
Little girl who folded into herself
When a man came close to her.

I care because
It is what is below the surface
That comes up unexpectantly
And rocks the boat.

That has the potential
To upend said boat,
That may even destroy that boat,
Changing everything forever.

So as I pass
My fellow man
On the street,
I wonder what lies
Below the surface.

What lies below
Your surface?


Submitted to Poetry Pantry

Words on Screen - Evolution

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When I was a teen, I used to watch a lot of the Pokemon cartoon and one of the fascinating aspects of the show was the evolution of the pocket monsters. They would change from cute, little creatures to fierce, battle creatures. The funny thing is I never thought I, as a person, could evolve.

I thought evolution was something that took place over a large period of time, hundreds, thousands of years. Growing up, I thought my future was pretty simple - go to college, get a job, work until retirement. Not a bad plan to be honest, but it was not a plan I chose, it was a plan I thought would happen to me. And that is why that plan failed.

For one, it wasn't my plan and it wasn't for me as a person. So ten, fifteen, twenty years later, I am a completely different person. In fact, I am a completely different person from the person I was two or five years ago.

To a degree, I feel bad that I had not pursued my writing earlier. I have been writing poetry for about 20 years and only within the last five years that I've taken it seriously. When I took it seriously, I began to evolve, I started to write poems that were stories. Then stories began to flow and it was right.

I actually studied Fashion Design at one of the top fashion colleges in the US, the Fashion Institute of Technology. Every now and then, I would feel out of place, it just didn't feel right. I felt like an imposter, I had to work extra hard to just be relatively good. I was not impressed or inspired by my work, I didn't feel it was something I could grow in. Sure, if I was allowed to continue to work and live in the States, I would have continued to work in the apparel industry, but there are no guarantees I would have been happy on a cellular level.

I don't get the same buzz for completing an illustration or designing a garment that I would get when I complete a piece of poetry like "Lost In The Smoke" or while I write my Babylon story. When I looked to my future in fashion, I saw a dead end, but when I look to my future as a writer I am set on fire. It also doesn't hurt that books are not seasonal and depend heavily on trends.

What I also discovered is that when it comes to when I write I don't look to others to tell me that what I wrote is good. I feel it is good. Sure, it might not be great but it feels like I'm on the right track.

Okay, I'm rambling so I'm going to stop. Continue to have a great week.

Lost In The Smoke

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A half smoked spliff
Hanging from dark lips,
Thick dreads falling
Over half cast eyes
That seem to see everything
And nothing.


I found him like this,
Leaning on the base of
The tallest coconut tree,
His toes buried in the sand.

Even though he acknowledged
My presence, his attention
Was focused at the sea.

"Wha yuh want, breth'ren?"
Smoke and words expelled
From his lips.

Mama had told me
To look for the Rasta man
When I told her that
I discovered my wife,
My Angela, was cheating.

"Yuh love she?"
More words,
More smoke.

She was my childhood sweetheart,
She was my wife,
She was the mother of my children.

"Nuh bother with that,"
He waved his hands as
Though he was brushing away smoke,
"You love the woman or what?"

I looked out at the sea,
I used to have an answer,
It used to be simple,
All I had to say was "yes",
But I couldn't.

"Dere's yuh answer,
Dere's the answer to de question
Yuh shoulda been asking me."

I looked down at him
To see him looking up at me,
His eyes sharp and alert
Through the haze of smoke.

I loved her
But not in the way
He was alluding to.

We grew together like
Two coconut trees beside
Each other, but never did
Our branches intertwine.

"A woman needs to be loved,
Breth'ren. Love her in
De touch of yuh hand,
De words yuh speak,
De look in yuh eye.
If you can't love her
Den let she go,
Let she find somone
Who will love she right."

I couldn't let her go,
She was my wife,
The mother of my children.

"My, my, my,
What 'bout she?
Ain't she somebody, too?
Wasn't she somebody before
Yuh come 'pon de scene?"
His attention returned to the sea.

"De problem is yuh pride.
It ain't the fact that
She find somebody to love,
It's the fact that
She walk 'way from yuh.
Dat is what mek yuh
Come see me," he flicked
The remains of the spliff away.

He pulled another spliff
From his shirt pocket
And lit it.
For a moment we were
Lost in the smoke.

"Yuh nuh love she,
And she nuh love yuh,
Better yuh go yuh ways
And find people yuh will really love,"
The Rasta man said at last.

Love was not important
And what of my children,
The needed their parents together.

"Breth'ren, love is everyt'ing.
As for yuh chil'ren,
What good are parents
Who nuh love one another?
How dem chil'ren suppose to know
How to love somebody if
Dey never see them parents
Loving one another?"

Once again,
We were lost in the smoke.
The angle of the sun changed
Casting the shadows of the tree
Upon us.

"Look here, breth'ren,
It's obvious yuh nuh ready for
What I been telling yuh,
The wound fresh and
The sting nuh wear off.
It's best yuh be on yuh own,
T'ink 'pon t'ings,
T'ink 'pon what me say.
When the time come,
Yuh will know what to do."

I hoped so,
I looked out to the sea,
The cool breeze licking
The sweat from my brow,
Blowing the smoke away.

When I looked back,
He was gone, even
The spent spliff was gone.

As I sat down
Where the Rasta man sat,
I wondered where he went,
How he went.

Did he walk away?
Did he climb up the tree?
Or did he blow away
Like the smoke in the breeze?

Whatever the manner of his exit,
He had given me a space
To think about the future,
Our future, my future.

A future without the wife
I didn't love.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Just Speak

They like to say,
Just speak.

Speech is free,
Speech is your right,
You have something to say,
Then just speak.

Just speak
Your mind.
Just speak
Your heart and soul.
Just speak.

And yet, I don't,
I pick my words
Like I pick ripe mangoes
Under a full mango tree.

I weigh their merit
Ensuring that the ones
I choose express
My intent without causing harm.

You see my words
Tend to be lewd,
Suggestive, mean,
Unintentionally harmful.

So I let silence reign,
Taking my time to say
What I really want to say,
But do I really?

Do I pad my words
So that they bounce off
The skins of the thin skinned?

A gentle breeze
On the gossamer wings
Of a newly freed butterfly?

Or do they lightly brush
Against the scarred, weathered
Skin of those who
Could care less.

Why do I care?
Why do I cuddle
And protect the sensibilities
Of my listeners?

Why do I spend time
Construction a great production
Of nouns, verbs, adverbs
And adjectives to ensure
That my listeners' perception
Of me is favourable?

