tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26170695942610012762024-02-18T18:33:20.184-08:00Kim or LisaTwo names, One poetKimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.comBlogger757125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-75574901064065731192020-08-31T06:05:00.002-07:002020-08-31T06:05:40.782-07:00I Can't Please You<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCbXOcMSkOIBGmrfkACwJdiy0n5J7_hnr3xx1_7QehdTSaebA1RAcdSA7wf3sHPwOQEFJhyphenhyphen9wQc1ids3cR4zULilDpP7OQpI_jnbYBgjLUh5-v452AFa2KIudt-k4sFfXsle5DLLos0g1m/s360/thaynara-picoloto-de-campos-sqD1Dnru_S0-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCbXOcMSkOIBGmrfkACwJdiy0n5J7_hnr3xx1_7QehdTSaebA1RAcdSA7wf3sHPwOQEFJhyphenhyphen9wQc1ids3cR4zULilDpP7OQpI_jnbYBgjLUh5-v452AFa2KIudt-k4sFfXsle5DLLos0g1m/s0/thaynara-picoloto-de-campos-sqD1Dnru_S0-unsplash.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>I'm sorry that I can't</div><div>Please you.</div><div>That I can't bend my</div><div>Spirit, my will, my existence</div><div>Into a pretzel for you to</div><div>Consume and find a bit</div><div>Of satisfaction for a fraction </div><div>Of a millennia</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sorry that I</div><div>Can't please you,</div><div>That I can't put my life </div><div>On hold to collect directives</div><div>On how to make your life</div><div>Easier, better, happier,</div><div>Even though you have yet to</div><div>Set directives for yourself.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sorry that </div><div>I can't please you,</div><div>That I've failed in the mission</div><div>Once again. A mission</div><div>That was not mine in</div><div>The first place. A mission that</div><div>Has left me battle weary,</div><div>Embittered and tired,</div><div>Oh, so tired.</div><div><br /></div><div>What's that?</div><div>You need what?</div><div>To do what for what is not</div><div>For my better good?</div><div>To do what that strips</div><div>Me of my agency?</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sorry</div><div>That I can't please you.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's it.</div><div>No ramblings.</div><div>No explanations.</div><div>No reasons why</div><div>I'm not jumping at your</div><div>Beck and call.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't please you.</div><div>I've accepted it.</div><div>I've come to terms with it.</div><div>I've settled into it like enjoying</div><div>A fine glass of wine,</div><div>A hot cup of coffee,</div><div>The view of an endless horizon</div><div>That curves just that little bit at</div><div>The corners.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't please you...</div><div>And I'm not sorry about that.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@zthaynara777z?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Thaynara Picoloto de Campos</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/blue-horizon?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span></div></div>Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-65591439436981756692016-05-11T17:45:00.000-07:002016-05-11T17:45:56.510-07:00AfrosentricOver the last few years, I've been given opportunities to perform at events in and around my island. In some cases I write an original poem for the event. This poem was written for a fashion design competition that was called Afrosentric.<br />
<br />
One of the organizers wanted a spoken word performer speaking with background music as dancers danced. Another organizer had seen me perform at Soothe had suggested me. As I knew the first organizer, I had an in.<br />
<br />
What I found amusing was the fact that I've turned my back on what I studied at college, Fashion Design, and I turn around and am performing at a fashion event. It still tickles me to think about it.<br />
<br />
Anyway this introduction as grown too long, so here is the poem:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Traveling across<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A sea of sand,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A man as dark<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the sun is bright<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adjusts his turban<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And looks to the <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Horizon, seeing<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing but sand<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And somehow he<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finds comfort here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Women dance under<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The full moon,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their hands reaching<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
High to the cloudless<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sky as the drums<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beat a rhythm<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That is echoed in<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their hearts, in<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their souls. It was<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The music that brought<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Them to their feet,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the dance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Children laugh<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite the emptiness<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of their stomachs,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They laugh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite the poverty<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That surrounds them,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They laugh. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite the many tears<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That have fallen and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Will fall,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They laugh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This land beyond<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The horizon is not<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Only deserts, grasslands<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And jungles,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is cities with<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Buildings that try to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Touch the sky.