Something to Tell

"Do you love him?"

I looked back to see her standing in the doorway. Rays of light streaming pass her, bouncing off the dust floating aimlessly in the room I used as my studio. Her heavy loc's, laced with threads of silver, hung around sturdy shoulders and the dress she wore reminded me that her heritage was never far from her heart. Mama Elliot had come a-visiting.

I turned my attention to the mound of clay, spinning before me on the potters wheel. It was not out of disrespect that I turned my back to the old woman, I just did not want my face to betray me. I wanted to find the right words to answer what appeared to be a simple question.

As I held the clay in both hands, I heard her enter the room and take a seat in the corner of the room. As I dipped my thumbs into the top of the clay, creating a dip that would grow into a bowl, I heard her strike a match. Soon, the scent of Mama Elliot's brand of ganja coiled around me, tickling my sensitive nose.

She did not repeat her question, she did not have to. Plus, it was not the old woman's style to repeat herself unnecessarily.

At last I said, "I don't know if I love him." I knew she would wait until the sun melted into the Caribbean Sea and be born again in the Atlantic Ocean. "I've grown accustom to his face," I said, honestly, to the vase forming beneath my hands.

Her laughter rumbled out of the depths of her like thunder erupting from a stormy sky. "You've been listening to Papa Elliot's music, eh? For a Rasta, he sure love the white man music."

As her laughter subsided, I felt the intensity of her gaze forcing me to look across at her.

"Be truthful, Child," she took a draw on her spliff, half way spent by now. "What you mean you don't know if you love the man?" With each word, a puff of smoke escaped Mama Elliot's lips.

I turned back to the vase, now six inches tall, spinning before me. I took a scrap of paper and made an indentation in the base. All the while contemplating the truth and if I should speak it.

"I care for him a lot but I'm not passionately in love with him." The words of my mind were spoken by my lips.

She snorted in an unbecoming manner.

"Who said anything about being passionately in love with him? What gave you the notion that love had to be passionate?" She exclaimed.

I looked at her and said nothing. Then returned my attention to the vase. This time, making an impression on its bulbous center.

"You think Papa Elliot and I have this passionate love, don't you?" She asked.

"Don't you?" I asked.

It seemed to be that we were speaking only in questions.

"Child, let me set the record straight. Papa Elliot and I love each other. There are times I hate the man, thinking that I should pack up my barley bundle and leave his sorry backside. Then there are times when I love him something fierce, I would drink his bath water if he asked me to, and you know how dutty the man can get."

A snicker escaped my lips before I could suppress it.

"I'm sure he feels the same way 'bout me," the old woman continued. "You see, Child, love is not this blazing inferno meant to devour your heart. Love.. love is the slow burn, the kind that forges steel. You have to keep stoking the fire, baby, to keep it going, to make it worth it."

She took another draw on her spliff, savouring the high. "An inferno dies out as quickly as it is erupts, but the slow burn, that  can last forever."

Mama Elliot got to her feet and walked over to me. She stood over me and I looked up to meet her gaze. Our eyes locked, she searched mine, she searched my soul.

"Do you love him?" I knew this was the last time she would ask.

"I... I love him." The words of my heart, spoken by my lips.

Mama Elliot smiled, a knowing smile I knew so well. "I know."

"If you knew, why did you ask?" It was I who was searching her eyes, her soul.

"Because you needed to know, you needed to say it , to hear yourself say it. Now you have to say it to him." She leaned in, pressing her cheek to mine and whispered in my ear. "Nuh worry, he love you, too."

I closed my eyes, tears welling up behind my eyelids, strong emotions bubbling up from within, tugging and pulling at my defenses. The fortified walls crumbling under the weight of my mother's words.

I opened my eyes and she was gone. I looked down at the vase and the wheel slowing down. I had now lost interest in it, deeming it complete as it was. I looked up at the old picture of Mama Elliot hanging on the wall in front of me.

She died ten years ago, diabetes got the best of her. Yet, my mother always came to me when I most needed her, when I needed her guidance.

I got up from my stool and walked over to her picture, reaching out to touch her likeness. "Thank you, Mama."

I heard a noise at the doorway to my little studio. I turned to see him standing there.

"Are you okay, baby? Something told me to check on you," his voice, thick with concern. I knew he saw the tears on my face, glittering in the half light.

I closed the distance between us, I took his hand as I stood before the man I loved. I looked into his eyes, searching them, searching his soul, discovering that Mama Elliot had told the truth.

With a smile, I said, "There is something I have to tell you."

Untitled

Among the rocks,
I found a diamond,
Its many facets
Reflecting my torch
Light in every direction,
Dazzling my eyes.

In my hands,
It was hard
And unyielding
And all I had
to do was slip
It into my pocket

No one would know,
No one would believe.
Instantly, i would
Become rich, but
What is rich?

What is rich,
If I deceive
The ones I love?

What is rich
when there is
No one to share
The trappings
Of my prosperity?

What is rich
If I was alone
In a world
That is foreign
And nothing but
Illusions and deceptions?

Digging a hole,
I made my decision,
I placed the diamond
In the hole
And buried it.

A fool am I?
Perhaps, but a
Happy fool with
No money to his name
Is better than an
Unhappy one with
Money to burn.

A fool I am.

His Words

He would whisper
In my ear in
The most unexpected
Places, the most
Unexpected times.

His words would
Beat against my ear drums
As crowds pressed us
Together as we waited
For a concert to begin.

His words would
Break my concentration
As I sat at my desk
Working on a budger
Or something work related.

His words would
Wrap theselves around
My attention and
Pull it violently away
From what triviality
I was lot in.

His words never
Changed, never morphed
Into anything else
And still when I heard
Them a smile wormed
My face.

Then his words
Would become my words
As I whispered
Them back with
Equal sincerity
That was never
Lost on him.

His words.
My words.
Our words.
I love you.

Held On

He held on to me
As the golden raays
Of the morning sun
Turned Sharp and white
Then dull and golden
Again.

I should be dead,
Instead, she lay
Motionless, somewhere
In this building of
Life and death.

He held onto me
As though I was
A life preserver
But he was mine.

I held onto him
When the hearaging
Didn't stop. When
the doctors and nurses
Buzzed around like
Inhabitants of a disturbed
Hive, he held onto me.

I survived but
She didn't, she
Slipped through my hands
And fell into death's
And before I could
Get to know her,
She was gone.

It was as the
Shadows stretched
Till they became one,
That the tears came.
One, then two, then
My ace, his face
Was awash
With tears.

And we held on,
Even as sobs
Caused tremors
In our bodies
We held on
To each other.

The tears would dry,
The sobs would be
Silenced. The pain
Would recede from
Sharp to dull
And we will try
Again, but for now
We held onto each
Other.

A Monster

I feel like
A monster.

The light streaming
Through the gap in
The window turned
Innocuous dust motes
Into stars. I wondered
If actual stars were
Really dust motes
Floating in someone
Else's space.

Are you
A monster?

I looked across at
Dr. ..., his head tilted
As though he was
Reading the pad
He always held,
But he was looking
Up at me over his
Glasses.

Do I look like
A monster?

We were prone to
Doing this, answering
Questions with questions,
I'm sure to normal people
This would be irritating
But to us, it was normal.

A minute passed.
What does it
Look like?
A monster?

I reached out and
Grabbed a handful of
Stars. The action would
Have looked peculiar.
Perhaps it was.

It has horns,
And red eyes,
Pointed teeth,
And terrible 
Skin.

I squeezed my hand,
Imagining stars, moons,
Planets and little itty
Bitty people being
Crushed in my little
Hand.

What if I said
It looks like a
Woman with
Grey eyes and
A disarming
Smile.

I smiled.
Are you calling
Me a monster?

He didn't answer,
He wrote on the
Notepad he always
Held during our
Sessions. The thick
Glass separating
Him from me.

Perhaps, I am
A monster.

Feels Heavy

My pen feels
Heavy today and
As I force it
Down upon the paper,
It sputters ink
Here and there,
Thoughts splutter
With no rhyme
Or reason, just
Thoughts.

My pen feels
Heavy today and
It feels as though
A wall was built
Between my muse
And me.
Free her,
Free me,
Free us!

Let our words flow
Like rivers older
Than time, older
Than the existence
of creatures that
Quench their thirsts
In the ever flowing
Waters.

Let my words be
Unshackled from
The heavy chains that
Hold them down in the
Muck of silence,
Let them be free.

Free them,
Let them not be
Held back by mine,
Own fears, mine own
Doubts fed by
The words of others.

