Exit 185
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
"Washington couldn't tell a lie, Nixon couldn't tell the truth and Reagan couldn't tell the difference."- Mort Sahl
So I wrote this poem about going home. Wanna see it? Well, here is the first draft. It's going to need some revisions, in fact I'm thinking about making it two separate poems. I'll post the revision eventually.
So I wrote this poem about going home. Wanna see it? Well, here is the first draft. It's going to need some revisions, in fact I'm thinking about making it two separate poems. I'll post the revision eventually.
Exit 185
The mile marker hadn’t changed.
The curve last hiding slope, its median sidled
with man-made forests to the middle
and nature’s wooded barrier
on the right has not changed
from the so many trips—from different cities
away from different reasons—that I had
made before. I’d gun the engine, free
from highway patrol officers, close
to home. The slope becomes
shallower, shorter. The sensations grip
my nerves as my fingernails dig
into the steering wheel: excitement
insecurity, love, separation.
At the top of the hill, the highway meanders
slightly to the right and straightens. The viaduct
before me and the fork with secret intuition
invites me to come home. The world stops
at Exit 185. The raft of concrete connecting
the lands separated by highway
is void of obstacles, yet my worldliness
is imprisoned; the world does not permeate
these borders. Two turns and I’m disturbed
at the most recent capitalist broken attempts
to modernize this microcosm—vivid signs
offering gas, thirty-one flavors, chicken, waffles—
a designer gown on a hooker. I speed
beyond them and, after a combination
of turns and straight distances, measured relief
stills my core before my long ago
dwelling-place of my youth.
When I was a girl standing outside
only the stars interrupted
the navy-violet void
two young trees appeared
as strong weeds towering
over a blend of green and tan fauna.
Tonight those trees separate my view
from the velvet sky. I’m surprised
they came from barely nothing
to exceeding my expectations.
Time did this to the trees
but what did time do to me?
Age lines my eyes and layers my body
weighs my mind and darkens my youthful
dreams with years of forlorn melancholy.
I have lived away from these woods
these woes once entrapped turned
to musings of fear unremembered.
Years interrupt my childhood from this night.
The astral light bulbs sprawl the sky, my
favorite night light casts a translucent sheet
of bright periwinkle about all I see.
The relations between earth and sky
are amiable, on one accord
and I agree with them.
My pupils widen, my vision
bullets beyond the tree limbs
into the stars, all muses of serenity.
No wild gusts of youth to blow away
my still and certain spirit. Those days
have matured to lessons, secrets of a woman.
Labels: My Writing, Poetry, Thoughts
This Is Not A Threat. I Swear!
Monday, December 10, 2007
"It is always the best policy to speak the truth, unless, of course, you are an exceptionally good liar."- Jerome K. Jerome
Well, after what seemed like a thousand years with no ISP service (the sons of nasty dogs went bankrupt "out of the blue") and another two thousand years with very slow service, my college is up and running. Not soon enough since it is our freaking exam week.
Well, after what seemed like a thousand years with no ISP service (the sons of nasty dogs went bankrupt "out of the blue") and another two thousand years with very slow service, my college is up and running. Not soon enough since it is our freaking exam week.
SCREAMING!
So, of course, this note is obviously short. Can I just say that my Creative Writing class has no sense of humor? See if you get the gist of this poem. Then I'm leaving. Senior Seminar final in the morning and I don't know what I'm going to write!
SCREAMING!
SCREAMING!
SCREAMING!
Okay, here's the poem:
Scheduled
Smile you will
or frown someday
when you don’t glance
at the clock after
you hear the quiet slam
of the door against jamb
to know who came home.
Smile you will
or sigh perhaps
when you walk
to the dining room not
because she told you, but
because you hear
the oven door close
smell melted butter
on baked yeast or meal
in her cast iron skillet.
Someday you glance,
hear who will sigh,
perhaps you
hear the door
and smell her
while you discover there are
three definitions of “funk” on page 723.
The answer to the next question is
“page 719.”
Smile you will
or frown someday
when you don’t glance
at the clock after
you hear the quiet slam
of the door against jamb
to know who came home.
Smile you will
or sigh perhaps
when you walk
to the dining room not
because she told you, but
because you hear
the oven door close
smell melted butter
on baked yeast or meal
in her cast iron skillet.
Someday you glance,
hear who will sigh,
perhaps you
hear the door
and smell her
while you discover there are
three definitions of “funk” on page 723.