Favourable instead of real,
Favourable instead of unique,
Favourable instead of.....
Letting them make up
Their own minds on what
They think of me.

And what they think of me
Does not determine what
I think of me.

So from this point forward
I will just speak.


Submitted to Poetry Pantry

Words On Screen - Little Red Hoodie

First of all, thanks Buddah and Passion Poet for the positive words, they mean a lot to me. It gives me the added kick to stop wasting time and energy on denying myself of something I genuinely enjoy.

So what have I been up to? Well, I've been working on the re-write of Little Red Hoodie. Normally, I would write and then edit the stories I've written. As I wanted to publish the story I decided to have the story edited by a local writer, Joanne C. Hillhouse. I will be honest, when I saw the edits I felt disheartened. My "masterpiece" was taken apart. The thing is I respect Ms. Hillhouse and it made me question if I could become a writer and if I should even try. In the end I set the project down and focused on other things.

But it's not easy to set aside something that is truly a part of who you are, so I picked up the project and really took a look at the edits. Of course, there were grammatical errors and there was the removal of a section, about a third of the story. I decided to do the rewrite and opening up a paragraph into a full dialogue and altering the removed section tightening up the story.

It's human nature to look at the bad and negative things, completely disregarding the good. It was on my 4th or 5th review of the edits that I noticed that Ms. Hillhouse liked my choice of wording that expressed dark humour of the story. I guess I'm such a bad writer after all. Plus, no writer ever wrote a story without having to edit it, smoothing the edges like a sculptor would make the final touches on a sculpture.

Now, I'll be typing out the story and having it edited again. The cool thing is I am loving every part of this. I don't know if you ever had that amazing feeling in the core of your being when you are making or doing something that matters to you. I know this is cliche but it feels like coming home. When ever I ask myself the question what I would do if I had all the money in the world and I've had all my adventures, my answer every time is write. I truly feel alive even at the thought of doing it.

Hope everyone is having a great week.

OXOX
Kimolisa

In Peace

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"Sit with me," she said.
I looked down
To see a frail woman
Of advancing years
Sitting in a wheelchair.

Instead of sadness,
I saw joy in her eyes
That seem to twinkle
Like a reluctant star
In the morning sky.

Being from the kind
Of fold who heeded
The words of their elders,
I say beside her
Upon a rickety bench.

"Now tell me, " she began,
What is ailing you so much
That wrinkles appear between
Your eyes with the ease
Of a baby smiling at it's mama?"

An expression of shock
Must have flashed across my face
Because she just smiled
And patted my knee.
"Tell me, sugar," her voice like honey.

It was as though
I was waiting all my life
For this question, the words,
My words surged forward
Like a great wave.

When I was done,
The last of these words
Trickling out of my mouth,
I felt a measure of peace,
A weight removed.

"Now, see here," she began,
A serious expression on  her face,
"All you just said remains here
With me. You are not leaving
This place with them."

"Instead I want you to leave here
With that blossom of peace
You feel in your chest.
I want you to focus on it,
Water it until it fills up your life.

I started to speak
But she held up her hand,
"Nuh-uh, not a word,
You said your piece,
Now go in peace."

I got to my feet,
Lighter and happier,
I leaned over
And kissed her cheek,
My way of thanking her.

And I did what she instructed
I went in peace.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Thoughts on Screen - Little Red Hoodie

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I had originally planned to set Wednesdays as my media day where I would be posting different forms of my poetry, be it video, audio or pictures, but I'm going to shake that up a bit. After much thought, I've decided to make my short story, Little Red Hoodie into a book and I will be sharing my thoughts on the process. As I've said ad nauseum, I don't see myself as a writer and that mental block gets in the way of creating stories and being a writer.

When I think of writers, I think of Hemmingway, Patterson and locally, Joanne C. Hillhouse, and I know that they have spent years and years honing their craft. Then I look at myself and think "I'm a poet, I've done my time honing my craft, how dare I attempt to write stories?" or "I don't know the craft, I don't know how to build characters or develop plots, I don't know the technicalities of writing." In a nutshell, I feel overwhelmed because on one level, I don't think I should be writing anything or taking anything to market.

Now being overwhelmed for me can be a good thing or a bad thing. Good where as I reach rock bottom then I fight to prove others and myself wrong. Bad: I just don't do it (so not Nike). The great thing is I feel I'm going the route of the good thing.

No, I have never studied to be a writer.
No, I have not attended many writer's workshops (only went to one)
No, I don't have the confidence to submit any of my work to literary journals and get my work out

But something in me insists I write stories. Something connects words and pictures in my head and urges me to put the stories on paper and share them. I would liken it to a natural spring. Sometimes when I write poems that seem so real, I feel like I was able to tap into someone's life and tell their story. I tell one moment in their lives that normally would disappear and be forgotten and somehow I was able to get it and share it with many people. I think that is powerful.

I remember when I was visiting family in Jamaica a long time ago. I had gone into an empty bedroom and I had a writing pad or something. I started writing a story and when I reached a point, I didn't know where to go with the story and I stopped. Only recently, I discovered that the secret was to keep writing and the story will flow. Most times the stories write themselves.

I know writing in this day and age is not only putting words on paper. That is just part of the bigger picture and one might think that it is a lonesome profession but that is far from the truth. There are the editors, agents, cover artists, publishers, forms of distribution: bookstores, libraries, etc. But you know what, I now take the stance:

 

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I may not be a writer now, but I will be. It may take me a year, 5 years, 10 years but I will become a writer and I will be a good writer.

Thanks for reading and have an amazing week.

Ache

Some days,
I ache, the kind of ache
That seems to hold me
Captive in a cage
Of just this moment.

Then this moment
Becomes the next
And then the next
And all I know
Is the pain.

Is this what
My life has been
Reduced to? Is this
All I will ever have?
This ache.

One day,
I fell, a rag doll
I became, boneless,
Spirit less. In a heap
I laid, unconscious.

I awoke, automated,
Machines pushing air
In my lungs, forcing
My body to live, but
All I felt was the ache.

With each breath,
I ached.
With each heartbeat,
I ached, and
With each ache,
I wept, bitterly.

With the passing of time,
The ache increased,
And words were whispered
Into my ear,
"It is darkest before the dawn."

But what kind of dawn
Waits for me?
What will I find
Beyond this ache.
I had grown tired of crying.

When all I could do
Was cry, I grew tired of it.
All that remained was
The ache.

Then there was nothing.
No ache.
No pain.
No me.
Nothing but a memory.

Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Writer's Block and Other Stuff

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I am way over due for a poem but it is a situation where I was forced into a break by poetry writer's block. It stands boldly between my mind and the pen saying "No, you may not write a verse, or two, or three." So I don't, instead words swarm around in my head in the form of longer works, stories to be specific.

It's something like what happened when I wrote Martine, the words flowed like water in a stream. Either I sit on the bank and watch it pass me by or I follow it to see where it goes. I chose to follow it. It started with an erotic suspense with the lead character falling in love with a cleric. I'm still writing that although it has reached a bottle neck as to the direction it will go.

Then I had the idea for the continuation of Bianca, which is the follow up to Martine. I had started the story, but I got stuck and then one day I got unstuck, I still have to find the original draft and continue writing. The idea that came to mind was so delicious that I actually got excited and goose pimply.

Earlier this week, I was driving from Parham (in the east of Antigua) to Villa (in the north west). As I drove I could see the hills to the south and badda bing, badda boom, another story unraveled itself. This one is about a survivor of a zombie apocalypse set in Antigua. She wakes up in Parham with no memory of who she is and she is guided for a while by a older man who gives her the name of his dead daughter.

It doesn't end there folks, oh no. This morning I started writing a short story called The Nymph of the Forest. Another erotica with a magical feel. I am still not sure where this idea came from, all I know is my mind worked out the plot by the time I sat down and wrote the first 4-5 pages.

So here is the deal, it is only recently (within the last couple of years) that I consider myself a poet, and even though I wrote Martine, Little Red Hoodie and as you can see from above, I have a few more stories in me, I don't see myself as a writer. Oh yeah, and I have an erotic fiction on Literotica. I guess because I didn't study, or take the courses or workshops to become a writer. I haven't put in my 10,000 hours. I just write.

Plus it doesn't help that I have the mindset that you have to be doing something tangible, where people see your effort, you toiling on a process and seeing a result. When I'm seen writing by hand or working on the computer, I get the impression that I'm perceived as doing nothing of merit. Perhaps that is the area where I have to work on not caring what people think.

Whenever I think of how I want to spend the rest of my days, I see myself with a house with a wrap around verandah. At times, I would go out on a hot day or a cool night and I would sit in a comfy chair and write. Let the words flow and be who I'm supposed to be, the crafter of tales. And yet, I don't feel that is possible. I could never become James Patterson or Stephen King or Anne Rice, but if someone could read one of my stories and enjoy it, I could live with that.

Five, ten years ago, if I was told that I was going to be working on building a body of work centered around the written word, I would say "No way!" But now there is a very strong possibility, now I feel like I'm coming into my own, but the last piece in the puzzle is believing that I can do it. That is what the following pic is for.

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Looking Back

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I looked back at her

And through the mist,

I could not recognize her.

She used to be my everything,

The sun that drenched

Me with warmth
When the cold chilled
My bones.

She used to mean
The world to me
And I trusted her
With everything
I held dear.

But now,
She is a memory
Fading into the darkness
Of my past.

Every now and then
I would look back,
And every time,
It was harder to see her.

It was harder to see
The person I was,
The person I used to be.

Waiting

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Waiting,

Patiently waiting

For the doctor to

Return with the results.

Waiting,

Waiting for my life

To continue or quickly

Unravel and forever

Become undone.

I've waited before,

Every test known

To me having been

Done and still I'm

Waiting.

Before I would be

Worried, scared,

Anxious, but that was

Before. 

Now, I'm

Impatient and want

To get it over with.

I want to know

And move pass this.

Whatever this is.

Then again,

This is life.

Queens Speech [video]

It's Media Wednesday and today I'm posting a video from one of the Expressions: Poetry At The Pub open mics. This video is from last year and I'm still getting used to seeing myself in video. More reason to get better when it comes to performing. Enjoy.

Talk

I stumbled into him,
Losing my balance,
My world, upside down
For what was but
A moment but felt
Like an eternity.

In that moment,
That forever moment,
He caught her, sparing
Me bruises and cuts,
Cuts and bruises,
Setting me upright again.

I was embarassed,
I was shy,
I had two left feet
And two hands of thumbs,
Yet, through all of that,
He smiled.

Not a sympathetic smile,
One that was drenched
With pity for the
Poor, little creature
That stood before him.

It was a smile
That was sweet like
A just ripe plum
That had just lost
Its tartness.

It was a curious smile
That wanted to know more
About the creature
That stood before him.

Because of that smile,
I smiled.
Because of my smile,
He spoke.
Because he spoke,
We talked.

We talked that day
And the day after.
Ten years later,
We were still talking.
Twenty, thirty,
Forty years later,
We were still talking.

Then one day came when
We could no longer talk.
A silence descended around me
As I took my last breath.
And as the world melted away,
I heard him whisper.

"I love you, and
We will talk again."


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Heat

Sunshine warming
Deeply hued skin,
A cool breeze
Licking the salty liquid
Off their brows.

He stood up tall
And released a sigh,
A "Thank you" to
A God, a deity,
A mother of nature
Who had sent this welcome
Respite from the heat.

He looked down
At her and
Spoke no words
Just conveyed his love.

He had found
Her beautiful and
She had found
Him brave and
In the time
They spent together
They found more.

They found more
Than the single
 Adjective they had
Assigned to one another.

Yes, she was beautiful,
But she was also smart,
Resilient, quick witted,
Diplomatic and nurturing.

Yes, he was brave,
But he was also savvy,
Witty, good-natured,
Persuasive and bold.

 In the quiet moments
Between the sun
And the moon,
A quiet love blossomed
Like an unassuming flower.

A flower that grew
From a green bud
To an extraordinary
Sight to behold,
Emitting a scent that
Coloured their world.

 She looked up at him,
At first a frown
Was upon her face,
But when their eyes met,
It melted like
Ice on a hot summer day.

She did away with her tools,
As he did away with his,
And in each others' arms
They sought a cool place
To create a heat
Of their own.

A heat only
A man and a woman
Could make.

I Love You - Spoken Word

As promised today is media Wednesday and today I will be showcasing a spoken word piece I did earlier this year. Hope you like To listen to more spoken word by moi, visit my SoundCloud page.

Pointing At Me

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He hurt me,
She doesn't understand me,
They are at fault.

Every time,
Something went wrong
I found someone who
I could blame.

Every time,
I would find fault
In the person of
My fellow man.

Every time,
I failed to see
The part I had
To play.

Without fail,
I would raise
My arm and
Extend my finger
And blame.