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Technology and commerce<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fitting neatly in the palm<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of one's hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This land, so far<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet so near<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To us all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is near<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we look<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the reflection<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the mirror.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is near<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we break<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Out into song,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In our voices.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is near<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the food we eat,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The way we speak,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The names we give our children,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The way the rhythm,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Any rhythm, flows<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In and through us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is so far<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet it<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is ingrained<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In every cell<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of our being.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our being,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The beings of<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The stolen children,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Taken and forced<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To toil in a land<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That, too, was stolen<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet they would<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have us believe that<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was discovered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite our abduction,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We survived,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We survived enslavement,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We survived poverty,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We survived adapting<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To a freedom that<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Was not even a dream<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To our parents.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And through this fire,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A new people was forged.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A Caribbean people,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But never do we forget<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our past, our history,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the fact that<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are the children<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of Africa. We<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Are not just Caribbean people<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are Afro-Caribbean people.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our past proves<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That we are a<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Resilient people,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A creative people,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A people capable<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of everything and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have accomplished<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So much in spite<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of our painful<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beginnings, we have<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Created champions,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Artists, intellects, dancers,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Singers, designers and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The list goes on<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And on and on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And as the future<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Extends beyond<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The edge of our horizons,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is so much<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We can achieve,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We, the stolen children<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of Africa, we, the<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Afro-Caribbean.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although our leaders<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wish to return us<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To slavery under<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The moniker of jobs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where we bow our heads<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In servitude to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People with pale skins<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And green bills.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We, the people, can choose<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be different.