The answer to the next question is
“page 719.”
Labels: Humor, It Really Happened, Poetry, Screaming
What Has Been Going on with Me
Sunday, April 29, 2007
"He who dies with the most toys is, nonetheless, still dead." - Anon.
"Lawsuit, n. a machine which you go into as a pig and come out as a sausage." - Ambrose Bierce
So I've been going through a lot of things, one event that makes me feel like grieving for a part of myself (it was a very bad day). I also got the publications for which I am published in! I'm trying to decide if I'm going to send them to my father or not. You have already seen one of the pieces, and if you haven't, click here. I wish I could send one of the magazine publications to each and every one of you, because you know I love you and stuff, right? (haha) I may put the other pieces here eventually. They are just a little racy for a blog that is on a family network.
Okay, back to studying for me.
Labels: It Really Happened, Poetry
Saturday, December 23, 2006
"The trouble with some women is that they get all excited about nothing - and then marry him."
- Cher
So this is something I wrote in response to a challenge. The challenge was the poem was supposed to be about not getting something you wanted in your childhood or being disappointed about something in your childhood at Christmastime. Maybe y'all can tell me about your grumpiest Christmas--hopefully something you can look back on and laugh about. I just wrote something that came to mind, not from my personal history.
Enjoy!
“He’s real! He’s real! I know it for sure!
I know he’s as real as the snow is pure!”
Some idiotic parent told their kids the truth
and now I’m dealing with dreams gone poof.
“Honey, Santa’s real. You’re the one who’s right,
but only by faith, not by touch, not by sight.
He’s real in the snowflakes, he’s real in the stars.
But most of all, honey, he’s real in our hearts.”
I could bear no more as I saw a trail appear
upon that cherubic cheek from one single tear.
Her eyebrows furrowed when she said, “Aw, shucks.
How else will my lil’ brother get those Tonka trucks?”
- Cher
So this is something I wrote in response to a challenge. The challenge was the poem was supposed to be about not getting something you wanted in your childhood or being disappointed about something in your childhood at Christmastime. Maybe y'all can tell me about your grumpiest Christmas--hopefully something you can look back on and laugh about. I just wrote something that came to mind, not from my personal history.
Enjoy!
“He’s real! He’s real! I know it for sure!
I know he’s as real as the snow is pure!”
Some idiotic parent told their kids the truth
and now I’m dealing with dreams gone poof.
“Honey, Santa’s real. You’re the one who’s right,
but only by faith, not by touch, not by sight.
He’s real in the snowflakes, he’s real in the stars.
But most of all, honey, he’s real in our hearts.”
I could bear no more as I saw a trail appear
upon that cherubic cheek from one single tear.
Her eyebrows furrowed when she said, “Aw, shucks.
How else will my lil’ brother get those Tonka trucks?”
Labels: My Writing, Poetry
I Screamed
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
"The best prescription is knowledge."- Dr. C. Everett Koop, M.D.
I thought that this poem might be appropriate. My stats say that this would mark my 200th post. I beg to differ since I've posted more than one unoriginal thought. This is my poem, though, and I hope it awakens you. I have to remind myself that this is a calling I made within me for so many reasons. I hope this inspires you as much as it inspires me.
I Screamed
I screamed.
I screamed at the whole, wide world.
I screamed at a handful of people.
I screamed at myself.
I screamed at the ruthless nemesis that lies within.
My scream opened at the dark, hovering, clouds
Getting some spirits’ attention.
My scream cracked the earth’s crust
Informing some demons to take notice.
My scream reached through time
Angry at my forefathers’ slack
Demanding my offspring that of excellence
Exclaiming one to have wanted more
The other to accept no less.
My scream reached
Through dendrites
Through capillaries
Through epidermis
To atoms
My scream adjusted spirit.
My scream adjusted soul.
My scream adjusted consciousness.
My scream shook them.
My scream funneled them.
My scream made them agree
That enough is enough.
That finger-pointing is no more.
That progress and discipline are psalms of praise.
I screamed.
I screamed.
I screamed.
I screamed.
I screamed.
Until all I could do was inhale.
I thought that this poem might be appropriate. My stats say that this would mark my 200th post. I beg to differ since I've posted more than one unoriginal thought. This is my poem, though, and I hope it awakens you. I have to remind myself that this is a calling I made within me for so many reasons. I hope this inspires you as much as it inspires me.