Not knowing
That in that moment
Another finger was
Pointing at me.


My apologies for being MIA, no excuses but a promise to get back into my rhythm. Thanks for reading. :)

Sojourner Truth's Ain't I A Woman

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Sojourner Truth (1797-1883): Ain't I A Woman?
Delivered 1851
Women's Convention, Akron, Ohio 

Well, children, where there is so much racket there must be something out of kilter. I think that 'twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. But what's all this here talking about? 

That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain't I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man - when I could get it - and bear the lash as well! And ain't I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother's grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain't I a woman? 

Then they talk about this thing in the head; what's this they call it? [member of audience whispers, "intellect"] That's it, honey. What's that got to do with women's rights or negroes' rights? If my cup won't hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn't you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full? 

Then that little man in black there, he says women can't have as much rights as men, 'cause Christ wasn't a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him. 

If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back , and get it right side up again! And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them. 

Obliged to you for hearing me, and now old Sojourner ain't got nothing more to say. 

 Text found on the Internet Modern History Sourcebook.

Meeting Andy

"What's his name?"
I looked up
To find a little boy.

Skin as pale as
The snow heaps
I used to avoid
While looking for
A place to sleep.

I looked up
And around, anticipating
A young mother to
Swoop in and extract
The little boy from
The black street walker.

She never came,
Instead the little boy
Stood waiting for my
Answer as he patted
My mongrel of a dog.

"It doesn't have a name,"
I said at last.

"But what do you
Call him?" he asked.

"Her."

"You call him, 'her'?"
His eyes opened wide
At the ludicrosity of
Calling a boy dog, 'Her'.

"It's female, kid and
I call her 'Dog',"
The dog looked up at me.
"See, she responds to 'Dog'."

"My name is Andrew,
But everyone calls
Me Andy," the little boy said,
Continuing his conversation
With a complete stranger.

"Look, kid...."

"Andy."

"Look, Andy,
I don't need
To know your name.
In fact, where's your mommy?"

He looked down
At the dog, talking more
To her than to me,
"She's dead."

"What about your daddy?"
I was grabbing for anything.

He shook his head,
"He's dead, too."
He looked up and
I saw unshed tears
In the small boy's eyes.

The thick, ice shell
Around my heart broke
And melted away.
"My name is Angella,
But everyone calls
Me, Angie."

A smile spread
Across his face,
"It's nice meeting
You, Angie," he said.

"It's nice meeting
You, Andy."

It's Complicated

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"It's complicated."

She sat in the middle

Of my living room,

In the middle of my

Life's debris, reading

A book.

"What's complicated?"

I asked, I always had

A problem called

Curiosity.

Looking up for a second,

Before returning to her book,

"Everything.

Everything is complicated,"

She said, matter-of-factly.

I felt the beginnings of

A deep conversation

And I wondered if

I was prepared to go

To a place she knew

Very well.

I was not prone to

Heavy thoughts, I 

Left philosophy to the

Likes of Socrates, Plato

And her, 

The woman 

Who would wear 

A top that skimmed

Her hips with nothing

But panties while 

Reading Nietzsche.

"Everything is complicated

Because we can't handle

Simple."

She decided to take 

The reins and lead me

Down the path.

"We can't imagine that

Life is simple so we 

Tell ourselves that it's

Complicated."

She caught my interest

So I sat down to listen.

"If given the choice

Between simple and 

Complex, we always

Choose complex.

We love a problem to

Solve."

"What is a problem

You are trying to solve,"

I asked.

She looked up

And leveled her

Gaze with mine,

"I'm trying to figure

Out how to stop

Loving you."

She was right,

She was always right.

It is complicated.

The Devil & My Sole

In the last quarter of 2012, Antigua Toastmasters was formed, and even though I had attended every meeting since the very first meeting, I joined in January 2013. I wouldn't say I was ecstatic about the Tall Tale Competition when it was first announced, I would say it was expected of me as I was a poet with a leaning towards story telling. But as the date came closer, I became excited.

The competition started out with eight participants that had wheedled down to five because three dropped out. And although I knew about it months in advance, it was only within the last month that this tale came into being. It started with just a little idea that grew and grew, but I never wrote it out. I repeated it in my mind over and over. When I noticed I forgot a sentence, I would work hard to remember it, the next time I recited it.

As for the southern accent and references to Louisiana, well, I have a strange connection to that part of the world. Maybe because I watched so much episodes of Designing Women, maybe I've read so much about that part of the world. The truth is I have never stepped foot in Louisiana, which adds to this tale being a tall tale.

The performance was a result of many practice sessions, some of which were when I was making my bed. I'm not angry about it, could I improve on it, yes, but I'm not mad at it. As a result of it, I won the Tall Tale Competition. The funny thing is a few of the audience thought I would fall out of character, but the truth is I've always been good with accents. Sometimes my everyday speech would be peppered with accents.

Special Thanks goes out to my sister for taping and uploading this YouTube clip.

OXOX
Kimolisa

See You Around

source

"What are you looking at?"

She looked up at me,

Distracted. Swimming

Upstream in her personal

River of her thoughts 

To the spot on the bank

Upon which I stood.

"Nothing, just lost

In thought," she gave 

Me a small smile.

"What are you thinking

About?" I had been here

For over an hour, trying

To engage her in some

Sort of conversation.

"Nothing of importance,"

She said after a long bout

Of silence. 

I wanted to scream,

I wanted to shout,

I wanted to take her

By her shoulders and

Shake her, instead 

I said "Oh."

She was looking out

Of the window again,

And I felt dismissed.

"Well, I have some 

Errands to run, so

I will see you around,"

I said making my way

To the door.

"See you around,"

She said without looking.

I never saw her around,

As time passed, it was something 

That didn't impact on me.

Somehow when I closed 

The door that last time,

I closed it for good.

Time passes and people

Grow apart and that's life.

Even the people you thought

Would be in your life forever

They, too, fade away.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Change

source

Let me start off by saying, I'm sick. It started with a little sleep deprivation, followed by being exposed to sick people. One of which was my sister who had a doozy of a cold with a wicked cough. Instead of getting better, I got worse. Thank goodness I was able to take part in the Antigua Toastmasters' Tall Tale Competition, although my voice began to go but it added to the performance. Right after, my voice got worst and the coughing more. That was Thursday evening and then I got worse. From Friday to Saturday, I lost my voice, had a terrible cough and felt miserable. That pretty much explains why there was no poem on Friday.