These words are not
Mine, they never were,
They were stories
Of their own making
And I am but
A tool, nothing more
Than a pen, a type-
Writer.

My pen feels
Heavy today and
Still I put it
To paper, I let
Thoughts sputter
Across it until
They make sense,
Then again....

Then again,
Do they have
To make sense.

The Price

Open up your heart,
She banged on the door,
The pain of striking it
Shot up her arm and
Still she struck it
Again.

To her, the pain
Was nothing in comparison
To the pain she
Felt in her heart.

A pain that wormed
Its way into the
Tight spaces in her
Chest and squeezed
The one organ that
Made life possible.

I love you, you know.
Her striking the door
Ceased and in the
Silence, she spoke
Her truth.

It made her feel
Naked, her skin
Exposed to his
Possible rejection.

The door opened and
He stood in the doorway,
His eyes searching her face,
Her soul.

Do you really?
Say it again,
When she did,
He smiled.

Taking her hand, he
Pulled her into an
Embrace.

I don't love you,
His words were
Whispers in her ear.

He stepped back
And closed the door.
She stood, jaw slack,
Spirit crushed.

Was this the price
Of being vulnerable,
Of loving a man,
Of walking in her truth?
Was it worth the price.

Turning around and
Walking away from
His front door, she
Closed her heart,
And with it the
Pain. For her,
The price was too high.

His Smile

His smile never reached
His eyes, instead it
Was oily and as a
Result my smile was
Slow in coming.

His smile set off
A chain reaction of
Disgust in me as it
Made me feel as though
He was stripping me
Bare with his eyes.

A smile is supposed
To make people happy
But his, his was
The Rumpelstiltskin kind
Of smile and I
Was grateful I had
No hay to spin to gold.

His smile did him
No favours and I
Was grateful when
It faded away in
Disappointment when
For the tenth time
I said that I
Was not interested.

His smile was
The one smile
I never missed.

Of Time

With each passing day,
A jewel formed on
One of the many chains
That hung about her.

It was not long
Before they weighed
Her down, curling
And folding her body.

It was as though
Time was returning her
To the earth with
Each trinket
Representing a day.

It was not long
Before her existence
Was reduced to
Her bearing the pain.

But one day it
Was too much
And she fell under
The weight, crashing
Down to the earth.

Time paid no heed
And more jewels appeared
'til she disappeared
Under the trinkets
Of time.

The Arena

In the center
Of the arena
They stood, a
Mindless throng
Yelling at them
To do the
Unspeakable.

They looked one
Another over,
Trying to determine
If one or the
Other will leave
The arena alive.

One uttered words
That were a mess
Of sounds to the
Other. They did
Not even speak
The same language.

Strangers being
Forced to kill
Strangers.

With the energy
Of the mad crowd
About them,
They attached,
Not out of anger,
Not out of malice,
But out of the need
To survive.

Before long, one
Was struck down,
And with the crowds
insistence the other
Rendered his opponent
Lifeless.

As the arena
Grew quiet,
A sense of clarity
Descended upon
The survivor.
Small hands released
The bloodied axe.
The child fell
To its knees.

They were but
Children, not quite
Men and women,
And yet they were
Forced to do
What we are
Reluctant to do.

As he wept
Over the slain
Child, a girl
Who would never
Become a woman,
A guard scooped
Him up.

The guard would not
Return him to the
Cage that had been
His home. He
Would be taken
To the barracks,
He would become
A soldier, serving
The empire.

But before he
Ever serves his
Country, the empire,
The child had to
Lose his soul.


Image Credit: galleryhip

Untitled

His body was
Nothing but a silhouette
Among the shadows.

If I knew not
That he was there,
I would think him
An illusion formed
By an over-active mind.

He sat beside me
And the heat
Emanated from his body
Made me wonder if
He had absorbed the heat
Of the sun and now
It was seeping
Away into the cool
Night.

Yet when I touched him,
When our bodies
Became one, he was
Cool to the touch.
It was my body,
He said, that was
Heated.

It was not long
Before both bodies
Became heated, minds
Lost in a pre-climatic
Trance. The mind,
Body, soul enveloped
In a singular gasp.

Falling apart,
Bodies spent,
Minds drifting to
Parts unknown,
We reached for each
Other. An intimacy
Followed by an intimacy.

One kinetic.
One latent.
Both connecting us
To each other,
To this moment,
Which quickly slipped
Away to slumber.

From the shadows
He came,
In my arms,
He remained.

When I Grow Up

When I grow up
I want to be different.
I want to be the
Person people point at
And say, “Wow.”

When I grow up
I want to hold life
By the hair and swing
It around and around
'Til it got dizzy
And puked all my desires.

When I grow up
I want it all to be
Sweetness and light
Edged with a darkness,
So dark it rivaled
Black holes.

When I grow up
I want the sun
To shine unto my face
And the breeze to
Lick the sweat from
My brow.

When I grow up
I want it all
To make sense,
That I would understand
Why people claimed
Their sadness.

From the outside,
I appear to have
Grown up, but
It isn't what
I thought it
Would be.

Somehow, I get
The feeling that
Someone is lying,
Is it me or
Is it society?

Somehow, in the depths
Of me, I believe
That the truth is
Buried under the many
Layers of crud placed
Lovingly around me
By those who
“Know better.”

So I believe
I am still growing,
A plant buried
In a seed
Buried in the earth.
And when I grow
Up, I will make
Life puke all
My desires.

Pay Day

This is my contribution to a challenge put on by two friends, Random Michelle and Charlie Roots, called Zombie Apocalypse 268. For more information on the challenge, visit Random Michelle.

“Eh, what's that Cheryl?” I make my last walk through of a warehouse on the outskirts of St. John's where I am stationed. My shift is coming to an end, and the last thing I want to hear is that I am not going to get my pay check this afternoon.

“Eh, the boss turn into a zombie and didn't sign the checks and dem?” I return to the guard booth and fill out the log.”You not serious,” I shift my cell phone to the other ear. “What kind of zombie 'e turn into?”

I sit down heavily on the piece a chair they say they giving us to sit on. “What you mean you don't know?” I sigh, “Is 'e walking about slow and clumsy or is 'e rushing about?”

Hearing a shrill scream in the distance, I get to my feet and slam shut the door, locking it. Then I crouch down behind the desk, pulling the chair close to it.

“Okay, 'e jumpin' out 'im skin?” I ask after Cheryl gives me a description of the zombie my cheapskate boss has became. “Alraight,” I ignore the scratching at the large plate glass window that looked into the warehouse. Most likely the guard stationed outside, but that's his problem, not mine. “Now get a bunch of de men to 'old 'im down' and make Mr. Browne sign de checks.... I very serious Cheryl.”

“Look Cheryl.” Now the fool guard banging on the door. “I don't care if dere is a zombie whatever, I got to get paid. My rent due next week, I have to send money back 'ome and de Migo man sure to come 'round on Sunday. I can set my clock on dat one.”

The banging stops and it gets real quiet. Too quiet. I'm tempted to take a peek but I know better than to let the guard outside know I'm in here. A loud explosion of something going through the window destroys the silence, glass skitters under the desk. Shit, when did zombies get so resourceful?

With a chupse, I tell Cheryl that I will call her later. Still, I don't come out, if Mr. Resourceful was going to get me, he was going to have to come for me.

I listen as he lands on broken glass. He slowly walks around the office, glass crunching under spit shone shoes. But something is wrong. His stride is too purposeful, not hurried or wild. He comes around the desk and stands but inches away from me. It is now or never.

Pulling out a metal nail file from my shirt pocket, I raise my hand as high as the desk would allow. It is now or nev-

“Peaches?” it is just above a whisper. “Where you, Peaches?”

“Donovan?” I push the chair out, forcing my co-worker to step back. “Donovan, you not a zombie?”

“Do I look like a zombie?” he replies, watching me get out of my hiding place.

Looking him up and down, I say, “Is questionable.” Turning around, I take in the smashed window. “Now why you go and do dat for? Now anything can get in.”

“You not glad I come look for you?” Donovan has the heart to say. “I coulda left you 'lone to face dem.”

“I woulda managed,” I turn back to face him. “Plus, I t'ink you de one 'fraid being alone.” Not even waiting for a response, I pull out my phone and call back Cheryl.

“So you get him to sign the checks, Cheryl?” I ask when the phone is answered. “What?!? Mr. Browne get she? He's gnawing pon she right now? Jesus.... but, hear nah, did y'all get Mr. Browne to sign de checks and dem? Okay, good good, I coming just now.”