I Screamed
I screamed.
I screamed at the whole, wide world.
I screamed at a handful of people.
I screamed at myself.
I screamed at the ruthless nemesis that lies within.
My scream opened at the dark, hovering, clouds
Getting some spirits’ attention.
My scream cracked the earth’s crust
Informing some demons to take notice.
My scream reached through time
Angry at my forefathers’ slack
Demanding my offspring that of excellence
Exclaiming one to have wanted more
The other to accept no less.
My scream reached
Through dendrites
Through capillaries
Through epidermis
To atoms
My scream adjusted spirit.
My scream adjusted soul.
My scream adjusted consciousness.
My scream shook them.
My scream funneled them.
My scream made them agree
That enough is enough.
That finger-pointing is no more.
That progress and discipline are psalms of praise.
I screamed.
I screamed.
I screamed.
I screamed.
I screamed.
Until all I could do was inhale.
Labels: Feel Goods, My Writing, Poetry
Thanksgiving Advice
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
"A critic is a man who knows the way but can't drive the car." - Kenneth Tynan
I wasn't going to even use that quote, but it really matches well with the poem that I wrote. I hope you like it and take the advice given.
I wasn't going to even use that quote, but it really matches well with the poem that I wrote. I hope you like it and take the advice given.
Thanksgiving Advice
A day again for giving thanks,
an appreciation day in itself
but may I make a few suggestions
as you overstuff yourself?
Say grace before you begin to eat
and savor each morsel of food.
Let not your heart be troubled.
Keep good spirits and a good mood.
Take a reflective look around
at all who sit at the table.
Appreciate all who are present.
Reflect on who is no longer able.
Place your heart before your tongue.
Pass the love when you pass the sauce.
No complaints this day about your job;
some people wish they had a boss.
Be joyous at this grateful time
and Happy Thanksgiving Day.
Go to bed early and set your clock
for Friday is Shopping Day!
Labels: Humor, My Writing, Poetry
I'm in Love with a Dead Poet
Saturday, September 23, 2006
And this is the reason why:
THEME FOR ENGLISH B
By Langston Hughes
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you---
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me---we two---you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York too.) Me---who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records---Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be a part of you, instructor.
You are white---
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me---
although you're older---and white---
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
THEME FOR ENGLISH B
By Langston Hughes
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you---
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me---we two---you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York too.) Me---who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records---Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be a part of you, instructor.
You are white---
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me---
although you're older---and white---
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
Labels: Poetry
What I Wrote
Thursday, August 17, 2006
"Chasing a dream, a dream no one else can see or understand, like running after a butterfly across an endless meadow, is extremely difficult."
- W. P. Kinsella
This is the poem that I wrote that day.
- W. P. Kinsella
This is the poem that I wrote that day.
My heart shed tears
clear yet warm
pure with no malice free and imprisoned
no need to reason
no need for reason
occurring so long ago
one
four
seven
ninety-one
the number so long now
tears need no reason
only a sense
only a sound
for the leak to begin
from deep within
the source forgotten
my darling, just once
don't look at me that way.
Labels: Poetry
What You Do To Me
Monday, August 07, 2006
I happened to go on a friend's link to see what had been happening. I posted some of my work on this community. (I'm not going to put it on now. You'll just have to ask me if you want it, then I'll edit this post.) Tell me what you think. This has been edited from the original poem by one word that would make a difference. Gosh! I make it sound like I curse like a sailor and I don't. Well here is the link to the original poem. Didn't I just say I wasn't going to let y'all see that? How about I just shut up and let you read it...
what you do to me
every angst felt
is joyous
every pain
suffered tickles
every torment
avowed seems caring
every misery
endured is serene
every sorrow
cried feels funny
what you do to me
every smile
curls angry
every laugh
cries
every kiss
seems hollow
every hug
feels empty
every caress
freezes cold
what you do to me
what you do to me
every angst felt
is joyous
every pain
suffered tickles
every torment
avowed seems caring
every misery
endured is serene
every sorrow
cried feels funny
what you do to me
every smile
curls angry
every laugh
cries
every kiss
seems hollow
every hug
feels empty
every caress
freezes cold
what you do to me
Labels: Poetry
My Empty Heart
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Why must you tease my empty heart?
What has my heart done to you,
To slice, dice, and when you’re through,
Toss it back to me all shredded
With pain so very deeply embedded?
Why must you tease my empty heart?