The thing is I had plan to change the blog up a bit. Instead of posting poems three times a week, I've decided to only post two. One on Monday and the other on Friday, but there will still be something on a Wednesday. It might be an audio clip of me reading one of my poems. It might be one of the YouTube videos of me at an Expression's open mic. It might even be a poem embedded in a picture.

I'm doing this to mix it up a bit. I noticed that not all the poems get love in terms of comments and I am going to be submitting my poems to literary journals. For instance I submitted a poem to St. Somewhere April 2013 Journal. I'm going to have to learn to be disciplined and resist the urge to put all my poems on this blog. Plus it would be fun to see my work among other talented poets in various journals. I've met so many awesome people through this blog and it is through their kind feedback that I have the courage to take the next step and submit.

I hope you you like the change and continue to support this blog.

OXOX
Kimolisa

And Every Time

He would knock,
Knock, knock,
And she would not answer.

He would call to her,
He would have heard
Her walking around,
Breathing, existing
Just beyond the door
And she would not answer.

He would pound violently,
The door shuddering
Under his heavy fist,
And she would not answer.

Then frustration would
Seep away like rain water
Into storm drains, leaving
Behind resignation that
Would wrap around him
And lead him away,
And she would not answer.

She would not answer.
She should not answer.

Her ears had to be deaf
To his knocks,
To his calls,
To him.

To her,
He must not exist,
A mere shifting of air
But this was not
Her choice, simply
Her truth.

The truth is
She could not see
A man who did not exist,
A man who was
A figment of her
Beautiful mind.

So the doctors say,
So her family say,
So the people who walk
The earth beside her say,
And so she grew
To say the same.

And only when his steps
Had melted away
Would she open the door
To prove to herself
That he really wasn't there.

And every time,
He would be standing
Beyond the threshold
Waiting for her to
Embrace her insanity.

Someone To Run To

source

Nina Simone was singing
About a sinnerman and
I was thinking of one.

A delicious construction of
Skin and bone that
Had the power of stealing
My breath.

As the record played
And the memories unfolded
In front of my mind's eye,
I could not help feeling
Regret.

Despite long walks on
Moonlit beaches, or
Fingers interlaced at the pinnacle
Of making love, my memories
Were tainted with regret.

Regret for walking away
Leaving him standing alone
Under a perfect full moon
That transformed his once handsome
Face into a macabre mask.

Regret for unfurling my fingers
From his grip and letting go
Of the one man who knew
My secrets, my fears,
Me.

His only sin being
Him loving me unconditionally.

As the song came to an end,
I lit a cigarette, lighting
The darkness for a second
Or two and I took a long
Drag, inhaling a slow death.

I reached for the phone,
Dialing the first six digits
Of his number, my finger
Hovering over the last digit.

With all the courage
I could muster, I pressed it.
The line connected, it rang
Three times, then I heard
A voice, a female voice.

I quietly replaced
The handset on the cradle,
And for the first time in
A long time, I wept for
My sinnerman.

I waited too long and
Now, my sinnerman found
Someone to run to.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Never heard of Nina Simone's Sinnerman? Check out the video below:

Untitled

source

I never thought
Of myself as
Alone.

I never thought
Of myself
Requiring another
To define me,
To convince me
That what other's
Thought of me
Was important.

I never understood
The word
Lonely.

In a world so
Full of life,
The fact that
I was not in
The presence of
Another human
Being human,
Did not make
Me feel this
Word.

I am not lonely.
I am not alone.
I am at peace.

I Found The World

source

I found the world

Beautiful, today

As I stood on 

The edge of Today

Looking out to 

Tomorrow.

No matter how

Long I looked

I could not see

Beyond the gray

Clouds that hung

Close to the horizon.

Eventually,

I grew tired of

Trying to see what

The future held,

Choosing to use 

My imagination.

In the depths of

My gray matter,

I built a world

Filled with splendid

Wonders that

Had be yearning 

For them to become

Reality.

Soon, my imaginings

Became more than

Dreams to entertain

And delight me,

They became the 

Blueprint for the 

World I wanted to create.

Today, I worked on
Creating a future
I wished to live in,
But still I knew that
Now was beautiful,
Was worthy of
My attention and
So I reside in that
Sweet middle ground
Of enjoying now
And creating for later.

I found the world
Beautiful, today.

He Paints

 source

He paints.

My daughter says this
Every time I ask what
Her new boyfriend does.

Paints?
Paints what?
Paints houses?
Paints cars?

She would roll her eyes,
Bored of the conversation.

He paints pictures,
Everyday he wakes up
And goes to his studio
And paints.

What kind of Caribbean man
Paints for a living?
How can he provide for you
If you get married?
What about children?
They are not cheap
Nowadays.

The conversation would go
Downhill from here with
Both of us frustrated
And we would move on
To a topic less volatile.

He paints.

My daughter once took me
To his studio,
A messy place with
Unfinished paintings
Everywhere.

Those that were finished
Were pretty enough,
But pretty does not
Put food on the table.

In the corner of the studio
Stood something draped with
A heavy fabric. A piece
He's working on, said
My daughter,
He has yet to show her.

He paints.

The days after the visit
To his studio were spent
With me wanting to see
The shrouded painting.

Curiosity got the better
Of me and I snuck
Into the studio.

Carefully, I removed
The cloth and before me
Was my daughter,
Then I saw my grandmother,
Or was it my mother?
Or was it me?

The paint on canvas
Froze in time four women
Of one lineage, one blood,
All found in one woman.

This woman painted on canvas
Had my grandmother's resilience,
My mother's nurturing spirit,
My stubborness, but
The woman was my daughter.

My heart ached as
I saw the innocence
And hope in her eyes,
Things that I once possessed
Before life did away with them
A long time ago.

Somehow,
My daughter's boyfriend
Captured more than her likeness,
He captured her soul
And the souls of the women
Before her.

I replaced the heavy cloth
Over the painting, reluctantly,
And snuck out of the studio.

I never asked my daughter
What her new boyfriend
Did for a living,
Having accepted the truth
And seeing it from
A new perspective.

He paints.
No he does more than
Paint, he freezes people
In time, taking their
Likeness and spirit and
Trapping them on canvas.

He does not paint,
He performs miracles.

But..

"Do you love him?"
Soft lips murmuring
Against my aroused lips,
Pleading eyes looking up
From between my thighs.

"Sshh.
Don't speak of him,"
I answered, evading
The question the best
Way I could.

She rose up, sitting
Back on her haunches,
Her eyes leveled on mine,
My juices smearing her lips.
"Answer me, Jasmine."