Seeing the shocked expression on Donovan's face, I ask, “What?” as I disconnect the call.
“You nuh 'ear?” He responds. “Cheryl pregnant.”

At first, I was speechless. That little mite of a woman get herself with child for that cheating boy she call a man. I wanted the best for she but maybe it's for the best she died early. She would not have survived anyway and then for her to be pregnant, too. She would have gotten in the way, but I don't utter a word of this to Donovan as I heard he had feelings for Cheryl.

“Lets go,” I say at last. “We'll give her a decent burial when we get a chance,” I lie.

“Where we going?” Donovan asks, not making a move to go. He isn't the smartest man to put on a security uniform.

“Where else?” I say, walking over and removing the gun from the holster that hung at his side. I check the clip and remove the safety. “We're going to the office to get our pay,” I look up at him.

A scream broke the silence that hung over us like a heavy blanket. It is closer, they are closer. There are miles between us and the office filled with unspeakable horrors and I am asking him to travel through them to get a piece of paper. But it is more than a piece of paper. We worked the week and we have to be paid. We have responsibilities to meet and it doesn't matter that the world has gone to hell. I want my money.

“E safe,” Donovan says, his eyes veering to the gaping hole he made in the plate glass window that would have separated us from whatever gets into the warehouse.

Following his line of vision, I see a woman staring at my co-worker. She would have been beautiful if it wasn't for the sunken eyes that seem see nothing, the slacken jaw from which dark blood leaks from the corners. A gaping wound on her arm has little maggots squirming as they consume her at their leisure. She doesn't care, her attention solely on the man in the room.

I put a bullet in her head. The kick of the gun new to my small hands but I could get used to it.
Looking back at Donovan, I hear her drop to the floor like a sack of garbage. “You sure?”

He pulls his gaze away from the window and blinks at me. The gears in his mind moving ever so slowly as he tries to decide on what he should do. Should he come with me where he is sure to encounter more like the corpse on the floor beyond the window? Should he stay and deal with whatever gets into the warehouse?

With a chupse, I put a bullet in his head. He took too long to answer and a second's hesitation means life or death in this new world. As I search his body for extra rounds for his gun, I rationalize my actions as a mercy kill. It is either I kill him now or later and I might be busy later.

Pocketing the extra rounds, my phone and a few odds and ends, I sneak out of the guard room. As I creep through the warehouse, I hear them, but I was prepared for when I see them.

Standing in the doorway of one of the exits, I can smell death in the faint breeze as it blows through the open door. In the distance a small group of undead walk slowly towards the warehouse.

If it was Monday, I would rethink what I am about to do. I would have hid out in the warehouse, surviving on dried goods and bottled water. But it's Friday, pay day and I'm going for what is owed to me. I'm going to get paid and it's going to take a whole lot more than a zombie outbreak to keep me from that pay check.


Image Credit: Bilder

Strands of Hair

The strands of hair
Curl and coil
This way and that,
Refusing to stay
Straight, to fall
Luxuriously down
One's back.

The strands of hair
Stand out in a
Tangled mess as
Fairies go about
The business of knotting
A few out of idleness
Or vindictiveness.
Either case, thy leave
Behind knots.

The strands of hair
Never heard of gravity
But soon discover
Whey they are braided
Together and soon
They are aware of
The Law.

The strands of hair
Are rebels and misfits,
Hated and loved,
They are my own
And are me, the hair,
They come together
To make my crown.






Image Credit: Dope Black Art

Imperfect

I'm not perfect.
I'm not beautifully
Constructed with
Bone, Muscles,
Blood, Organs
And sinews.
My imperfection
Is so evident,
Can you not see it?

I'm not perfect.
I don't continually
Walk in the light
Of self confidence,
Half the time,
I shiver with
Insecurities as I
Walk blindly into
The unknown.
Can you not feel
My fears.

I'm not perfect.
I can never be
Perfect for the
Word itself is
Conceptual with
No true example
Existing in
The world.

Each flower has
Its blemish.
Each man,
His flaws
And yet everything,
Everyone is
Perfect in their
Imperfection.

In my imperfection,
I have room to
Grow, to reach
Beyond the limitations
I place on myself,
Placed on me by others.

I am no perfect.
I am gloriously
Imperfect.


Image Credit: Jacqueline Harriet

Samuel and Jessie

Samuel and Jessie
Lived at the end
Of the block.

He had a shock
Of black hair
That seemed to rule
Him more than he
Ruled it.

He would walk
The dog, always
Waving at a neighbour
Or speaking at length
With one or another.

He would be seen
Every morning navigating
His beat up Toyota
On the way to work.

We never say her,
He physical description
Fading like an old
Photograph, making
Her features soft and
Blurry to our mind's eye.

I think she used
To garden, her small
Figure kneeling down
As she planted, pruned
And tended flowers
That were now neglected.

One day,
A woman came to the
Door, asking if
We had seen
Her sister, Jessie.

Then a police officer
Holding up a picture
Of a woman who
Looked like the
Jessie who lived
At the end of the block.

They eventually found her,
Jessie's remains were
Found buried in the
Basement. Samuel
Was carted away in
A squad car, wrist
Bound, eyes haunting.

Samuel and Jessie
Lived at the end
Of the block.


Image Credit: ImageBack

Let Me In

Let me be lost
In the forest
Of your thoughts.

Hopefully, I will
Find some sense
Of understanding
That will make
What we are doing
Make some kind
Of sense.

Yet you keep
Me locked out,
Never to see
You in your
Entirety, to see
Your complexities.

And somehow,
I was still able
To find something
To love, as well
As something to hate.

Perhaps that is
What makes what
We share so
Special.

I love to hate you
And I hate to love you.

Let me in
Or let me out,
Let me in
Or let me be.
Let me in.


Image Credit: Imageback

Who Am I?

Where am I?

I woke up in
A gray world,
Devoid of colour,
Devoid of life and
I, I was devoid
Of identity.

At first,
I searched the space
In which I inhabited,
Four walls spoke
Nothing of the time
Or place, date or land.
But a door led to
Somewhere.

Somewhere was
An old house
Where people once
Lived. He was
A scientist and
She was a writer,
And they had
No children,
Just dreams.

Dreams of changing
The world,
Dreams of keeping
A record of
The world but these
Dreams remained
Dreams locked in
An old house.

On surfaces,
I found words
And formulae,
And thoughts and
Concepts unfinished.

In the air,
I found harsh words,
Angry words and
Hints of regret.
And these regrets fed
The words that were
Spat into the air.

Looking out a window,
I could see that
What lay beyond
This room, this house
Was no different from
What lay within.

I sat at a table,
Now not caring to
Know where I was.
In a way,
It didn't matter.

In a world so dismal
It didn't matter
Where I was,
It only mattered
Who I was an
What I was going
To do with my reality.

Sitting in an old
House filled with
Unfulfilled dreams,
Incomplete thoughts,
Angry, regret fueled words,
I decided on
Who I was going to be.

One thing I knew
For sure, I was
Going to be the colour
In a world satisfied
With being devoid of it.
I was going to be
The life.



Better late than never. This poem was inspired by a photo prompt from my friend Michelle Toussaint's blog, Random Michelle. Click here to check out her blog and be sure to check out her book, Now Taking A Lover, which is available as an ebook and a print book.

Such A Pretty Little Thing

She now lies
Where the honeysuckle
Grow and where
No man threads
As he has no
Reason to.

Such a pretty,
Little thing she was,
With skin the colour
Of copper newly minted
And features that
Were no different
From her ancestors
Who lived on the
Land way before the
White man brought
Misery.

Such a pretty,
Little thing.
He would watch her,
He would lust for her,
And even though
He tried to crush
The desire to claim her
To use her, the desire
Crushed him.

He took her.
He claimed her.
He used her
'til all that was left
Was a ragdoll
Bruised
And used.
And like an old
Play thing he disposed
Of her.

He buried her
Among the honeysuckle
So that always
Flowers would be
At her grave,
That was the only
Pleasant thing he
Ever did for her.

Such a pretty,
Little thing that
Will never come home.

Tell Me A Lie [VIDEO]

Tell Me A Lie is from the section Love Hurts in the book, She Wanted A Love Poem, which is available as an ebook and a print book. Click one of the following links to get your copy.

Amazon.com  iTunes  Smashwords  Kobo  Barnes & Nobles

The Words

When the words
Won't come,
When a dam has
Formed with the
Debris of everyday life,
Stopping the flow
Of words from
Mind to hand
To pen to paper.