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We, the people,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can show those who<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Think we are only<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Capable of laboring<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Under the dictates<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of those who don't<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even look like us,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That we are better<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Than this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We, the people,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can show the world<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That we are creators,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Innovators, masters<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of industry and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Much, much more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And tonight<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We link our past<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With our future.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our past, Africa.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our future,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A new generation<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of designers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that link,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That bridge,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We call<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Afrosentric.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P.S. In this piece, I took a shot at the local politicians and would you know it the Minister of Culture was standing in front of me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P.P.S. Will post the video within the coming week.</div>
Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-22781347314160816442016-05-09T17:39:00.001-07:002016-05-09T17:39:13.326-07:00Tick Tock<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1415604934674-561df9abf539?ixlib=rb-0.3.5&q=80&fm=jpg&crop=entropy&s=f0dc1d823d4e4b64f6ceed434362318a" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1415604934674-561df9abf539?ixlib=rb-0.3.5&q=80&fm=jpg&crop=entropy&s=f0dc1d823d4e4b64f6ceed434362318a" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tick Tock<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hear my<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Biological clock<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ticking away <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The eggs I have<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In short supply.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yuh nuh have<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A child, yet?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looks at me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like fertile soil<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In which to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Plant his seed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look at him<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As though he is <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Trying to plant<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A weed in my<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well tended garden.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Step along,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Young boy,”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don't you have<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two, Five, Eight<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kids, brother man?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ew,” are thoughts<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That prod the back<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of my tongue, begging<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To spring board off<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The tip and dive<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Into their ear<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To swim in the<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gray matter<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They call a brain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And still the clock<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ticks....<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tick Tock<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tick Tock.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fuck the clock.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Toss it into one<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of those trash disposals,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let it be reduced<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To bits and pieces,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freeing me of<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This prison.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This prison of<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Others' expectations<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Due to the fact<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That I am a woman,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And as such, I must<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Breed!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Breed?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Breed?!?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alas, my entire<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Existence, in a<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Blink of an eye,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Has been reduced to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A walking womb.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to....<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Breathe, the inhale,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Exhale kind,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don't get it twisted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then again, I could just<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let time slip away,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let the clock run out,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ignore the pity<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In people's eyes,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The venom in the<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eyes of overtaxed<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Parents, the laments<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of family and strangers<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For not letting my genes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Live beyond my body.