I got on all fours
And kissed her,
Palming her breasts
Before tweaking her nipple.
She groaned.

I pulled away,
Getting out of bed,
Putting on my clothes.
"Where are you going?"
Panic in her voice or
Was it sexual frustration?

"Home, home to him,"
I answered, heading
For the front room.
"I came here to forget
About him, but you seem
Bent on talking about him."

"Don't go, Jasmine,"
She came up behind me,
Snaking her arm around
My waist, pulling me into her,
"I promise I won't mention him."

"You promise?" I asked
Turning to look her
In the eyes.

"I promise with
All my heart, pretty lady,"
She said with a mix
Of sobriety and lust.

She kissed me softly
Then took my hand and
Led me back to
Her bedroom.

She made love to me
The way he never could.
Her touch was soft,
Her embrace was tender,
And when she was finished
I felt loved and cherished.

I waited until
She was fast asleep
Before slipping away,
Returning to him.

Do I love him?
No, but he is the man
I married, the father
Of my children,
The breadwinner.

I love her but
I must live with him.


Submitted to dVerse Open Link

Tell Me A Lie - She Wanted A Love Poem

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

Tell Me A Lie

Tell me a lie,
Let it skim
Against my skin,
Let it wrap me,
Snugly like
A blanket, tightly
Like a cocoon,
Until the truth
Come out and
Pierces my heart
With its serrated edge,
Trust bleeding out
Of the gaping wound.

Tell me a lie,
Let me savour it,
Taste its cunning
Mixture of salty and sweet.
Let me swallow
It down, consume it
In its entirety
Until it proves to be
Poison and I grow
Sick from it,
Sick of you.

Tell me a lie,
Let me play with it
Like a newly acquired
Puppy. Let me
Show it to friends,
Family, even strangers
Who show the slightest
Interest until it grows
Too big, too ill mannered,
To dangerous, too much
To handle, leaving you
Standing over my mauled
Ego.

Tell me the lie
I want to hear,
The lie you want to tell,
Let me live in
This artificial world
Constructed by the fine
Threads of the lie.
I hoping it's real,
You hoping nothing and
No one snaps a thread.

Tell me a lie
So a false sense
Of peace may descend
On us. We would
Breathe it's smog like quality,
Telling ourselves that
It smells like fresh air,
Believing it's a cool breeze
On a hot, humid day.

Tell me a lie,
Tell me you love me.

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

Slips and Ties

Slips and ties,
Dreams and lies,
Sediment settling
To the bottom
Never to rise.

I hear him
Calling across the
Way, nothing more
Than a whisper.
He calls.

He calls and
I follow, not
Out of curiosity
But out of
Wonder.

Wondering if it
Is really him
Calling beyond the
Way or just
My imagination, again.

The whisper ceased
To be a whisper,
Now I hear
Him ever so
Clearly.

He is at
My left ear,
Then my right,
He kisses my
Temple, then wishes
Me goodnight.

For the briefest
Moment he was
Real to me
And then he
Ceased to be.

The tears have
Vowed not to
Fall for him
But a lone
Tear rebels.

Then two, then
Three and soon
The kingdom of
My tear ducts
Stood bare.

He whispers once
More from across
The way, "Always
I am with
You, today, tomorrow
And beyond.

I whisper back,
"I know."

Slips and ties,
Dreams and lies,
Sediment settling
To the bottom
Never to rise.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Pretty, Little, Sad Girl

Pretty, little, sad girl
Sitting over there,
Wrapped up in her misery,
Thinking no one cared.

Pretty, little, sad girl,
Smile turned upside down,
May I make you something,
Perhaps a floral crown.

Pretty, little, sad girl,
May I have a seat?
Of course, not too close,
You, I would like to meet.

Pretty, little, sad girl,
Is it too much to ask
For a glance upon my face
Even if you wear your stony mask.

Pretty, little, sad girl,
Tell me your name,
Withhold it not from me,
It, I'm sure, holds no shame.

Pretty, little, sad girl,
Do you know what brought you here,
With tiled walls and the scent
Of Death scrubbed away with care?

Pretty, little, sad girl,
No, my sweet, bad you were not,
No one thinks poorly of you
But I'm afraid you have begun to rot.

Pretty, little, sad girl,
Too long you have been away,
The elements have preserved you
But the cold and ice have gone away.

Pretty, little, sad girl,
There you laid for eyes to see,
Once lost but now found,
No longer a mystery.

Pretty, little, sad girl,
A terrible task I am to perform,
But necessary as the
Truth you can not inform.

Pretty, little, sad girl
I promise to be gentle
As the one who did this
To you had left behind his dental.

Pretty, little, sad girl,
Silent you shall be forever
But from your body, I will
Learn your final story, ever.

Pretty, little, sad girl

Smiles and Glances

At first,
We did not speak
With words. Our
Conversations were
Nothing more than
Glances and smiles
That grew into
Gentle touches and
Tender kisses with
Promises of more,
Much more.

But he was snatched
Away from me.
Death claimed him.

Words came and
For those with power,
Symbols on parchment.
I saw him one day,
His features had changed,
His station was higher,
But alas, mine was lower.
He, a prince of Egypt
And I, a slave.
Many moons had passed
Before I stood before him.

But I was snatched
Away from him.
Slave traders claimed me.

The land was new
To my people,
The sun harsh to
Our pale skins.
To him the land was old,
The sun, an old friend.
He knew it was me
And he claimed me
As such. In hidden places
We touched hidden places.

But he was snatched
Away from me.
My people took his life.

My skin was as dark
As the depths of night,
His skin, pale yet tanned,
Accustomed to the sun.
My life was hard,
Leaving me brittle and
Unseeing and so he
Sought and found me,
Purchasing me for twice
My price, then escaping
This land of hate to
Surround me with love.

But I was snatched
Away from him.
So brittle was I that
I shattered during child birth.

He was a Goldstein and
I was blond with blue eyes.
Under a net of lies
And deception, we travelled
Through Europe, Hitler's forces
Nipping at our heels. Just
When freedom and safety
Were within our grasps,
The rabid dogs caught him,
Dragging him away.

He was snatched
Away from me.
Aushwitz was his last
Known location.

I was sitting in a cafe
When I saw him.
It was obvious that
He was a tourist
To my city of lights.
I did not run to him,
I just watched him,
History had left an
Imprint on me and
I was afraid that
He or I would be
Snatched away
from the other.