When the words
Won't come,
When my mind
Is full and
My tongue is empty,
And a pressure
To express builds
Up to volcanic
Proportions, alas,
With no relief.

When the words
Won't come,
When the muse
Has gone on
Vacation without
Giving notice and
I am left with
A blank page
And a ready pen.

Then they come,
These words.
In rapid succession,
Tumbling one over
The other and still
They make sense
On the canvas
That is lined for
Them.

They come,
These words.
Good, bad,
Indifferent.
Colourful, Drab,
Descriptive.
They are all here,
All present and
All mine.



The words
Have come,
Would you care
To read them?

Never

The dogs barked
In the distance,
And one by one
Their yips and yaps
Were decreasing
'Til there was none
And the deafening
Silence.

A coldness wrapped
Itself about me
And I knew
He was here.

Let me in,
Little one.

His voice rumbled
Setting little knick
Knacks to scatter about
The small cottage
I called home.

Let me in,
So that we may talk.

He lies so easily.
As easily as taking
A sip of water
From the well that never
Emptied.

I held my tongue
And hid in the
Secret compartment
Built for this exact
Occasion.

An occasion
They said would
Never come, but
I knew better.
I knew the time
Would come when
He would return
To these parts.

Let me in,
Little one.
It makes no sense
To delay the inevitable.

I braced myself
For what was to come,
I braced myself
For the madness
He was about to unfurl
About me.

It started with
Winds that howled
Like Banshees,
Then the earth shook
As though the giants
Had returned to the land.

From the cracks
In my compartment
Hidden in the floor,
I saw the blue
Sky claw through
The thatched roof
'Til nothing remained
But the never ending
Blue.

Then I saw him,
He had not changed
From the bearded man
With pitch black eyes
Who killed my father
And my father's father.

Kneeling down,
He peered at me
As I peered back
At him.

Little one,
Come out,
Come,
We have so much
Matters to speak on.

He smiled,
His teeth bloodied
From the carnage
That he had inflicted.

Come closer.

It was but a whisper,
Words so easily
Stolen by a passing
Breeze.

Come closer,
I said much louder.

Leaning forward,
He was now on
All fours, his face
But inches away
From mine.

What is it,
Little one?
What is it
You want to say
Before you die?

And like that,
He disposed of
His mild deception.

Through a crack,
A dart flew, finding
It's mark in an eye
Of midnight.

A growl of disgust
Escaped snarled lips
As his head pitched
Back.

What childish game
You play, little one?
He snarled as he
Pulled the needle-
Thin wood from his eye.

If torture and death
Be childish game,
Then they are the games
I play.

I peered at him,
Watching as his eye
Discoloured, then liquified,
Dripping out of its
Socket.

Do you feel pain?
I asked with somber
Tones.

Never, he growled.

Do you accept
Mortality?

Never.

Are you afraid
Of dying?

Never.

The toxin spread
Quickly 'til the one
Word he spoke
Was uttered by a
Skull with one eye.

Do you accept
That you are now
Dead?

Not one answer
Did I receive from
The skeleton above me,
Stripped of flesh,
Muscle, cartilage,
Organs, etc.

I killed him
As he had killed
My father and
My father's father.
And still, I prayed
His journey to the
Unknown was a safe one.

One from which
He would never
Return.

If only
He were
The last
Of them.

Do You Believe

Do you believe
In dreams?

Those pretty little things
That flutter in and out
Of your existence.

The sweet, delightful
Things that melt away
Under the unyielding
Sun of reality.

Those things you put
Aside for those things
That are related to
Everyday life, the
So-called responsibilities.

Those things that
Seem impossible,
Improbable, irrational
And yet they pick at
You like a guitar player
Picking at strings.

Do you?
Do you believe
The impossible is possible?

Do you believe
That you deserve those
Pretty, sweet, irrational
Things called dreams?

Do you believe
That your dreams are
Possible?

Do you believe
In your dreams?

Untitled

Head thrown back,
Arms extended,
She spun around,
Faster and faster
Until she fell down
In a fit of giggles.

In the past,
I would have rushed
To get her, to dust
The dirt off of
Bruised knees,
Hips, whatever.

I didn't,
In fact,
I sat back
And chuckled
Before taking a sip
Of lemonade,
The ice shifting
In the sunlight.

With the ticking
Of time, seconds,
Minutes, hours,
I grew to understand
That this was her
Adventure. In
The days, weeks,
Years, I accepted
That it was not
In my place to
Interpret the world
For her, but to
Allow her to discover
It and all its
Glory and madness.

With cupped hands,
She rushed towards me,
Soon to reveal
A creature yet to
Be identified, its
Diminutive body squirming
In her soft hands.

She would ask me
What it was and
I would answer, truthfully,
Knowing there will be a time
When she will be asking
Not about a thing that
Could fit in her hand,
But things that unfurled
In her mind, body and
Soul and once more
I would answer truthfully.

After the creature
Had been returned
To its life,
After the lemonade
Had been consumed.
After the sun
Had set,
This little girl with
My nose and his eyes
Would tuck herself
Into my arms and
I would savour
The moment because
It, they never last.

Morning

A rooster's call
Broke through my dreams
At the wee hours of
The morning and ripped
Me out.

It left me blinking
To see the LED
Numbers of my alarm
Clock that was
Deprived of the
Duty of ending my
Slumber.

Three minutes to
Spare. Three minutes
Shy of the blaring
Beep, beep, beep,
Or was it
Beep, bip, beeeep?

Whatever it was,
I waited patiently
For it to deliver
A death blow
To my nocturnal
Mega nap.

And just as I grew
Tired of a minute
Turning into another,
My eyes were shut
And dreams creeped
Into the empty spaces
Of my mind.

Only to be rudely
Shown the door by
The insistent
Beep, beep, beep,
(Or was it
Beep, bip, Beeeep?)
Of my alarm clock.

With a groan,
I join the masses
To another day
On the hamster wheel
Of life.

We Shared.

She dreams in
Shades of sepia
And I dream in
Technicolour madness.

Yet somewhere
In the differences
Heaped between us
Wh found something
To share.

In sharing we
Found love.
Not a light,
Flighty love but
The kind of love
That was heavy
And meaningful.

A love that had
Many layers of
Conditions but at
Its core it was
Unconditional.

A love that
Fought,
Hurt,
Failed and
Triumphed
Then failed again,
But somehow
It was still
Winning.

And as her
Shades of sepia
Began to be invaded
By rude colours of
Red and neon green,
And mine grew softer
In this part and that,
The differences became less
And the similarities became more.

There was always
One thing we shared,
Love.

Bad Writer 5

"This is Leslie, what can I do for you?" I pop my gum in the ear of the unfortunate American who got me as their customer service representative. "Eh, speak up, I can't hear you," I do my best interpretation of their accent. "Looking at your account, you've met your call threshold.... Did I stutter? ....... Oh, you want to speak to my boss, please hold."

Oops, I disconnect the call. Oh well, the caller probably ran out of credit on that number.

"Leslie." I turn around to see the shift manager standing over me.

"Yeah," I take extra effort to mimic the cows that graze on the side of the road. I don't believe chewing gum on the job is a good idea in the eyes of the higher ups.

"I want to see you at the end of the shift," his eyes watching the gum being chomped on just beyond my blue lipstick. It must be catching because in his eyes I see disappointment. It is as clear as the water down at Ffryes Bay on a hot summer day. God, people are so transparent.

"Aight, boss man," I say, turning back to my console, effectively dismissing my superior.

He doesn't move for a while. Probably trying to think up some soul-jerking barb to show his power. When I hear him walk away I know he lost this little battle but I know he will be waiting for me at the end of the shift. He still has three hours to think up something.

"You alright?" Annette all but whispers at me.

"I'm good," I say before accepting another call. "In fact, I'm only getting better." Or should I say worst.

'til next Sunday. 
Click here to read the first installment.

Bad Writer 4

"Leslie, Leslie," my mother walks in between the television and me as I lie on the couch. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

Looking up at her, I can lie. I can say I wasn't scheduled for work, that I wasn't feeling well, but why lie. "Yes, but I didn't want to go in."

"Why not?" she hitches up the strap of her hand bag on her shoulder then places her hands on her generous hips. "I know I didn't raise you to not live up to your responsibilities."

"Hmm, well there is a list, but it all boils down to one thing," I smile up at my mother. "I hate the place."