I hope throughout each passing day
Your angst will somehow give way
To something peaceful, warm and pure,
So my love for you will endure.
You’ll do anything I say I fear
To keep my loving ways so near
Until your need to hurt me comes
And my heart’s love blood runs
Leaving it aching and restless.
Dam you to hell for now but, “Yes!”
I’ll say when you come again
And I’ll think dam you to hell and then
Beg for your embrace and your kiss
Feeling so much painful bliss!
Why must you tease my empty heart?
What has my heart done to you,
To slice, dice, and when you’re through,
Toss it back to me all shredded
With pain so very deeply embedded?
Why must you tease my empty heart?
I hope throughout each passing day
Your angst will somehow give way
To something peaceful, warm and pure,
So my love for you will endure.
You’ll do anything I say I fear
To keep my loving ways so near
Until your need to hurt me comes
And my heart’s love blood runs
Leaving it aching and restless.
Dam you to hell for now but, “Yes!”
I’ll say when you come again
And I’ll think dam you to hell and then
Beg for your embrace and your kiss
Feeling so much painful bliss!
Why must you tease my empty heart?
Labels: My Writing, Poetry
Stream of Consciousness
Friday, July 07, 2006
"A loving person lives in a loving world. A hostile person lives in a hostile world: everyone you meet is your mirror."
- Ken Keyes, Jr.
Another thought that crossed my mind... try to read it; you will not be disappointed, so I'm told.
Everyone can see a perfectly healthy woman on a summer day standing before the building but nobody can see what I saw inside myself where I the grown woman was walking leisurely the little girl inside me was screaming and begging no no no please no I don’t wanna go I don’t like it in here this is where my mommy fell asleep and she never woke up why would you force me to go inside this place where people don’t wake up I don’t understand I hear her wailing and my eyes well with tears knowing that I wanted to do what others could not see the little girl doing she was screaming and falling out at the threshold begging not to go inside I do not want to go to sleep and never wake up I do not want to see that happening to anyone else anymore ever ever again and you can’t make me go in there I don’t want to go please please I hear her pleading and screaming as if her life surely depended on it and I know her life and my life depended on walking through this door that I stand before I slow my breath and lasso my pounding heart to calm myself yet the little girl that nobody sees but me balls up in the middle of the floor like a frightened animal then kicks and screams as she wails I don’t want to go and you can not make me I know what’s in there and I don’t wanna go I don’t wanna go nowannago nowannago nonononononono her screaming pierces my ears and in my mind I press my hands against my ears to muffle the screams I then close my eyes as I stand there fighting with myself fighting with the little girl in me we have got to do this Tweety we have got to there is no turning back I can’t sit here with you and coddle you now listen to me little girl we have got to go now please baby just calm yourself down and pick yourself up you will not have to go to sleep baby I promise nobody is going to do what happened to your mommy I promise you if you can just please shhhhh I hug the little girl and I cry with her I can’t help it because that little girl is doing what I want to do except I cannot because I am that perfectly healthy womanon a summer day that everyone else can see and not the little girl that I can see inside me the perfectly healthy woman on a summer day that everyone else sees wraps her arms around herself as everyone else sees but as we walk inside the hospital I see the little girl I am holding in my arms she is exhausted and whispers in a hoarse raspy whimper nowanna nowanna nowanna go
- Ken Keyes, Jr.
Another thought that crossed my mind... try to read it; you will not be disappointed, so I'm told.