He looked through
The window, he
Looked at me,
We spoke without
Words, just
Smiles and glances.
He knew it was me
And he came into the cafe,
Sat across from me and
Said hello.

Maybe, just maybe,
This time we were
Meant to stay together
For a long time.

Maybe, just maybe,
Fate will be kind.

Depend On Me

 source

"The sky looks funny,"
I looked across at her,
Her small frame lying
On the blanket,
Her eyes looking
Up at the open sky.

"Why do you say that?"
My gaze returning
To the same sky.
It didn't look any
Different to me.

"It looks.......
It just looks different."
This was the norm for her,
She would make a statement
But found it hard to
Put her feelings, her opinions
Into words.

"Why are you here?"
She turned onto her side
Staring at me inquisitively.
"I know why I'm here,
But why are you here?"

Why was I here?
I let the question sink,
Sink into me, hoping
For an answer to pop up
Like apples in a barrel
Of water. Instead only
The truth popped up.

"Because you asked,
Because I care for you,"
My gaze remained on
The sky but I could still
See her in my periphery.

She just nodded
Her understanding then
Laid back on her back.
"Why did you ask me
To come with you?"
I asked, trying my best
To sound normal.

It was two hours ago
That she found me
Walking home.
She was in her beat up
Corolla and she asked
If I wanted to go
On a trip to the desert.

I said yes.

"You're the only one
That understands me,
The only one that doesn't
Keep asking me if I'm okay,
the only one that really
Listens to the words that
Fall out of my brain
And unto my tongue,"
Sometimes her answers were
Poetry to my ears.

I nodded my understanding,
Trying not to think of
The scars on her wrists.

"I asked you to come
Because I knew you
Would say yes and
Because I care for you, too."
I looked across at her
And she was looking at me.

For the first time,
In a long time,
I knew she was going
To be okay because
She knew she could
Depend on me.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Mama Say

Mama say.
Mama say go to bed early
And wake up early
To see a new day
Being born.

Mama say.
Mama say dream big dreams
And take small steps,
Taking care to see the destination
Without tripping over the obstacles
Along the way.

Mama say.
Mama say learn the rules of life,
Then create your own rules
Because rules are like shoes,
One size doesn't fit all.

Mama say.
Mama say fight hard,
Fight smart and even
When you back is on
The mat, keep fighting.
The fight isn't over
Until you win or you quit.

Mama say.
Mama say mold your life
Like it's clay, let
Your hands form the curves
And the straight lines.
At the end of the day,
That piece of art is yours
To enjoy.

Mama say.
Mama say smile,
Everyone is frowning
And angry nowadays.
Be the sunshine
In a cloudy sky.

Mama say.
Mama has a lot to say
And one has the choice
To heed her words or
Experience it for oneself.

In either case,
One has to learn the lesson,
So wouldn't it be easier,
Wouldn't it be better
To listen to what
Mama say.

Call

She would call out
For him. A low wail
Building in crescendo
And crashing through
The night and my slumber.

Between moans and groans,
She would call his name
And he never answered
Her call. He was never
There to answer her call.

As I lay awake,
I would imagine her calls
Were limbs, hands stretching
Out through the here and now
To a plane where no one
Ever returns.

Her arms extending
Through the shallow
Night, trying to embrace
A spirit that is
Lost to her forever.

Before, I would run to
Her bedside, wipe away
The sweat from her brow,
Wrap my arms around her
Only to have her push me away.

I was not him and
She wanted him not
A poor substitute.
Before, by heart would
Break.

My heart would crash
To the floor and I
Would run for the broom
And dust pan to sweep it up
Before returning to my room.

I would want her
To want me as much
As she wanted him,
Want me not as her
Nursemaid, her care taker,
But want me for me.

I had accepted the fact
That she would always call
For him in the deepest
Of her slumber, because
I knew in the stark sunlight,
It was me she would call.


Submitted to Poets United Poetry Pantry #210

Now Available at Smashwords and  Amazon                

Willing To Love

The train drew closer
And I waited patiently
For her. It had been
Four months, twelve days,
Seven hours and 15 minutes
Since I last saw her.

Her letter said she
Was coming for good,
That she was looking
Forward to moving to
The little Spanish city
That was my home.

The train emptied out
And between families
And lovers reuniting,
I waited patiently
For her. I waited
Till the little station
Was almost empty.

Then I felt a tap
On my shoulder, I
Turned around to find
The train's conductor,
A letter in his hand,
A mix of sadness and
Pity in his eyes.

He didn't speak,
I didn't speak,
The letter left his hand
Coming into mine.

He walked away,
His mission complete,
A weight, a burden
Now gone, soon to
Be forgotten.

Alas, this weight, this burden
Was now mine,
I walked across to a bench.
As I sat, I opened the letter.

Words swam in and out of
My vision, in and out of
My understanding like
Fish escaping the water
Attempting to fly.

I had read the letter
Once, then twice,
It was only on the third
Reading that I truly
Understood.

In a daze, I walked
Through the city, the
Vibrant colours I had
Come to know had bled away.

I walked to a my neighbourhood,
But passed my abode,
Making my way to the bar
Down the street from it.

I parked myself on
A stool and asked
The bartender, a friend
Of mine, for something hard,
Something to dull the edges.

He didn't ask,
I didn't tell.

Between mid-afternoon
And midnight, I drank
To forget, I drank
To dull the pain, I drank
Till the bartender, the friend
Refused to serve another
Glass of slow death.

Instead at two past
The witching hour,
He delivered me to my home,
Placing me on the bed,
Water on the bedside table
And a bucket on the floor.

She never came, instead
Pain was my companion
During the months that followed.

Eventually it eased from
Sharp to dull like
A butcher's old knife.
Then it became an ache
That returned only when
I remembered.

I stared to forget
Thanks to Maria, and
Maria became Isabella,
Isabella became Bianca,
Bianca became Carmen.

As Carmen slept in
My bed, I returned to
The letter for the first time
In a long time.

In the letter,
She said she loved me
But she was scared,
She didn't have the
Wherewithal to jump, to
Take a chance on
The fickle emotion
Called love.

For the first time ever,
I didn't feel sad,
I felt angry, and in
That anger, I tore the
Letter up, offering the
Pieces to the flames
On my stove top.

I returned to my bedroom,
Stopping at the doorway,
Watching the woman sleeping
In my bed, the woman
Willing to take a chance
On love.

Her eyes opened and on
Seeing me, a lazy smile
Spread across her face,
"Vienes aqui, mi amor,"
Reaching her hand out to me.