With a snort, she counters, "You think people don't hate their jobs? You think people like waking up every morning to ride in a bus under people's armpits, to be ordered around by stupid bosses and having to smile up in people face. No, little girl. Nobody like dem job, but they up and go because it put a roof over dem head and food in dem 'tomach."

I always knew when my mother was upset when she referred to me as "little girl" and her tongue would be peppered with dialect. This was not a common thing, she is one of those laid back mothers, she never yells and carries on, but that is what makes her worst than the mothers who did. My mother's ammunition is constant nagging and/or being disappointed. The last thing I ever wanted to do was disappoint my mother.

Still it was interesting that this one act of defiance towards the norms would upset my mother. Did it really matter that much that I didn't walk the straight and narrow?

Poor mommy, if only she knew that there was more disappointment to come.

'til next Sunday. 
Click here to read the first installment.

Bad Writer 3

"Leslie? That you?" Even at two in the morning, my mother wound be up, asking the same thing she always asks when I come home. Who else would it be? It's not as though a robber, a rapist or the neighbourhood criminal has a key to the little wooden house we rented in the heart of All Saints. I like to say we, even though most of my money went to my student loan, but whenever I can, I try to pitch in. Truth be told, I'm working for the education I didn't need to get the job.

"Yes, mommy, it's me," I close the door behind me, locking it before going to my room.

Stripping off my clothes, I throw on my favourite night shirt, shove the stuff off my bed and crawl in. I want to reach for my phone and try to crack the neighbour's wifi code and surf the net until sleep knocks me over the head and drags me into the darkness. Instead I stare at the ceiling, letting my mind race in all directions.

If someone was to ask where it all began, I would say it was this night. It's not that something momentous  happened that was the catalyst for a breakdown or unexpected change in character. It just dawns on me that my life, my entire existence, was not special.

Oh sure, I could say that every life is important, and all I had to do was think positive. I could look deep within and find my true purpose, and develop my life in that direction. The only problem with that is I think it's all bullshit.

Right now, right here, I am a non-person and next year, I'll be the same non-person just a year older. Outside of work, I belong to someone, I'm Ava's daughter, Mrs. Baker's granddaughter, Tiffany's cousin. All of this, my reward for being the good girl.

The girl who passed her test, never back chat, went to college and became an empty shell of a woman and I am tired of being this woman. What if the good girl became the bad woman? Would anyone notive? Would anyone care? And how far can I go before I'm stopped?


'Til next Sunday.
Click here to read the first installment.

Thoughts

We are all dying.
The thought lit up
Different parts of
My brain.

From the reptile
To the intellect,
All on fire to
React and analyze
The notion,
The inevitable,
The reality?

The reptile, in its
Primal thinking,
Focused on survival
Even if it meant
My creating another
Being to move forward
My genetic code
To a future time frame.

The intellect, in its
Analytical thinking,
Questioned if we
Truly died but,
In fact, converted
To another state of
Being, cutting away
The superficial ties
Of our current being.

As my reptile
And intellectual minds
Whirred on like
Vintage computers
But with a 22nd
Century processing speed,
A new thought arose.

We are all living.

And as quickly as
My mind latched onto
The prior concept,
It disposed of it and
Began the whole process
Again on the new thought.

And yet that is all
They were, thoughts.

The Blind Man

The rains are coming,
The blind man kneeling
On the edge of the
Cliff looking over the
Arid, almost desert-like,
Land spoke.

His lips parched,
As he had not allowed
A drop of life giving
Liquid to pass said lips,
Nor did food pass
His lips as he meditated
For two days.

I knelt down beside him,
Feeling a cool breeze
Blow through my hair.
I smelled it, the distant
Precipitation was approaching.

Bring them to the high land,
He said into the wind.

What if they refuse?
I asked, looking down
At our home, a village,
An encampment, our home
At the base of the cliff.

He turned his unseeing eyes
Towards me, and sadly said,
Then they will die.

It was reason enough
For me and it was
Reason enough for
Our people.

With little time to spare
Our home was packed up
And we had made it
To higher ground as
The first rain drop
Hit the arid earth.

Before long we understood
The significance of moving
To higher ground for
Where we were based
Was a dry river bed
Which now became a
Raging river.

As our people sheltered
In hastily erected tents,
I returned to the
Cliff's edge but
The blind man was gone.

I knelt down where
He once knelt and
Closed my eyes.
It would rain four days
And on the final day
The sun would shine
So brightly that it
Would summon the
Kids to come out to
Play.

I smiled and got
To my feet, wondering
When exactly would I
Lose my vision, when
I would not see the
Physical world and
Only see the spiritual one
And what lay beyond both.

'Til that time when
I become that old man,
I will enjoy what
I can see. The smiling
Faces of my people
And a world that
was beyond beautiful.

Jaded.

Jaded,
Hair falling over
Watchful eyes,
Waiting patiently
For a deat dealer.

One never came,
Their cool shadow
Never entered the
Square and as he
Got to his feet
He wondered
If that was for
The best.

He was not one
To confront one
But his future
Depended on him
Doing so.

As he entered
A side street,
He saw one, moving
Ever so slowly, as
Though he had
No where to be,
Nothing to do.

With much haste,
He ran up to it,
Extracting a hunting
Knife from its sheath.

Before the death dealer
Knew what happened,
He had buried
The knife in its back
Exactly where
They told him to.

Slowly, the deat dealer
Turned around,
Its eyes lacked
The norma emotions
Associated with being
Attacked, anger, fear.

Instead its eyes
Held pity, then
Relief. A smile
Crept across
Its face as
It became a
Corpse long dead.

It wasn't long
Before it became
Ashes at his feet.

In killing
The death dealer
He became one.

With it came
Immortality, that
Is until one day
When a jaded soul
Comes to take it
All away from him,
When he is more
Than jaded.

Bad Writer 2

"Hello, this is Ingrid, how can I help you?"

"Good morning, this is Karen, how can I help you?"

"This is Leslie, a wha you want?" This is how I wanted to answer the phone as one more American calls about their faulty cell phone or some error on their bill. Instead of saying that, I say, "Hello, this is Leslie, how can I help you?" making sure to put a little pep in my voice to make the pissed off customer think I really care.

Care my ass. Just two more hours, then I'm out of here, but out of here to what? That's the funny thing about my life, I'm so busy waiting to get out of one place or another. When I'm home, I want to be here and when I'm here, I want to be at home. My life has been reduced to my wanting to be somewhere else.

"Hello, hello?" a southern drawl crawls through my headset and yanks my attention back to the job. "Are you still there?"

"Yes," I say, my voice like the sugar that was my island's main industry. "My apologies, according to your account, you are in three months arrears and you have been disconnected. Would you like to make a payment to have your account reinstated?"

The answer was the sound of a dial tone. You got to love the Americans.

"What you doing this weekend?" Annette, the 20 year old besides me asks. Since she started working at The Call Center, she's been trying to make a friend out of me. I still haven't decided if I'm interested.

"Working," I reply.

"Saturday and Sunday?"

I shrug, "You know how it is." Thankfully her phone rings, I didn't want to go into the nonsensical conversation about how much we hate the job. During my first year here, I would go on and on about how much I hated the place but after three years, I am so over the conversation.

Still, the only thing I like about the job is that it comes to an end.


'til next Sunday. 
Click here to read the first installment.

Image Credit: Call Center Company

Don't

Lend me your ears,
O' citizens of
Planet Earth.

Drink not the water
For it has been
Made foul with
Our actions, direct
And indirect.

Eat not the food
For it has been
Engineered to a fraction
That can still constitute
The final product as food.

Befriend not your fellow man
For his corrupt ways
Have left him scheming
And dishonest. His loyalty
Attached to parties, races,
Cultures to the point
That he can not see
Our common humanity.

O' citizens of Earth,
Sit back as our
Population swells and
Bloats, becoming a
Super nova, but will
It lead to our extinction?

O' how the Earth
Would heave a sigh
Of relief when
We are nothing
But fossils buried
Deep within her
Many layers.

Until that time,
As Earth waits
Patiently for our demise,
Don't drink the water,
Don't eat the food
And don't befriend
Your fellow man.

Mississippi

I wasn't supposed
To end up in Mississippi,
In fact, I should have
Been sailing through the sky
In a fancy jet to
A tropical island but....
Things had changed.

They had first changed
For the better and
Then they got worst,
So much worst.

As the clang of
The jail cell shattered
My reverie, I looked
Around the holding cell.