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Extracting this clock<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From my craw and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Breathe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then...<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I would see a little one,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be it a floppy headed babe<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or a gangly seven year old<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who has just begun to reason,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And....<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I touch my hand<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To my stomach.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I imagine a<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Little me with an<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Extra bit of spice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And...<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I think,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just maybe,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just maybe<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could be<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someone's mommy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tick Tock<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tick Tock<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tick<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tock.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
image credit: <a href="https://unsplash.com/@aleskrivec" target="_blank">Ales Krivec</a></div>
Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-32114228164712049962016-01-26T04:00:00.000-08:002016-01-26T04:00:20.962-08:00Seven DaysGive me seven days,<br />He smiled,<br />His eyes twinkled<br />Like the stars above<br />With an energy<br />She knew too well.<br /><br />Can you perform<br />A miracle in such<br />A short time?<br />Her smile was nervous,<br />Tinged with a hope<br />That was ambrosia<br />To him.<br /><br />I can do it<br />In less time,<br />His confidence never<br />Wavered, a steady<br />Candle flame, even in<br />A sand storm.<br /><br />Then seven days<br />It is, she smiled<br />On the outside<br />And prayed on<br />The inside.<br />She wanted him<br />To succeed.<br /><br />One then Two,<br />Two then Three,<br />Three then Four,<br />Four then Five,<br />Five then Six,<br />Six then Seven,<br />Seven then...<br /><br />At the end of<br />The seventh day,<br />As the sun became<br />
One with the sea,<br />
As the moon bloated<br />
And sickly watched<br />Over her, he came forth.<br /><br />Did you worry?<br />He searched her face.<br /><br />Yes,<br />Her eyes flutter shut.<br /><br />Did you pray for me,<br />He tipped her chin up,<br />Urging her to look at him.<br /><br />Yes,<br />She could never lie to him.<br /><br />Did you believe in me?<br />His lips brushed hers.<br /><br />Always,<br />She met his gaze<br />And in his eyes,<br />She saw that the<br />Miracle had come to pass.Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-69399918873917097152016-01-21T04:00:00.000-08:002016-01-21T04:00:19.092-08:00I love...I love<br />
The smell of him<br />
In my sheets.<br />
<br />
I would turn over<br />
In the middle<br />
Of the night<br />
And it would be<br />
There.<br />
I would breathe<br />
Him in.<br />
<br />
I love his<br />
Scent.<br />
<br />
I love<br />
His skin.<br />
<br />
Alabaster black<br />
In some places<br />
And a sweet<br />
Brown in others.<br />
So sweet<br />
I would kiss it<br />
Here, there,<br />
Anywhere and<br />
Everywhere.<br />
<br />
I love<br />
His skin.<br />
<br />
I love<br />
Sleeping with him.<br />
<br />
I knew I was<br />
Long past infatuation<br />
When I could<br />
Dream with his<br />
Arms wrapped around<br />
Me.<br />
<br />
We weren't two<br />
Lumpy masses<br />
Existing on a<br />
Plane courting<br />
Nocturnal bliss,<br />
We fit perfectly<br />
Together, in more<br />
Ways than one.<br />
<br />
I love<br />
Sleeping with him.<br />
<br />
I love...<br />
<br />
I love....<br />
Him.<br />
<br />
Not for reasons<br />
Or concepts but<br />
Because he is<br />
One star and<br />
So am I<br />
And in a universe<br />
Of stars, we<br />
Somehow found<br />
Each other,<br />
We found someone<br />
Who fits perfectly.<br />
<br />
Then again,<br />
I guess<br />
That is<br />
A reason.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I will be honest and say that my handwriting was awful, so there are a few words in this that I doubt was in the original poem. Still working on my poetry.Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-84468498815137444172016-01-19T04:00:00.000-08:002016-01-19T04:00:05.671-08:00Likkle Boi"Psst<br />
Psst,<br />
Miss,<br />
Lemme talk<br />
To you for<br />
A minute."<br />
<br />
Taking in the<br />
Boxers on display,<br />
The jeans so tight<br />
It is a wonder<br />
They are able to<br />
Hang so low,<br />
The woman ten years<br />
His senior sucks her teeth<br />
As though sucking<br />
The flesh off of<br />
A kenep.<br />
<br />
"Likkle boi,<br />
Don't know<br />
Him place,<br />
Thinking a<br />
Big 'oman<br />
Like me would<br />
Eva deal with<br />
A likkle boi,"<br />
She says, hiking up<br />
Her bag and<br />
Walking away.<br />
<br />
All that likkle boy<br />
Want is the two<br />
Dollar me work<br />
Hard for. He<br />
Would t'ink is<br />
His payment for<br />
Rubbing my<br />
Neck, feet....<br />
And other such<br />
Places.<br />
<br />
Not dis 'oman yah,<br />
My money is for<br />
My clothes,<br />
My food,<br />
My child,<br />
And no man alive<br />
Would get a cent<br />
Of it. I work too hard<br />
To throw way<br />
What likkle money<br />
I work for.<br />
<br />
If only that<br />
Likkle boi did<br />
Know that I only<br />
Deal with man<br />
And they money.<br />
And by the look<br />
Of things, I would<br />
Become a man<br />
Before that likkle boi<br />
Ever would.<br />
<br />
<br />
My attempt at dialect. LOL. Oh and this is <a href="http://wiwords.com/word/kenep" target="_blank">"kenep"</a>Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-18213143301767742812016-01-14T04:00:00.000-08:002016-01-17T09:34:46.329-08:00Not EverWhisper softly to me,<br />
Speak words that you<br />
Would never say to<br />
Anyone but me.<br />
<br />