I went to her,
Wrapping myself around her.

The pain was gone,
The anger was gone,
Love for some one who
Loved me replaced it all.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

To Ginny

She lay on the sofa,
A rag doll version
Of her former self.

I wanted to say
Something,
I wanted to do
Something,

But the words
Would sound too
Blunt, their edges
Piercing the delicate
Skin of my daughter.

I wished Sheila was here,
I wish she would
Embrace our progeny
And coo soft words
To her, while I stood
Close by, nodding
And agreeing with
Everything Sheila said.

Sheila was gone,
Lost to us in a sandstorm
Of dust and lust, and
The last I heard she
Was four towns away
Living the life she
Couldn't live with us.

It became too much
For me and I walked
Over to the sofa,
Sinking into the plushness
Beside my Ginny.

She looked at me,
Eyes puffy, nose red,
I embraced her, resting
Her head on my shoulder,
I let her cry, hopefully
The last of her tears.

I let her pain, leak into
Me, I may not have the
Right words, but I have
The right intention.

I know her pain, and
Even though I could
Not remove it,
I could let her know
That someone still
Loved her, still saw
Her as beautiful,
Precious and worthy.

We stayed that way,
Father and daughter,
For most of the night
And when the sobs
Turned to snores,
I carried her to bed.

As I left her room,
I heard her mumble
Through the net of slumber,
"Thank you, daddy."
I nodded and left the room
Quickly, not wanting her
To see the tears in my eyes.

Over a bottle of Jack,
I mourned the loss of
Ginny's innocence and
Her entrance to the world
Of heartbreak, and I prayed
That she would be stronger
Than I ever was.

I raised my glass,
"To Ginny."

Sacred Moon

Sacred moon
Sitting in the sky,
Tell me a story
And promise not to lie.

A story of real men
And real women
Who have faced beasts
And slayed them
With much speed.

Sacred moon
Sitting in the sky,
Tell me a story
And promise not to lie.

Tell me a story of
Love lost and found,
Or perhaps one of
Love found and lost
That shows that the
Broken heart will
Eventually heal.

Sacred moon
Sitting in the sky,
Tell me a story
And promise not to lie.

Tell me of a girl
Or perhaps a boy who
Went on a journey,
Only to return broken
Having to be rebuilt by
Those who love them.

Sacred moon
Sitting in the sky,
Tell me a story
And promise not to lie.

Tell me a story that has
Played out before you
As you take your
Journey from east to west.

Tell me the story so
That with quill and parchment,
I might record it for
Prosperity, so that I may
Remember and others may learn.
Sacred moon
Sitting in the sky,
Tell me a story
And promise not to lie.

My Hero

 

source

Mary Beth was my hero,
Not more than a few
Years older than me
But she knew things,
I had yet to learn,
Yet to understand.

Yes, there were times when
Her harsh words assaulted me,
Lashing into the soft skin
Of my child size ego, but
She was there to protect me
From those who tried to
Belittle or hurt me with
Unkind words or actions.

I used to work so hard
To be like her, I would
Dress like her,
Comb my hair like her,
Try my very best to
Stand like her.

She would say
I was mocking her,
But in reality,
I wanted to be like her.

Years passed and
As sisters we experienced
Joys and pains, times
When not a word was
Spoken to the other and
Times when we only
Spoke to each other.

We did not grow to
Be perfect people,
My sister and I.
We grew to understand
And respect each other.
Most importantly we learned
To rely on each other.

We were there for each other
Through our parents' divorce,
Through unplanned pregnancies
And graduation celebrations,
Through abusive boyfriends
And finding the loves
Of our lives.

Mary Beth was my hero
And now she is
My best friend.

I Was Okay

source

The hour was 10,
That hour when workers
Were assimilating to
The work environment,
Looking up for a brief
Moment to acknowledge
The hour and return to
Whatever paid their bills.

Instead I sat in an empty
Cafe, lights twinkling above
Despite the sunlight flowing
In through three great windows,
A brick wall to my back.

I should feel like that, though,
My back to a brick wall,
I was down to my last dollar,
My rent was due in two days
And my boss, my ex-boss,
Informed me that my services
Were no longer needed.

Instead I sat in an empty
Cafe, enjoying the solitude
And the quiet, observing
The people passing by,
Sipping on a cup of coffee.

For the first time in my life,
I didn't care. I didn't care
That I didn't know what
The next step would be,
The next move on the
Chess board that is my life.

All I knew and cared
To know was this moment
That will flow effortlessly
Into the next with no
Interference from me and
I was okay with that.

I was okay.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Willard

Willard.
Willard was his name.
Not William.
Not Willy,
Nor Will or Bill,
But Willard.

Willard stood 6ft tall,
Maybe more but
I never had a
Measuring tape around
When he came by
The farmhouse that
Pa built.

In those times,
They called it courting,
I called it sniffing around,
But Ma and Pa liked it
As every time Willard came by
He would bring news
For Ma's ear or
An extra hand for Pa.

As for me, he would
Bring wild flowers.
A whole mess of them,
Ma would have me smile
And put them in a pretty
Vase bought specially for them.

I didn't like Willard,
But I didn't hate him
Either. He was like
A stranger you saw
Often enough that
You end up liking them.

First, I like the way
He laughed nervously when
I told a blue joke.
Then the way his sandy hair
Would catch the last rays
Of summer sun.

I liked the freckles
That came out in May
And said goodbye
When the harvest moon
Said hello.

I liked his smile,
Not the nervous one,
Or the polite one,
I liked the one that
Was full of mischievous
That mirrored mine at times.

Or the one that
Could only be described
As proud when I told
Mary Sue, that little know it all,
Where to put her
Pretty, little nose.

When a summer turned
Into a year and
A year into two,
When puberty brought
New surprises and emotions,
Willard was there.

When Pa got sick
And Ma became Ma,
Pa and Pa's nurse,
Leaving me to fend for myself,
Willard was there.

Then Willard was gone
For a spell or two
And I felt a sadness
I never knew could exist
Leaving me listless and cagey.

Then he came back and
I swear, though Ma said
Not to, it was like
The sun came out from
Behind the clouds.

When he came back,
He took me down by
The river where the big
Oak tree stands
And out of his pocket
Came a ring.

I said yes before
He could ask the question.
Yes, I love him,
Yes, I will marry him,
Yes, I will live with him
In sunshine and rain.

Willard is his name.
Not William,
Not Willy,
Not Will or Bill
But Willard,
The man I love.


Submitted to Poets United's Poetry Pantry