The women ranged
From hardened criminals
Who lounged around
The cell as though
It was a room in
Their home, to
Innocent women who
Sat in whatever corner
The could find, heads
Down, perhaps praying
To get out.

As for me, I was neither,
And some would say
I was both.

A seasoned criminal
Who had never been
Caught, that is until
Mississippi.

A good con
Turned bad and
Now I was facing
Prison. And for
Some eerie reason
I was not sad.

I had accepted
My fate, but
Something told me
That at a moment's
Notice, everything could
Change for the better.

Perhaps, I will see
That tropical island
Sooner than I think.

Sane

The four walls
Looked back at her.
The whiteness of them
Almost blinding
Even under the
Fluorescent light.

She wasn't mad,
She told herself
As she tested
The straitjacket
For the tenth,
More like the
Fifth, time.

She would have
Screamed, she
Would have wept,
But she had
Done both and
Was ignored.

Looking up at
The shadowy mirror,
She knew they were
Behind it, watching
Her, trying to justify
That she was mentally
Disabled.

She wasn't and
Behind the mirror
No one stood,
No one was
Alive.

The only door into
The room swung open,
She twisted around to
See who the visitor
Was and upon seeing
Who it was she
Smiled.

He knew she was
Not crazy. Stooping
Down, he undid the
Fastenings of the
Straitjacket, freeing her,
Embracing her.

Then with one deft move,
He broke her neck
And released her, letting
Her fall like an old
Rag doll.

She was sane,
But they locked
Her away, and
He was insane
And they refused
To see it. And
Now they were all
Dead.

Bad Writer 1

Back in July, I self published the first of a series and it got panned. The reviews were harsh and even though I tried to keep positive, it took a toll on my ability to write. Well, to be honest, I approached the project out of a business mind set instead of because I liked story or the characters. Perhaps that was reflected in the book and because of that the reviews were not too encouraging. The only thing is I had three more books in the series, I was also working on another series in that genre but after the reviews for the second book, I just hit a wall.

In hitting a wall, I felt out of it. Writing was a form of expression and yet I felt that I couldn't write, that I was a hack, but this is what I want to do for a living. Then I remembered what a friend had said about writing what she knew, so I decided to write what I knew and because I was in a dark place, the following story is, well, dark. But I must admit, it is better than the commercial novellas I've self published. 

I don't have to push and pull the characters around, this character kinda just flowed. She's not supposed to be likable, she's not even good but she is walking her path. She is leading me back to the characters I want to write, the women who buck against the norms and dares them to fight. They are twisted and different, and I like exploring them. No, I'm not entering the realm of Dean Koontz, but I am writing something worth reading.

Below is the beginning, it's raw, unedited but at least I'm getting it out there. Enjoy.


Walking along the side street, I stilled my mind, leaving my senses open to take in everything. Shoving my thoughts away like disobedient children who refuse to be silent. In this moment, I didn't want to interpret what I sensed, I just wanted to take it in.

As I walked, the sun's rays cast sharp shadows out of the buildings painted lively colours. In the distance, the ting, ting, ting of a steel pan could be heard. A stark contrast from a few blocks away where a street vendor blasted the latest tunes, be it soca, dance hall, pop or church music.

A breeze rushes by, licking the beads of sweat from my brow and sending my skirt to billow around me. I didn't hold it down because I knew no one would look, no one would see. In my world, I was invisible.

I was one of many, I was another cog in the machine and no one really noticed the brown girl dressed in conservative clothing. Why notice her with relaxed hair scraped back into a ponytail when they could eyeball the butter skin good gyal with red hair pinned up high? Why notice the woman with no makeup when the one with purple lips and green eyes catches everyone's attention?

Why notice me when there really isn't anything about me to notice? In a way that is what makes me dangerous, you don't see me coming until I'm standing over you making your neck smile.


This will be posted every Sunday 'til the end. Until next Sunday.

Image Credit : Imageback

Shadow and Light

Let the flowers fall,
Let them fall upon
The ground and be
Stumped upon.

The woman in white
Approaches, her stride
Measured as she grips
The arm of the man
Beside her.

One would think she
Walks to the somber
Melody of a funeral song,
And not the melody
Of the wedding march.

Her eyes flicker under the
Net of the veil, this
Way and that 'til
They settle upon me.

Sadness is consumed
In a ranging inferno
Of lust and desire.
Sweet princess.

I was asked to come,
To witness this spectacle.
Now I wonder if
I am the spectacle
As hushed tones soaked
Through the music.

I watch, from the pews,
The rites of marriage,
The black box,
Heavy in my pocket,
The ring inside shines
Bright, almost fooling one
That it is on fire.

With the heralding of
The union, Man and
Wife, I slip into
The shadows of their
New existence.

I make my way to
My car before
The church emits
The happy crowd.

Sitting in the quiet
Of the car, I call her,
Not her in white, but
Her on the other side
Of town.

I am coming over,
I am going to ask
A question and
Her answer may be
The one thing that
Would pull me from
The shadows and
Deliver me into the
Light.

May I touch

May I touch
Your soul?

May I stoke it,
Palm it, massage it
Till a multitude of
Emotions surge forth
Like a mighty spring.

May I touch
Your spirit?

May I attune it
To my vibrations
Till it resonates
Till we harmonize
Perfectly.

May I touch
You?

May my words
Bring forth a
Groundswell of inspiration
That drives you and
Others to action.

May I touch.

Someone

The oak door creaked
Open, and a little head
Peered in.

With eyes wide open,
She took in the machines,
The TVs that seemed
To be broken and
The woman that was
Broken.

She smiled sweetly
And ran towards the bed
Only to be stopped
By the family doctor.

He stooped down and
Whispered in her ear,
Her glee soon became sorrow
And when he released her,
Her gallop became
A hesitant stride.

Peering up at all
Who stood beside
The bed, she came to
A stop at the foot of it.

Then before they could
Stop her, she climbed
Up onto the bed and
Curled up beside
The woman.

Those who moved to
Removed her were stopped
By those who were moved
By the little girl's actions.

The actions of a little girl
Who wanted to sleep
With Mommy one last
Time, before the warmth
Slipped away, before
Her humanity exited
Her body, leaving something
So clinical and empty
That they refer to it
As a cadaver.

Until then, this lifeless
Body was Mommy, Wife,
Daughter, Sister, Friend
This was someone.

Who Am I

He kissed me
And I should
Have slapped him.

I should have
Become violent
Towards him.

Him, this little man
With soft features
And a beautiful
Smile.

Him, the only man
Who looked beyond
My masculine posturing
And saw me as I am.

As I am?
What am I?

Every day, I would
Look in the mirror
And ask myself that
Question.

The woman of the
Evening, sleeping
Fitfully in my bed
And still I felt...
Dissatisfied.

That is until
He kissed me
And the Pandora's box
Sprung open and
Although I tried
To slam it shut,
Its lid would spring
Open.

Instead of all
Manners of evil
And strife, out
Came my truth.

Instead of becoming
Violent, I craved
His touch, I wanted
More. My thirst,
A thirst I never
Knew I had,
Grew stronger.

He smiled.
A knowing smile.
Then extended his hand.

I took it
Without hesitation
And was led
To his apartment.

Instead of closing
The now gaping box,
I was going to explore it
And in doing so,
I will at last
Answer the question,
Who am I?

Escape

It held my by the throat.

Its claws gently scratching
My jugular. It wanted
Me to know how close
I was to death.

Intentionally,
Unintentionally,
It could end my life
And I could do
Nothing about it.

As I waited
For certain death,
I wondered about
What brought me
To this time and place,
What had me counting
Down my last
Heart beats.

One,
I escaped Earth
On a ship destined
To anywhere but Earth.

Ten,
I crossed a warlord
Who was smarter than
She looked. Trust me,
A small head doesn't
Mean a creature
Is stupid.

Twenty,
I escaped again
But I was traveling
To the dark side.
No one goes to the
Dark side so no one
Would follow me there.

Thirty,
There is a reason
No one travels
To the dark side,
And it is holding
Me by the throat.

Forty,
Forty heart beats
Too long, it's time
I escape this World.
I've always been good
At escaping.

If Only

A single loc
Fell over his eye
And I bit my lip.

I bit it so hard
That I soon felt
The coppery taste
Of my blood.

I wanted to look away,
Look away from
Dark skin stretched over
Rippling muscles that
Knew nothing of office spaces.

Skin that was tanned
To the perfect shade
That reminded me
Of black coffee,
No sugar, no cream.

I watched as he,
Without thought, swept
The rebel loc from
His vision and tucked
It with its brothers
In a loose entrapment.