Tell me that<br />
You want me, that<br />
You need me, that<br />
You love me.<br />
<br />
Why is your<br />
Tongue still?<br />
Why are your words<br />
Trapped in that mind,<br />
Prisoners of some<br />
Malady I know<br />
Nothing about.<br />
<br />
Why don't you<br />
Speak truth to me<br />
For your actions<br />
Speak them so<br />
Plainly.<br />
<br />
Alas, your mind<br />
And body oppose<br />
Each other and<br />
You trust the mind<br />
But I trust the body.<br />
<br />
Then go!<br />
Yes, go!<br />
I shall not stand<br />
For such indecision,<br />
It is either you love me<br />
Or you don't.<br />
<br />
Speak plainly, man,<br />
I know those lips,<br />
I know that tongue<br />
Can construct<br />
Sentences.<br />
<br />
And so we have it,<br />
You love me, but you<br />
Also love someone else.<br />
The decision was never yours<br />
It appears. It is mine<br />
And my decision is for<br />
You to leave.<br />
<br />
Don't look at me with<br />
Sad eyes. Put your tail<br />
Between your legs and<br />
Shoo.<br />
<br />
I am not one<br />
To share my toys,<br />
Not now,<br />
Not ever.Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-72910827283417564232016-01-12T16:18:00.000-08:002016-01-12T16:18:06.192-08:00In This Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.best-norman-rockwell-art.com/images/1949-prom-dress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.best-norman-rockwell-art.com/images/1949-prom-dress.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
A Norman Rockwell painting<br />
Hung over my head,<br />
More like a print,<br />
But I'm not judging.<br />
<br />
A snapshot of<br />
A more peaceful time<br />
Sends me reeling back<br />
To the time when it<br />
Was not so peaceful.<br />
<br />
When a hatred gripped<br />
The hearts of men<br />
Who could never get<br />
Past their programming.<br />
<br />
A time when women<br />
Could not vote,<br />
When a black man<br />
Could not occupy<br />
The same space as<br />
A white woman.<br />
<br />
I also remember<br />
A time when the<br />
Hatred was reversed<br />
And the anthem of<br />
"F*ck the police"<br />
Was played from every<br />
Ghetto blaster.<br />
<br />
In this time,<br />
A time I now<br />
Live, gangstas are<br />
Either dead or<br />
Making movies.<br />
<br />
In this time,<br />
We haven't resolved<br />
The hatred, and<br />
Untended it has<br />
Been left to fester.<br />
<br />
In this time,<br />
We wear masks so<br />
Tightly that they<br />
Seem to become<br />
Our faces.<br />
<br />
In this time,<br />
I look up at<br />
The Norman Rockwell<br />
And wish that<br />
This lie was true.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.best-norman-rockwell-art.com/1949-prom-dress.html" target="_blank">Image Credit </a>Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-20741393137308667092015-12-14T04:00:00.000-08:002015-12-14T04:00:09.716-08:00Something to Tell<br />"Do you love him?"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />She did not repeat her question, she did not have to. Plus, it was not the old woman's style to repeat herself unnecessarily. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />As her laughter subsided, I felt the intensity of her gaze forcing me to look across at her.<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />She snorted in an unbecoming manner. <br /><br />"Who said anything about being passionately in love with him? What gave you the notion that love had to be passionate?" She exclaimed.<br /><br />I looked at her and said nothing. Then returned my attention to the vase. This time, making an impression on its bulbous center.<br /><br />"You think Papa Elliot and I have this passionate love, don't you?" She asked.<br /><br />"Don't you?" I asked.<br /><br />It seemed to be that we were speaking only in questions.<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />A snicker escaped my lips before I could suppress it.<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"Do you love him?" I knew this was the last time she would ask.<br /><br />"I... I love him." The words of my heart, spoken by my lips.<br /><br />Mama Elliot smiled, a knowing smile I knew so well. "I know."<br /><br />"If you knew, why did you ask?" It was I who was searching her eyes, her soul.<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I got up from my stool and walked over to her picture, reaching out to touch her likeness. "Thank you, Mama."<br /><br />I heard a noise at the doorway to my little studio. I turned to see him standing there.<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />With a smile, I said, "There is something I have to tell you."<br />Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-5496154960680162752015-12-11T04:00:00.000-08:002015-12-11T04:00:14.487-08:00UntitledAmong the rocks,<br />I found a diamond,<br />Its many facets<br />Reflecting my torch<br />Light in every direction,<br />Dazzling my eyes.<br /><br />In my hands,<br />It was hard<br />And unyielding<br />And all I had<br />to do was slip<br />It into my pocket<br /><br />No one would know,<br />No one would believe.<br />Instantly, i would<br />Become rich, but<br />What is rich?<br /><br />What is rich,<br />If I deceive<br />The ones I love?<br /><br />What is rich<br />when there is<br />No one to share<br />The trappings<br />Of my prosperity?<br /><br />What is rich<br />If I was alone<br />In a world<br />That is foreign<br />And nothing but<br />Illusions and deceptions?<br /><br />Digging a hole,<br />I made my decision,<br />I placed the diamond<br />In the hole<br />And buried it.<br /><br />A fool am I?<br />Perhaps, but a<br />Happy fool with<br />No money to his name<br />Is better than an<br />Unhappy one with<br />Money to burn.<br /><br />A fool I am.<br />Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-1935157321464477162015-12-09T04:00:00.000-08:002015-12-09T04:00:11.967-08:00His WordsHe would whisper<br />In my ear in<br />The most unexpected<br />Places, the most<br />Unexpected times.<br /><br />His words would<br />Beat against my ear drums<br />As crowds pressed us<br />Together as we waited<br />For a concert to begin.<br /><br />His words would<br />Break my concentration<br />As I sat at my desk<br />Working on a budger<br />Or something work related.<br /><br />His words would<br />Wrap theselves around<br />My attention and<br />Pull it violently away<br />From what triviality<br />I was lot in.<br /><br />His words never<br />Changed, never morphed<br />Into anything else<br />And still when I heard<br />Them a smile wormed<br />My face.