Everyone can see a perfectly healthy woman on a summer day standing before the building but nobody can see what I saw inside myself where I the grown woman was walking leisurely the little girl inside me was screaming and begging no no no please no I don’t wanna go I don’t like it in here this is where my mommy fell asleep and she never woke up why would you force me to go inside this place where people don’t wake up I don’t understand I hear her wailing and my eyes well with tears knowing that I wanted to do what others could not see the little girl doing she was screaming and falling out at the threshold begging not to go inside I do not want to go to sleep and never wake up I do not want to see that happening to anyone else anymore ever ever again and you can’t make me go in there I don’t want to go please please I hear her pleading and screaming as if her life surely depended on it and I know her life and my life depended on walking through this door that I stand before I slow my breath and lasso my pounding heart to calm myself yet the little girl that nobody sees but me balls up in the middle of the floor like a frightened animal then kicks and screams as she wails I don’t want to go and you can not make me I know what’s in there and I don’t wanna go I don’t wanna go nowannago nowannago nonononononono her screaming pierces my ears and in my mind I press my hands against my ears to muffle the screams I then close my eyes as I stand there fighting with myself fighting with the little girl in me we have got to do this Tweety we have got to there is no turning back I can’t sit here with you and coddle you now listen to me little girl we have got to go now please baby just calm yourself down and pick yourself up you will not have to go to sleep baby I promise nobody is going to do what happened to your mommy I promise you if you can just please shhhhh I hug the little girl and I cry with her I can’t help it because that little girl is doing what I want to do except I cannot because I am that perfectly healthy womanon a summer day that everyone else can see and not the little girl that I can see inside me the perfectly healthy woman on a summer day that everyone else sees wraps her arms around herself as everyone else sees but as we walk inside the hospital I see the little girl I am holding in my arms she is exhausted and whispers in a hoarse raspy whimper nowanna nowanna nowanna go
Labels: My Writing, Poetry
On Waking Up Before Dawn
Monday, July 03, 2006
Doing what I dread is easier, somehow than conquering fear. I don't mind fear, it's what keeps us sensible, dread though, that is something that I have to face and acknowledge.
----
Carrie
A young woman whose talents are absolutely amazing sent me a poem. I want to share it with you. I know she is an older teenager who has been writing for years who has a clean simplicity that is not to be fooled because of the messages behind them. Here is some of her other online poetry. (WARNING: THE LINK IS ON AN ADULT WEBSITE, BUT YOU WILL NOT BE BLATANTLY EXPOSED TO ANYTHING SEXUAL IF YOU SCROLL DOWN TO HER POETRY.) I hope you will enjoy this piece and will be inspired to read, and comment on, some of her work.
Thank you, Carrie, for sharing this with me. I am one of your biggest fans, darlin.
On Waking Up Before Dawn
I wish that I will never return
to that place where night wraps tight
her sheets and tucks me in beneath
a star bright canopy nor watch the milky way
spill across the sky then disappear
when I close my eyes.
What's there beneath the horizon
and beyond? My Love, whisper now
and promise me there is more,
more than darkness over the edge,
more than the centre of the night,
more than cold, dark sleep.
I fear the loneliness that lies close
on the other side. I have been and back
and knew only dreamless sleep;
there is no comfort in this. Wake me
into your morning, so that I may see
the day and know the warmth of you.
----
Carrie
A young woman whose talents are absolutely amazing sent me a poem. I want to share it with you. I know she is an older teenager who has been writing for years who has a clean simplicity that is not to be fooled because of the messages behind them. Here is some of her other online poetry. (WARNING: THE LINK IS ON AN ADULT WEBSITE, BUT YOU WILL NOT BE BLATANTLY EXPOSED TO ANYTHING SEXUAL IF YOU SCROLL DOWN TO HER POETRY.) I hope you will enjoy this piece and will be inspired to read, and comment on, some of her work.
Thank you, Carrie, for sharing this with me. I am one of your biggest fans, darlin.
On Waking Up Before Dawn
I wish that I will never return
to that place where night wraps tight
her sheets and tucks me in beneath
a star bright canopy nor watch the milky way
spill across the sky then disappear
when I close my eyes.
What's there beneath the horizon
and beyond? My Love, whisper now
and promise me there is more,
more than darkness over the edge,
more than the centre of the night,
more than cold, dark sleep.
I fear the loneliness that lies close
on the other side. I have been and back
and knew only dreamless sleep;
there is no comfort in this. Wake me
into your morning, so that I may see
the day and know the warmth of you.