If only I could
Touch.
If only I could
Taste.
If only I could
Feel.
If only....

While thoughts of
Wanton acts danced
Merrily through my
Mindscapes, he looked
Up and our gazes met.
I should have
Looked away.

Instead I smiled
And he smiled,
Then looked away as
His girlfriend called
Out to him, and
The smile that was mine
Became hers.
I envied her.

With the pricks
Of jealousy, I
Felt pricks of shame
And guilt.

The afternoon light was
Caught in my engagement ring
And was fragmented, sent
Here and there.
I looked at it and sighed.
Only guilt pricked at me.

I said 'yes', willingly,
But I now wonder
If asked now, would
The answer be 'no'.

I looked back down
At my neighbour
And he was now looking
At me. Could this
Be a possibility?

I wonder,
If only....

Magic

The magic was gone.

It was gone a long
Time now, packing
Its bag and hitching
A ride to God knew
Where, leaving us to
Fend for ourselves.

In its departure,
We fell into a routine
That felt systematic
And left no room
For spontaneity.
I used to enjoy
The spontaneity, but
That was gone, too.

I would look across
At him and wonder
If he felt it, if
He noticed that
Things had changed
Between us. If
He did he never showed it.

The magic was gone.

I knew not how to
Conjure it up. I
Had no magic lam or
Such implement to return
The magic to our lives
And still I craved it.

Like a drug addict
Craved a drug,
Like a chocoholic
Craved a bar of
Oral sin, I craved
The magic.

I sought it out in
The crevices of my life,
Chanting under my breath
Its name as though it
Was my wayward dog
Gone missing.

I did find magic
In the arms of another,
In secret places
Where my husband's
Eyes would never see us.
It was as I remembered
And I savoured it
Despite the fact that
It was wrong.

But truly what is
Wrong or right to
And addict? I was
Addicted to the magic
And now I've got
My magic fix.


Image Credit: Imageback

Trust

It's over,
The fine threads
That bound us
To each other
Were slashed by
The razor edge
Of betrayl.

I trusted you
And
You trusted me
But that all
Was lost when
I broke your
Trust,

I said I was
Sorry,
I said I would
Never do it again,
But your eyes told
Me that you didn't
Believe me.

I love you,
You only,
You always,
You and yet
That is not enough.

The world seems
Cold without you,
Since you left,
A chill crept
Beneath my skin
Sending my flesh
To shiver.
I crave your
Touch.

I am sorry.
I need you.
Forgive me.

It's too late,
You've moved on,
I still hold on
To the scrap of
Hope, but in my
Heart I know
It's over.


Image Credit: Imageback

Lie To You

I'm going to lie to you
And
You are going to believe me.

You are going to believe me
Becuase you trust me,
You respect me,
You believe that I would
Never lie to you,
But I will.

I am going to lie to you
And
You are going to believe me.

You are probably thinking
Why would I lie?
Why would I spin a
Fine web of deceit
And drape it about you
Ever so gently?

Why would I lie?
You ask.
Because you want me to.
You want me to speak
Pretty little lies that
Flutter about you head
Gently kissing your skin.

You don't want the truth,
That heavy, hairy, scary
Beast that promises to
Crush everything you believe
To be true.

You want me to lie to you
So I will do as you wish,
I am going to lie to you
And
You are going to believe me.


Image Credit: Imageback

A Brother Mourns

"Did you catch him?"

He looked across at
The tiny woman, clutching
Rosaries worn smooth
By her tiny fingers.

"Did you catch him
When he....?"

The words caught in
Her throat. Big, hairy,
Scary truths whose
Claws sank into the
Tender flesh of her
Esophagus, refusing to budge.

He looked at his mother
And wished he could tell
A lie, tell her something
That would stop the pain
She felt, prevent the pain
She would eventually feel.

Looking away, he shook
His head and silence
Fell upon them, heavy,
Suffocating. She could have
Screamed, she could have
Raved and ranted,
Blaming him but she didn't.

He looked back at her, and
She was nodding, eyes dry,
Yet a sadness lived in them.
Hopes lease had come
To an end.

"I didn't expect you to,"
She came forth, embracing
Him. Her strength showed
Him how truly weak
He was.

"You've spent much
Time, so much energy,
Catching him over and
Over again that now
You have nothing to show
For all your effort."

Her words snapped
The last cords of his
Control and in his mother's
Arms, he sobbed.

"It was time for him
To fall," she whispered.
"And time for you to rise."

In his mother's arms,
He cried for his
Fallen brother who soared
High beyond what
Was possible, but he
Didn't fly high enough.

Gravity pulled him down
Every time. And every time,
His brother would catch him
Even if it meant it buried
Him deeper into the earth.
But this time he couldn't
Catch him, his arms
Too weary.

This time, he fell
Never to rise again.
It was something
they would all accept
But for now,
A brother mourns.

Playing With The Bunny

She sat at the end
Of the pier, the only
Thing keeping her warm was
The bunny outfit she
Wore for work.

If only her boss knew
She wore nothing underneath it.
Did it really matter?

She lit a cigarette with the
Last embers of the one she was
Smoking, then watched the smoke
Of the new one. It danced in
The wind like an exotic dancer.

He eyes slid down unto the
Mask of the costume. She
Wanted to knock it off the pier,
Let it sink into the murky waters
Of the sound, leaving her as
A decapitated bunny.

Sighing, she pushed the thought away,
She couldn't afford to do it.
She could barely afford to survive
Much less pay the company to
Replace a bunny head to match
Exactly to the faded suit she wore.

"Hey, bunny." His voice always
Sickened her. "You want to play,
Bunny?" He chuckled at his play
On words. "Do you want a carrot
To suck on?"

She wanted to knock him off
The pier. Let him sink into
The murky waters of the sound,
But she couldn't afford that
Either. He was her supplier,
The only one who could give
Her what she needed to
Escape her world.

"How many?" He asked the question
She wanted to hear. She held up
Her hand, five fingers to the grey
Sky. "You got the cash?"
Out of a secret pocket, she pulled
Out three bills and held them up.

They stood at attention before they
Were snatched away and a
Packet with five pills fell on
The faded wood beside her.

She never looked at him,
She acknowledged the transaction
And continued to watch the smoke
Dance before her eyes, once, twice
Flicking away the excess ash.

She listened as he walked away,
His footsteps fading into nothing.

At the end, he would be greeted
By two men, they would aim guns
At him and demand he lies face
Down. They would search him,
Confiscating the contraband and
The marked bills. They would read
Him his rights, then frog march him
To a waiting vehicle.

She didn't need to see it
Happen, she had gone through it
So many times that it bored her to
Watch another drug dealer being
Arrested.

The men never came
For her, they knew she would
Come when she was good and ready,
And right now, she wasn't ready.

It didn't go as planned,
He shot one man and the other man
Shot him. In all the shooting,
A bullet grazed her cheek
And another sent the head
Flying into the water.

It wasn't the pain at her cheek
That brought her to her feet.
The blood tinting the fur of
The bunny outfit didn't
Make her pull out her special.
It was the fact that she was
Now headless, that had her
Standing over him, the barrel
Of the pistol pointed at the
Space between his eyes.

"Do you want to play with
The bunny?" she growled
Through clenched teeth.

He stared at the pistol,
A gift from her Daddy, a
Decorated police officer.
He said nothing.

"Let's play Russian Roulette,"
She kicked his gun off
The side of the pier,
It landed on the sand.
She emptied the gun
And placed a bullet into
A Chamber.

With a spin of the chamber,
She aimed at him once more.
Safety off, she fired. He
Screamed. He lived. Empty
Chamber. She smiled and knelt
Down beside him, a wicked
Smile upon her face.

"You lost," she said as she
Shoved him unto his stomach.
With him handcuffed, she called
For back up.

Looking up at her, he smirked,
His bravado had returned.
"No, bitch, I won," he spat,
Sirens in the background.

She looked across at her colleagues,
One dead, one holding on for dear life.
Looking back at him, she snorted.
"You killed a cop and wounded
Another, do you really think you won?"

His smile wavered and he looked
Away. The sirens were all they could
Hear. He played with the bunny
And he lost, and only time will tell what
His wager was.

Bend

In a post
Feminist world,
I am not to
Bend like bamboo
Or the blade of
Grass that grows
In my front yard.

I am not to bend
For fear of giving
In. For fear of
Men claiming that
I am inferior to them,
Just above their
Beloved fido.