<br /><br />Then his words<br />Would become my words<br />As I whispered<br />Them back with<br />Equal sincerity<br />That was never <br />Lost on him.<br /><br />His words.<br />My words.<br />Our words.<br />I love you.Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-73564202964364044792015-12-07T04:00:00.000-08:002015-12-07T04:00:13.506-08:00Held OnHe held on to me<br />As the golden raays<br />Of the morning sun<br />Turned Sharp and white<br />Then dull and golden<br />Again.<br /><br />I should be dead,<br />Instead, she lay<br />Motionless, somewhere<br />In this building of<br />Life and death.<br /><br />He held onto me<br />As though I was<br />A life preserver<br />But he was mine.<br /><br />I held onto him<br />When the hearaging<br />Didn't stop. When <br />the doctors and nurses<br />Buzzed around like<br />Inhabitants of a disturbed<br />Hive, he held onto me.<br /><br />I survived but<br />She didn't, she<br />Slipped through my hands<br />And fell into death's<br />And before I could<br />Get to know her,<br />She was gone.<br /><br />It was as the<br />Shadows stretched<br />Till they became one,<br />That the tears came.<br />One, then two, then<br />My ace, his face<br />Was awash<br />With tears.<br /><br />And we held on,<br />Even as sobs<br />Caused tremors<br />In our bodies<br />We held on<br />To each other.<br /><br />The tears would dry,<br />The sobs would be<br />Silenced. The pain<br />Would recede from<br />Sharp to dull<br />And we will try<br />Again, but for now<br />We held onto each<br />Other.Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-42720946569248490362015-12-04T04:00:00.000-08:002015-12-04T04:00:13.935-08:00A Monster<i>I feel like</i><br />
<i>A monster.</i><br />
<br />
The light streaming<br />
Through the gap in<br />
The window turned<br />
Innocuous dust motes<br />
Into stars. I wondered<br />
If actual stars were<br />
Really dust motes<br />
Floating in someone<br />
Else's space.<br />
<br />
<i>Are you</i><br />
<i>A monster?</i><br />
<br />
I looked across at<br />
Dr. ..., his head tilted<br />
As though he was<br />
Reading the pad<br />
He always held,<br />
But he was looking<br />
Up at me over his<br />
Glasses.<br />
<br />
<i>Do I look like</i><br />
<i>A monster?</i><br />
<br />
We were prone to<br />
Doing this, answering<br />
Questions with questions,<br />
I'm sure to normal people<br />
This would be irritating<br />
But to us, it was normal.<br />
<br />
A minute passed.<br />
<i>What does it</i><br />
<i>Look like?</i><br />
<i>A monster?</i><br />
<br />
I reached out and<br />
Grabbed a handful of<br />
Stars. The action would<br />
Have looked peculiar.<br />
Perhaps it was.<br />
<br />
<i>It has horns,</i><br />
<i>And red eyes,</i><br />
<i>Pointed teeth,</i><br />
<i>And terrible </i><br />
<i>Skin.</i><br />
<br />
I squeezed my hand,<br />
Imagining stars, moons,<br />
Planets and little itty<br />
Bitty people being<br />
Crushed in my little<br />
Hand.<br />
<br />
<i>What if I said</i><br />
<i>It looks like a</i><br />
<i>Woman with</i><br />
<i>Grey eyes and</i><br />
<i>A disarming</i><br />
<i>Smile.</i><br />
<br />
I smiled.<br />
<i>Are you calling</i><br />
<i>Me a monster?</i><br />
<br />
He didn't answer,<br />
He wrote on the<br />
Notepad he always<br />
Held during our<br />
Sessions. The thick<br />
Glass separating<br />
Him from me.<br />
<br />
Perhaps, I am<br />
A monster. Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-18965609556422104582015-12-02T04:00:00.000-08:002015-12-02T04:00:06.740-08:00Feels HeavyMy pen feels<br />Heavy today and<br />As I force it<br />Down upon the paper,<br />It sputters ink<br />Here and there,<br />Thoughts splutter<br />With no rhyme<br />Or reason, just<br />Thoughts.<br /><br />My pen feels<br />Heavy today and<br />It feels as though<br />A wall was built<br />Between my muse<br />And me.<br />Free her,<br />Free me,<br />Free us!<br /><br />Let our words flow<br />Like rivers older<br />Than time, older<br />Than the existence<br />of creatures that<br />Quench their thirsts<br />In the ever flowing<br />Waters.<br /><br />Let my words be<br />Unshackled from<br />The heavy chains that<br />Hold them down in the<br />Muck of silence,<br />Let them be free.<br /><br />Free them,<br />Let them not be<br />Held back by mine,<br />Own fears, mine own<br />Doubts fed by<br />The words of others.<br /><br />These words are not<br />Mine, they never were,<br />They were stories<br />Of their own making<br />And I am but<br />A tool, nothing more<br />Than a pen, a type-<br />Writer.<br /><br />My pen feels<br />Heavy today and<br />Still I put it<br />To paper, I let<br />Thoughts sputter<br />Across it until <br />They make sense,<br />Then again....<br /><br />Then again,<br />Do they have<br />To make sense.Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-342856000479336932015-11-30T04:00:00.000-08:002015-11-30T04:00:06.264-08:00The PriceOpen up your heart,<br />She banged on the door,<br />The pain of striking it<br />Shot up her arm and<br />Still she struck it<br />Again.<br /><br />To her, the pain<br />Was nothing in comparison<br />To the pain she<br />Felt in her heart.<br /><br />A pain that wormed<br />Its way into the<br />Tight spaces in her<br />Chest and squeezed<br />The one organ that<br />Made life possible.<br /><br />I love you, you know.<br />Her striking the door<br />Ceased and in the<br />Silence, she spoke<br />Her truth.<br /><br />It made her feel<br />Naked, her skin<br />Exposed to his<br />Possible rejection.<br /><br />The door opened and<br />He stood in the doorway,<br />His eyes searching her face,<br />Her soul.<br /><br />Do you really?<br />Say it again,<br />When she did,<br />He smiled.<br /><br />Taking her hand, he<br />Pulled her into an<br />Embrace.<br /><br />I don't love you,<br />His words were<br />Whispers in her ear.<br /><br />He stepped back<br />And closed the door.<br />She stood, jaw slack,<br />Spirit crushed.<br /><br />Was this the price<br />Of being vulnerable,<br />Of loving a man,<br />Of walking in her truth?<br />Was it worth the price.<br /><br />Turning around and<br />Walking away from<br />His front door, she<br />Closed her heart,<br />And with it the<br />Pain. For her,<br />The price was too high.Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-34104431108007550292015-11-27T04:00:00.000-08:002015-11-27T04:00:01.608-08:00His SmileHis smile never reached<br />His eyes, instead it<br />Was oily and as a<br />Result my smile was<br />Slow in coming.<br /><br />His smile set off<br />A chain reaction of<br />Disgust in me as it<br />Made me feel as though<br />He was stripping me<br />Bare with his eyes.<br /><br />A smile is supposed<br />To make people happy<br />But his, his was<br />The Rumpelstiltskin kind<br />Of smile and I<br />Was grateful I had<br />No hay to spin to gold.<br /><br />His smile did him<br />No favours and I<br />Was grateful when<br />It faded away in<br />Disappointment when<br />For the tenth time<br />I said that I<br />Was not interested.<br /><br />His smile was<br />The one smile<br />I never missed.<br />Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-18272185839366031852015-11-25T04:00:00.000-08:002015-11-25T04:00:03.020-08:00Of TimeWith each passing day,<br />