Labels: Poetry
I Screamed At Inhumanity
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
I screamed
My brain turned hot
My heart became a piston
Driving beyond its limits
I screamed
Angry
Saddened
Hurting
For my ancestors
For my relatives
For my offspring
I screamed
For the royalty that was stripped away from me
For the royalty that was stripped away those before me
To do the work of people who would not do it themselves
Kings and queens who were shackled and stripped
Turned from human to inhumane
From beautiful to black
Raped, whipped, and stripped
From one to three-fifths
Then finally given freedom that was stolen
Only to be raped, whipped, and stripped
Switching the torture from outside to inside
Switching the torture from physical to psychological
I screamed
Seeing my family
The kings and queens of centuries ago
Who relinquished their titles to honor much less
Drugs
Genocide
Ignorance
I screamed
Looking far
Seeing my cousins killing my other cousins
Not understanding why
But seeing my distant home being stripped of its jewels
The blood of my blood enriching the soil, poisoning the waters
Contrasts of black and white
Contrasts of beauty and fear
I screamed
Looking across the street
Seeing my cousins killing my other cousins
Not understanding why
Seeing my relatives being stripped of their inner beauty
The blood of my blood infused with drugs and abuse
Contrasts of black and black
Contrasts of beauty and ignorance
I screamed
At my children and their future
The evolution of man
From human to inhumane to nonhuman
Void of living
Void of compassion
Only an amalgamation of atoms
Swirled into a mass
Whose decisions, if based on the past,
Can produce the best of me
Can produce the worst of me
The blood of my blood flowing
From generation to generation
Hoping the atrocities will decrease
Knowing the atrocities may increase
I screamed
For the tragedy of slavery
I screamed
Remembering
Miss Evers’ Boys
I screamed
Remembering
The strange fruit
I screamed
Remembering
The Watts riots of the 60’s
I screamed
Remembering
The Watts riots of the 90’s
I screamed
For the degradation of visual, mental, and chemical genocide
I screamed
For the fear of what is to come
I screamed
Wondering if the towers were in Nigeria
Would the New York Times have posted the name of each dead person
I screamed
Wondering when the names of each soldier killed displayed in the news
Became renamed simply as troops
I screamed
Wondering when gross acts of humanity
Became normal and usual
I screamed
How inhumane
My brain turned hot
My heart became a piston
Driving beyond its limits
I screamed
I screamed
I screamed
Until all I could do was inhale
My brain turned hot
My heart became a piston
Driving beyond its limits
I screamed
Angry
Saddened
Hurting
For my ancestors
For my relatives
For my offspring
I screamed
For the royalty that was stripped away from me
For the royalty that was stripped away those before me
To do the work of people who would not do it themselves
Kings and queens who were shackled and stripped
Turned from human to inhumane
From beautiful to black
Raped, whipped, and stripped
From one to three-fifths
Then finally given freedom that was stolen
Only to be raped, whipped, and stripped
Switching the torture from outside to inside
Switching the torture from physical to psychological
I screamed
Seeing my family
The kings and queens of centuries ago
Who relinquished their titles to honor much less
Drugs
Genocide
Ignorance
I screamed
Looking far
Seeing my cousins killing my other cousins
Not understanding why
But seeing my distant home being stripped of its jewels
The blood of my blood enriching the soil, poisoning the waters
Contrasts of black and white
Contrasts of beauty and fear
I screamed
Looking across the street
Seeing my cousins killing my other cousins
Not understanding why
Seeing my relatives being stripped of their inner beauty
The blood of my blood infused with drugs and abuse
Contrasts of black and black
Contrasts of beauty and ignorance
I screamed
At my children and their future
The evolution of man
From human to inhumane to nonhuman
Void of living
Void of compassion
Only an amalgamation of atoms
Swirled into a mass
Whose decisions, if based on the past,
Can produce the best of me
Can produce the worst of me
The blood of my blood flowing
From generation to generation
Hoping the atrocities will decrease
Knowing the atrocities may increase
I screamed
For the tragedy of slavery
I screamed
Remembering
Miss Evers’ Boys
I screamed
Remembering
The strange fruit
I screamed
Remembering
The Watts riots of the 60’s
I screamed
Remembering
The Watts riots of the 90’s
I screamed
For the degradation of visual, mental, and chemical genocide
I screamed
For the fear of what is to come
I screamed
Wondering if the towers were in Nigeria
Would the New York Times have posted the name of each dead person
I screamed
Wondering when the names of each soldier killed displayed in the news
Became renamed simply as troops
I screamed
Wondering when gross acts of humanity
Became normal and usual
I screamed
How inhumane
My brain turned hot
My heart became a piston
Driving beyond its limits
I screamed
I screamed
I screamed
Until all I could do was inhale
Labels: My Writing, Poetry
I Screamed
This poem is here because I wanted to show this to someone. However, I needed to be reminded of this. Thanks for reminding me. You know who you are.
I screamed.
I screamed at the whole, wide world.
I screamed at a handful of people.
I screamed at myself.
I screamed at the ruthless nemesis that lies within.
My scream opened at the dark, hovering, clouds
Getting some spirits’ attention.
My scream cracked the earth’s crust
Informing some demons to take notice.