I am not to bend,
For fear that they
Would see me as
The little lady who
Needs the big, strong
Man to take care
Of everything because
As a woman, I
Just don't know how
The real world works.

I am not to bend,
But I fear I just
Might break, shattering
Into thousands of pieces
And even though I am
Put back together,
There would be one,
Two, three pieces
Missing.

I am not to bend
But the resolute soldier
Has grown weary and
Wants nothing more than
To be held, to feel
The warmth of another
Soul, banishing the cold
Emptiness that envelops
Me, smothers me.

In this post
Feminist world,
I thank the women
Who fought
For my rights
From the hilltops,
I praise them, but
During the darkest night
When demons from within
And without threaten my
Peace of mind, it is him
I reach out for.

I reach for
His strength,
His stability,
His desire to
Protect me.
I reach for him
Because I know
That he is my rock
As I am his.

In this post
Feminist world,
I do not denounce
Your actions, sisters
Who still bear arms,
There is much injustice,
But it is out there,
It is not found in
Him, him or him.

Do not punish them
For the sins of their
Brethren miles away,
Do not punish them for
The fact that they have an
Outie and not an innie.

Leave them to be
The men they were meant
To be, men who
Want to love and
Be loved.

Mastery

A glob of spit
Was launched from
His major facial
Orfice and landed
But a few inches
From my fire engine
Red sneakers.

I watched as
It glistened on the
Hot pavement, bubbles
Melting into liquid
Like fish eggs
Dipped in acid.

I wanted to
Scream at him,
I wanted my words
To render him naked,
Raw, vulnerable, and
When the time was right
I would pierce his
Heart, his soul.

The only screaming
Was in my head
As the mad monkey
Jumped up and down,
Throwing shit at the
Walls of my mind.

I looked up at him
And he stepped back.
Did he see the madness
In my eyes, swirling
Around like a cyclone
In the Indian Ocean.

Did he see my desire
To rip him limb from limb
Then to leave him
Staked to the ground
For carrion birds
To pick at what
Remained.

Did he see that
I wold not abide
His insolence, his
Inelegant ways. I
Smiled, or was it
A smirk. My body
Shifting a fraction of
A millimeter.

He sensed it and
Stepped back again.
His eyes wary, his
Instincts flip flopping
From Fight or flight,
Death or survival.

I grinned and walked
Away. I didn't need
To touch him for him
To feel fear. I
Did not need to
Speak for him to
Tremble.

I simply embodied
His fear and walked
Away. His not knowing
What I would do was
My greatest weapon.

A weapon
I was a master of.

Swallow Me Whole

Let the sun
Swallow me whole
And spit me out
Into a new consciousness.

I felt cold today,
As I did yesterday,
And now all I want
Is the warmth of
The sun.

The quiet explosions
Emanating heat,
Light, visions of
What is possible,
Everything is possible.

Shivering in the night
Of my ignorance,
My fears, my doubts,
My disbeliefs of what
I am capable of,
I wait for the
Sun to rise.

And it rises,
But not everyday
Do I feel the warmth
Of this sun, not
Everyday do I
Bask in the light,
In the knowing.

Still I await
The sunrise, still
I seek the knowing.
Still I seek
To be the child
Of the sun.

Ever warm.
Ever living within the light.
Ever knowing that
Everything is possible.

Let the sun
Swallow me whole
And spit me out
Into a new consciousness.


Image Credit: Imageback

Incomplete....

The following poem is incomplete. I wrote it some time back and for some reason I never finished it, and now I don't know how to finish it.


Black girl with
Thick lips,
Soft eyes,
Round hips,
Looking up at him.

Him, the boy,
The man who
Would whisper
Secret things
In secret places
That took her
To places where
The sun and moon
Met and forced
The day into night.

Him, the boy,
Now man who
No longer possessed
An ounce of baby
Fat, just hard
Lines that knew
The softness that
Was hers.


Perhaps, one day the rest of this poem will come to me. Perhaps.

One Cent, One Man

A five cent
Ain't worth shit,
But it's worth
More than a two cent.

A two cent
Ain't worth shit,
But it's worth
More than a one cent.

A one cent
Ain't worth shit
But it's worth
More than....
Nothing?

But if I collected
Them all, building them
Higher than a pyramid
I might be able
To by something
Decent, something
Valuable.

One cent is pretty much
Nothing, but if
I have five hundred
Of them I can
Buy myself a drink.

A single many may
Not effect change
But a thousand men
Can turn the tide,
A million men can
Demand change.

A Once cent may
Not be worth
Anything but I'll
Keep it and add
It to the others
In my possession.


Image Credit: KRMG

A Drop of Coffee

I spilled coffee
In my bath.

I watched as the
Brown-black liquid
Dissolved into nothing.

I wanted to
Laugh, I wanted
To cry as I
Could not identify
The emotion I
Felt from this
Liquid epiphany.

One drop of blood
Determined a man's
Race, yet one, even
Two, drops of coffee
Did not make my
Bath water fit for
Consumption.

A beat or two later,
Laughter did tumble
Up and out of my
Lips.

Then again,
Blood is thicker
Than water,
And the blood,
So recently removed from
The land from which all
Humanity emerged,
Is powerful stuff.

Powerful enough
To make one drop
Sufficient for a race
To claim a man
And determine his destiny.

A destiny where he
Is judged by the acts
Of his peers
Rather than the
Strength and diversity
Of his character.

A destiny where
Limitations are placed
On him by those
Inside and outside
Of his society.

A destiny where
He has to be
Extraordinary to be
Equal to another
Race's Ordinary.

I looked down
At the spot
Where the coffee
Fell, my raucous
Laughter fading
Into a chuckle.

I took a sip
Of my coffee.
Strong coffee
Always brought
Heavy thoughts.


Image Credit: FWallpapers

Bound

"No you can't do that."
Bind my arms
And tell me that the possible
Is impossible.

"That can't be done."
Bind my legs
And tell me they are
Too weak to walk
Much less run.

"Sorry, we can't do it."
Bind my tongue
And tell me not to
Ask for help because
It is futile.
No one will help me.

Bind me
So I can only
Go so far,
Do so much,
Be what you want
Me to be.
An appendage to
Your life, but
What of mine?

So bound am I
That I've lost hope
For myself and
Place mine hope in
A child unborn
Not even conceived.

So bound am I
That I dream
Grand, voluptuous dreams
For Children who have
Neither breath or hearts.

So bound am I
That I am ever
So close to
Mummification that
The life I loathe
Is so perfectly
Perserved.

So bound am I
That I am now
Ready to become
Undone.

Untitled

I placed my
Sexuality on
A pine table,
Twisting it this
Way and that
Until it reflected
The light coming in
From the open
Kitchen window.

Once satisfied
With its placement
I squinted at it,
Trying to decide
What next to do
With it.

Should I place
It on the center
Table of my front
Romm, displayed
For all to see,
All who enter
My home, be they
Friend or foe,
Lover or the man
Who has come
To fix the
Faulty heater.

Or should I hide
It away in my
Frilly things drawer
Next to my rabbit
And my whip,
A secret I share
With a lover
Who in turn shares
His with me.

I am not
Ashamed of it,
My sexuality,
But I have
No desire to
Speak of it
Like the newly
Bought gadget,
Expounding on the
Features, most
Of which I will
Never use.

After much thought,
I picked it up
And made my way
To my bed chamber.
Instead of placing
It among my frilly
And kinky things,
I placed my
Sexuality on my
Bedside table,
At the base of
My lamp.

A fitting place
For such an
Exquisite thing,
Not hidden away
Nor in the open
To be pawed by
Undeserving eyes.

I placed my
Sexuality where
It truly belonged
In the one place
Where only trusted people
May enter.


Also check out my blog post, Becoming Venus - An Introduction
Pic

The Final Song

He died with
His accordion open,
His hands keeping
It such as he
Laid on his back
Staring at the ceiling
With unseeing eyes.

As the police
Looked down at him,
Trying to decipher
The cause of death
The accordion snapped
Shut.

It was as though
It was the final
Act, the final
Goodbye from the
Music man.

The ME tutted,
Pushing aside the
Police officers, trying
Unsuccessfully to
Appear unshaken.

He crouched down
Beside the man,
The music man and
He listen to his
Song.

It had a catchy
Melody that went
In time with the
Beat of a now
Still heart.

It swayed and pulled,
Dipped and flowed
And ascended like
A prima donna,
Up and up and up
Till it crested
And all was revealed.

The music man
Was dead,
His heart had given up
And his song
Came to an end.

pic source