A jewel formed on<br />
One of the many chains<br />
That hung about her.<br />
<br />
It was not long<br />
Before they weighed<br />
Her down, curling<br />
And folding her body.<br />
<br />
It was as though<br />
Time was returning her<br />
To the earth with<br />
Each trinket<br />
Representing a day.<br />
<br />
It was not long<br />
Before her existence<br />
Was reduced to<br />
Her bearing the pain.<br />
<br />
But one day it<br />
Was too much<br />
And she fell under<br />
The weight, crashing<br />
Down to the earth.<br />
<br />
Time paid no heed<br />
And more jewels appeared<br />
'til she disappeared<br />
Under the trinkets<br />
Of time.Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-84078953429296242015-11-23T03:00:00.000-08:002015-11-23T03:00:09.548-08:00The Arena<br />
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<br />
In the center<br />Of the arena<br />They stood, a<br />Mindless throng<br />Yelling at them<br />To do the <br />Unspeakable.<br /><br />They looked one<br />Another over,<br />Trying to determine<br />If one or the <br />Other will leave<br />The arena alive.<br /><br />One uttered words<br />That were a mess<br />Of sounds to the<br />Other. They did<br />Not even speak<br />The same language.<br /><br />Strangers being<br />Forced to kill<br />Strangers.<br /><br />With the energy<br />Of the mad crowd<br />About them,<br />They attached,<br />Not out of anger,<br />Not out of malice,<br />But out of the need<br />To survive.<br /><br />Before long, one<br />Was struck down,<br />And with the crowds<br />insistence the other<br />Rendered his opponent<br />Lifeless.<br /><br />As the arena<br />Grew quiet,<br />A sense of clarity<br />Descended upon<br />The survivor.<br />Small hands released<br />The bloodied axe.<br />The child fell<br />To its knees.<br /><br />They were but<br />Children, not quite<br />Men and women,<br />And yet they were<br />Forced to do<br />What we are<br />Reluctant to do.<br /><br />As he wept<br />Over the slain<br />Child, a girl<br />Who would never<br />Become a woman,<br />A guard scooped<br />Him up.<br /><br />The guard would not<br />Return him to the<br />Cage that had been<br />His home. He<br />Would be taken<br />To the barracks,<br />He would become<br />A soldier, serving<br />The empire.<br /><br />But before he<br />Ever serves his<br />Country, the empire,<br />The child had to<br />Lose his soul.<br />
<br />
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Image Credit: <a href="http://galleryhip.com/spartacus-arena-fight.html" target="_blank">galleryhip</a>Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-23806595962302438052015-11-20T03:00:00.000-08:002015-11-20T03:00:01.089-08:00UntitledHis body was<br />Nothing but a silhouette<br />Among the shadows.<br /><br />If I knew not<br />That he was there,<br />I would think him<br />An illusion formed<br />By an over-active mind.<br /><br />He sat beside me<br />And the heat<br />Emanated from his body<br />Made me wonder if<br />He had absorbed the heat<br />Of the sun and now<br />It was seeping <br />Away into the cool<br />Night.<br /><br />Yet when I touched him,<br />When our bodies<br />Became one, he was<br />Cool to the touch.<br />It was my body,<br />He said, that was<br />Heated.<br /><br />It was not long<br />Before both bodies<br />Became heated, minds<br />Lost in a pre-climatic<br />Trance. The mind,<br />Body, soul enveloped<br />In a singular gasp.<br /><br />Falling apart,<br />Bodies spent,<br />Minds drifting to<br />Parts unknown,<br />We reached for each<br />Other. An intimacy<br />Followed by an intimacy.<br /><br />One kinetic.<br />One latent.<br />Both connecting us<br />To each other,<br />To this moment,<br />Which quickly slipped<br />Away to slumber.<br /><br />From the shadows<br />He came,<br />In my arms,<br />He remained.<br />Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-66976389239737662822015-11-18T03:00:00.000-08:002015-11-18T03:00:01.148-08:00When I Grow UpWhen I grow up<br />I want to be different.<br />I want to be the<br />Person people point at<br />And say, “Wow.”<br /><br />When I grow up<br />I want to hold life<br />By the hair and swing<br />It around and around<br />'Til it got dizzy<br />And puked all my desires.<br /><br />When I grow up<br />I want it all to be<br />Sweetness and light<br />Edged with a darkness,<br />So dark it rivaled<br />Black holes.<br /><br />When I grow up<br />I want the sun<br />To shine unto my face<br />And the breeze to<br />Lick the sweat from<br />My brow.<br /><br />When I grow up<br />I want it all<br />To make sense,<br />That I would understand<br />Why people claimed<br />Their sadness.<br /><br />From the outside,<br />I appear to have<br />Grown up, but<br />It isn't what<br />I thought it<br />Would be.<br /><br />Somehow, I get<br />The feeling that<br />Someone is lying,<br />Is it me or<br />Is it society?<br /><br />Somehow, in the depths<br />Of me, I believe<br />That the truth is<br />Buried under the many<br />Layers of crud placed<br />Lovingly around me<br />By those who<br />“Know better.”<br /><br />So I believe<br />I am still growing,<br />A plant buried<br />In a seed<br />Buried in the earth.<br />And when I grow<br />Up, I will make<br />Life puke all<br />My desires.<br />Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-19864427405517226642015-11-16T03:00:00.000-08:002015-11-16T03:00:02.521-08:00Pay Day<span style="font-size: small;"><i>This is my contribution to a challenge put on by two friends, <a href="https://whatthehellisreal.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Random Michelle</a> and <a href="https://charlieroots.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Charlie Roots</a>, called Zombie Apocalypse 268. For more information on the challenge, visit <a href="https://whatthehellisreal.wordpress.com/2015/11/01/zombie-apocalypse-268-flash-fiction-challenge/" target="_blank">Random Michelle</a>. </i></span><br />
