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.

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

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

A Day To Remember

source

I saw tomorrow
Through the wispy
Clouds of today
And every time
I reached forward
To grasp it,
It dissolved
Into today.

That is
Until the day
I met Jessop,
A string bean
Of a man
Who wasted
Neither words
Nor penny.

A man who's
Deeds spoke
Louder and coarser
Than he could even
With lips and tongues.

In simple words
He told me
That tomorrow
Was never mine
To have.

In his estimation,
Tomorrow didn't exist
But a concept
In the minds of men
Who have never
Come to terms with
Today.

I scoffed at
His words as
Nothing more than
His personal,
Skewed view
Of the world.

Then I got
To thinking,
Which led me
To figuring that
Part of what
Jessop said made
Some kinda sense.

Tomorrow will never
Be had. I will
Never feel tomorrow's
Sun on my skin.

Even if tomorrow came,
It would not be
Called tomorrow,
It will be today.

No matter
How I turn it,
I can only control
Today.

So I put aside
My desire for tomorrow,
I rolled up my sleeves
And got to work
On today,
This day and
When the next comes,
I will work on
That, too.

I now work
On making today
A good day,
A day to remember.

Lost In The Smoke

source

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A future without the wife
I didn't love.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Words On Screen - Little Red Hoodie

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

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

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

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

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

Hope everyone is having a great week.

OXOX
Kimolisa

Ache

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Looking Back

source

I looked back at her

And through the mist,

I could not recognize her.

She used to be my everything,

The sun that drenched

Me with warmth
When the cold chilled
My bones.

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

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

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

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

Waiting

source

Waiting,

Patiently waiting

For the doctor to

Return with the results.

Waiting,

Waiting for my life

To continue or quickly

Unravel and forever

Become undone.

I've waited before,

Every test known

To me having been

Done and still I'm

Waiting.

Before I would be

Worried, scared,

Anxious, but that was

Before. 

Now, I'm

Impatient and want

To get it over with.

I want to know

And move pass this.

Whatever this is.

Then again,

This is life.

Queens Speech [video]

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

Heat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A heat only
A man and a woman
Could make.

I Love You - Spoken Word

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

Pointing At Me

source

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Meeting Andy

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Her."

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

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

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

"Look, kid...."

"Andy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's nice meeting
You, Andy."

It's Complicated

source

"It's complicated."

She sat in the middle

Of my living room,

In the middle of my

Life's debris, reading

A book.

"What's complicated?"

I asked, I always had

A problem called

Curiosity.

Looking up for a second,

Before returning to her book,

"Everything.

Everything is complicated,"

She said, matter-of-factly.

I felt the beginnings of

A deep conversation

And I wondered if

I was prepared to go

To a place she knew

Very well.

I was not prone to

Heavy thoughts, I 

Left philosophy to the

Likes of Socrates, Plato

And her, 

The woman 

Who would wear 

A top that skimmed

Her hips with nothing

But panties while 

Reading Nietzsche.

"Everything is complicated

Because we can't handle

Simple."

She decided to take 

The reins and lead me

Down the path.

"We can't imagine that

Life is simple so we 

Tell ourselves that it's

Complicated."

She caught my interest

So I sat down to listen.

"If given the choice

Between simple and 

Complex, we always

Choose complex.

We love a problem to

Solve."

"What is a problem

You are trying to solve,"

I asked.

She looked up

And leveled her

Gaze with mine,

"I'm trying to figure

Out how to stop

Loving you."

She was right,

She was always right.

It is complicated.

See You Around

source

"What are you looking at?"

She looked up at me,

Distracted. Swimming

Upstream in her personal

River of her thoughts 

To the spot on the bank

Upon which I stood.

"Nothing, just lost

In thought," she gave 

Me a small smile.

"What are you thinking

About?" I had been here

For over an hour, trying

To engage her in some

Sort of conversation.

"Nothing of importance,"

She said after a long bout

Of silence. 

I wanted to scream,

I wanted to shout,

I wanted to take her

By her shoulders and

Shake her, instead 

I said "Oh."

She was looking out

Of the window again,

And I felt dismissed.

"Well, I have some 

Errands to run, so

I will see you around,"

I said making my way

To the door.

"See you around,"

She said without looking.

I never saw her around,

As time passed, it was something 

That didn't impact on me.

Somehow when I closed 

The door that last time,

I closed it for good.

Time passes and people

Grow apart and that's life.

Even the people you thought

Would be in your life forever

They, too, fade away.


Submitted to imaginary garden with real toads and dVerse Poets

Untitled

source

I never thought
Of myself as
Alone.

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

I never understood
The word
Lonely.

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

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

I Found The World

source

I found the world

Beautiful, today

As I stood on 

The edge of Today

Looking out to 

Tomorrow.

No matter how

Long I looked

I could not see

Beyond the gray

Clouds that hung

Close to the horizon.

Eventually,

I grew tired of

Trying to see what

The future held,

Choosing to use 

My imagination.

In the depths of

My gray matter,

I built a world

Filled with splendid

Wonders that

Had be yearning 

For them to become

Reality.

Soon, my imaginings

Became more than

Dreams to entertain

And delight me,

They became the 

Blueprint for the 

World I wanted to create.

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

I found the world
Beautiful, today.

He Paints

 source

He paints.

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

Paints?
Paints what?
Paints houses?
Paints cars?

She would roll her eyes,
Bored of the conversation.

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

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

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

He paints.

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

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

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

He paints.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does not paint,
He performs miracles.

Sacred Moon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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