My scream reached through time
Angry at my forefathers’ slack
Demanding my offspring that of excellence
Exclaiming one to have wanted more
The other to accept no less.
My scream reached
Through dendrites
Through capillaries
Through epidermis
To atoms
My scream adjusted spirit.
My scream adjusted soul.
My scream adjusted consciousness.
My scream shook them.
My scream funneled them.
My scream made them agree
That enough is enough.
That finger-pointing is no more.
That progress and discipline are psalms of praise.
I screamed.
I screamed.
I screamed.
I screamed.
I screamed.
Until all I could do was inhale.
I screamed.
I screamed at the whole, wide world.
I screamed at a handful of people.
I screamed at myself.
I screamed at the ruthless nemesis that lies within.
My scream opened at the dark, hovering, clouds
Getting some spirits’ attention.
My scream cracked the earth’s crust
Informing some demons to take notice.
My scream reached through time
Angry at my forefathers’ slack
Demanding my offspring that of excellence
Exclaiming one to have wanted more
The other to accept no less.
My scream reached
Through dendrites
Through capillaries
Through epidermis
To atoms
My scream adjusted spirit.
My scream adjusted soul.
My scream adjusted consciousness.
My scream shook them.
My scream funneled them.
My scream made them agree
That enough is enough.
That finger-pointing is no more.
That progress and discipline are psalms of praise.
I screamed.
I screamed.
I screamed.
I screamed.
I screamed.
Until all I could do was inhale.
Labels: My Writing, Poetry
Antithesis
Thursday, June 08, 2006
"There comes a time in every man's life and I've had many of them…"
----
Casey Stengel
Wherever you are
you are there
and I am here
until I am there
and there is not there anymore
because there is now here.
There does not exist
where I am
because I am always here
and when I get there
I am here
and there disappears.
So you don’t miss something
until it’s gone,
but what is there to miss
if I were never there?
. . .
Everything is everything.
So nothing is nothing
and something is something.
Everything relies on something
to make that thing something
So that thing can be
a part of everything
except nothing.
Yet even nothing relies on something
to be nothing
and everything includes
a lot of somethings.
But is nothing included in everything?
Well, if nothing is nothing,
but nothing has to be something simply to be nothing,
Then nothing is a part of everything
and nothing is also the opposite of everything.
Though nothing is not a part of anything,
nothing is a part of everything!
----
Casey Stengel
Wherever you are
you are there
and I am here
until I am there
and there is not there anymore
because there is now here.
There does not exist
where I am
because I am always here
and when I get there
I am here
and there disappears.
So you don’t miss something
until it’s gone,
but what is there to miss
if I were never there?
. . .
Everything is everything.
So nothing is nothing
and something is something.
Everything relies on something
to make that thing something
So that thing can be
a part of everything
except nothing.
Yet even nothing relies on something
to be nothing
and everything includes
a lot of somethings.
But is nothing included in everything?
Well, if nothing is nothing,
but nothing has to be something simply to be nothing,
Then nothing is a part of everything
and nothing is also the opposite of everything.
Though nothing is not a part of anything,
nothing is a part of everything!
Labels: Poetry
His Windsong
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
"The supreme happiness in life is the conviction that we are loved."
----
Victor Hugo
How was I to discover
His permission was allowed
for them to fly today
and bring someone along?
How was I to comprehend
that the newly appointed team
fluttered and flitted
brimming with excitement?
how was I to sense
they had swooped up
the souls of the saddened
for the ride of their desires?
I was to discover
to comprehend
to sense
I discovered when outside
the notes of the song
gave in to an improvisation
through the rustle of buds and birds
Outside the notes of the song
drummed bass notes on the flagpole
hummed softened scats through blades of grass
the floutist’s tuned heard and breezed nearest me
But the ride revived all
for they each were given the chance
and my love, whose song had lost its tone
brushed his fingers, tussling my hair
hushed his lips over mine
meshed his cheek onto my skin
with his wind song carrier
a composition he crooned
I did come to understand
his love within the breeze.
----
Victor Hugo
How was I to discover
His permission was allowed
for them to fly today
and bring someone along?
How was I to comprehend
that the newly appointed team
fluttered and flitted
brimming with excitement?
how was I to sense
they had swooped up
the souls of the saddened
for the ride of their desires?