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<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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-<br />
<br />
“Peaches?” it is just above a whisper. “Where you, Peaches?”<br />
<br />
“Donovan?” I push the chair out, forcing my co-worker to step back. “Donovan, you not a zombie?”<br />
<br />
“Do I look like a zombie?” he replies, watching me get out of my hiding place.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“You not glad I come look for you?” Donovan has the heart to say. “I coulda left you 'lone to face dem.”<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
Seeing the shocked expression on Donovan's face, I ask, “What?” as I disconnect the call.<br />
“You nuh 'ear?” He responds. “Cheryl pregnant.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Lets go,” I say at last. “We'll give her a decent burial when we get a chance,” I lie.<br />
<br />
“Where we going?” Donovan asks, not making a move to go. He isn't the smartest man to put on a security uniform.<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I put a bullet in her head. The kick of the gun new to my small hands but I could get used to it. <br />
Looking back at Donovan, I hear her drop to the floor like a sack of garbage. “You sure?”<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
Image Credit: <a href="http://www.allmystery.de/themen/uh43048-4832" target="_blank">Bilder</a>Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-3836416206116356492015-11-13T04:00:00.000-08:002015-11-13T04:00:04.866-08:00Strands of Hair<br />
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<br />
The strands of hair<br />Curl and coil<br />This way and that,<br />Refusing to stay<br />Straight, to fall<br />Luxuriously down<br />One's back.<br /><br />The strands of hair<br />Stand out in a<br />Tangled mess as<br />Fairies go about<br />The business of knotting<br />A few out of idleness<br />Or vindictiveness.<br />Either case, thy leave<br />Behind knots.<br /><br />The strands of hair<br />Never heard of gravity<br />But soon discover<br />Whey they are braided<br />Together and soon<br />They are aware of<br />The Law.<br /><br />The strands of hair<br />Are rebels and misfits,<br />Hated and loved,<br />They are my own<br />And are me, the hair,<br />They come together<br />To make my crown.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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Image Credit: <a href="http://www.dopeblackart.com/" target="_blank">Dope Black Art</a>Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-56225268409426092192015-11-11T04:00:00.000-08:002015-11-11T04:00:07.190-08:00Imperfect<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
I'm not perfect.<br />I'm not beautifully<br />Constructed with<br />Bone, Muscles,<br />Blood, Organs<br />And sinews.<br />My imperfection<br />Is so evident,<br />Can you not see it?<br /><br />I'm not perfect.<br />I don't continually<br />Walk in the light<br />Of self confidence,<br />Half the time,<br />I shiver with<br />Insecurities as I<br />Walk blindly into<br />The unknown.<br />Can you not feel<br />My fears.<br /><br />I'm not perfect.<br />I can never be<br />Perfect for the <br />Word itself is<br />Conceptual with<br />No true example<br />Existing in<br />The world.<br /><br />Each flower has<br />Its blemish.<br />Each man,<br />His flaws<br />And yet everything,<br />Everyone is<br />Perfect in their<br />Imperfection.<br /><br />In my imperfection,<br />I have room to<br />Grow, to reach<br />Beyond the limitations<br />I place on myself,<br />Placed on me by others.<br /><br />I am no perfect.<br />I am gloriously<br />Imperfect.<br />
<br />
<br />
Image Credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jacquelineharriet/6984026032/" target="_blank">Jacqueline Harriet</a>Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-8531454272845885412015-11-09T04:00:00.000-08:002015-11-09T04:00:06.664-08:00Samuel and Jessie<br />
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<br />
Samuel and Jessie<br />Lived at the end<br />Of the block.<br /><br />He had a shock<br />Of black hair<br />That seemed to rule<br />Him more than he<br />Ruled it.<br /><br />He would walk<br />The dog, always<br />Waving at a neighbour<br />Or speaking at length<br />With one or another.<br /><br />He would be seen<br />Every morning navigating<br />His beat up Toyota<br />On the way to work.<br /><br />We never say her,<br />He physical description<br />Fading like an old<br />Photograph, making<br />Her features soft and<br />Blurry to our mind's eye.<br /><br />I think she used <br />To garden, her small<br />Figure kneeling down<br />As she planted, pruned<br />And tended flowers<br />That were now neglected.<br /><br />One day,<br />A woman came to the<br />Door, asking if<br />We had seen<br />Her sister, Jessie.<br /><br />Then a police officer<br />Holding up a picture<br />Of a woman who<br />Looked like the<br />Jessie who lived<br />At the end of the block.<br /><br />They eventually found her,<br />Jessie's remains were<br />Found buried in the<br />Basement. Samuel<br />Was carted away in<br />A squad car, wrist<br />Bound, eyes haunting.<br /><br />Samuel and Jessie<br />Lived at the end<br />Of the block.<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Image Credit: <a href="http://imageback.com/4936" target="_blank">ImageBack</a></span>Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617069594261001276.post-51716433936393931972015-11-04T03:00:00.000-08:002015-11-04T03:00:05.389-08:00Let Me In<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Let me be lost<br />
In the forest<br />
Of your thoughts.<br />
<br />
Hopefully, I will<br />
Find some sense<br />
Of understanding<br />
That will make<br />
What we are doing<br />
Make some kind<br />
Of sense.<br />
<br />
Yet you keep<br />
Me locked out,<br />
Never to see<br />
You in your<br />
Entirety, to see<br />
Your complexities.<br />
<br />
And somehow,<br />
I was still able<br />
To find something<br />
To love, as well<br />
As something to hate.<br />
<br />
Perhaps that is<br />
What makes what<br />
We share so<br />
Special.<br />
<br />
I love to hate you<br />
And I hate to love you.<br />
<br />
Let me in<br />
Or let me out,<br />
Let me in<br />
Or let me be.<br />
Let me in.<br />
<br />
<br />
Image Credit: <a href="http://imageback.com/" target="_blank">Imageback</a> Kimolisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16624029898830661332noreply@blogger.com2