I was to discover
to comprehend
to sense
I discovered when outside
the notes of the song
gave in to an improvisation
through the rustle of buds and birds
Outside the notes of the song
drummed bass notes on the flagpole
hummed softened scats through blades of grass
the floutist’s tuned heard and breezed nearest me
But the ride revived all
for they each were given the chance
and my love, whose song had lost its tone
brushed his fingers, tussling my hair
hushed his lips over mine
meshed his cheek onto my skin
with his wind song carrier
a composition he crooned
I did come to understand
his love within the breeze.
Labels: Poetry
The Picture
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Something I haven't seen... a blog that just... well... blogged. Here is one from my private journal.
I was watching television when I was in the middle of a commercial when I glanced over and in an acrylic frame where someone slid a picture of my mother and I felt like I had seen it for the first time She was wearing a dark paisley bloused and she had her hair parted on one side and her hair was almost at her shoulders which is something I don’t ever remember seeing She had her shaded bifocals on and her full jaws appeared to be pressed against the inside of the magnified parts I remember when this picture was done She told me that she was at her class reunion and I think about how she must have felt because I feel the same way now thinking about how successful the other classmates are now in their lives and how I am struggling so much even though I have joy and I find myself laughing a lot at the most ridiculous things I think to myself how much of a failure I am and how much more I thought I would have for myself I see the disgust and the self-hatred in that picture that I often see of myself when I look in the mirror I see it all I see all of the people who looked at me the way my mama looked in that picture the way that so many people looked at me with hopelessness and that I would not matter to them just as she looked in that picture I can see her looking at the person looking through the lens of the camera and see the look that that person is looking at her with pity and sadness because I know that when this picture was taken though it was not visible my mama couldn’t walk and she was sitting in the chair looking at the person looking at her so sad to have seen the life that she was relegated to because the person taking the picture remembered when she was the best dancer and how she dressed so gracefully even though she had to make her own clothes with her aunt who was only 15 days older than her and how she use to be sassy and cool and smart but now she is sitting in a chair unable to look at the person looking at her with pride or joy or anything because now she is stuck in this chair and I know that my mama is sitting in one of those hard metal folding chairs in pain the thing that disturbs me the most is that she is wearing some off colored pink lipstick that is glittery and glossy and I think as I see her lips how painful it must be to put on the only lipstick that she has and realize that it does not even blend in with what she would normally wear so I realize that though I do not wear makeup and I only wear reading glasses occasionally that somehow within this moment I see my mother and I see myself and we both are saddened to see our fate and we are sickened at the person who has pity on their face by looking at us
I was watching television when I was in the middle of a commercial when I glanced over and in an acrylic frame where someone slid a picture of my mother and I felt like I had seen it for the first time She was wearing a dark paisley bloused and she had her hair parted on one side and her hair was almost at her shoulders which is something I don’t ever remember seeing She had her shaded bifocals on and her full jaws appeared to be pressed against the inside of the magnified parts I remember when this picture was done She told me that she was at her class reunion and I think about how she must have felt because I feel the same way now thinking about how successful the other classmates are now in their lives and how I am struggling so much even though I have joy and I find myself laughing a lot at the most ridiculous things I think to myself how much of a failure I am and how much more I thought I would have for myself I see the disgust and the self-hatred in that picture that I often see of myself when I look in the mirror I see it all I see all of the people who looked at me the way my mama looked in that picture the way that so many people looked at me with hopelessness and that I would not matter to them just as she looked in that picture I can see her looking at the person looking through the lens of the camera and see the look that that person is looking at her with pity and sadness because I know that when this picture was taken though it was not visible my mama couldn’t walk and she was sitting in the chair looking at the person looking at her so sad to have seen the life that she was relegated to because the person taking the picture remembered when she was the best dancer and how she dressed so gracefully even though she had to make her own clothes with her aunt who was only 15 days older than her and how she use to be sassy and cool and smart but now she is sitting in a chair unable to look at the person looking at her with pride or joy or anything because now she is stuck in this chair and I know that my mama is sitting in one of those hard metal folding chairs in pain the thing that disturbs me the most is that she is wearing some off colored pink lipstick that is glittery and glossy and I think as I see her lips how painful it must be to put on the only lipstick that she has and realize that it does not even blend in with what she would normally wear so I realize that though I do not wear makeup and I only wear reading glasses occasionally that somehow within this moment I see my mother and I see myself and we both are saddened to see our fate and we are sickened at the person who has pity on their face by looking at us
Labels: My Writing, Poetry, Thoughts
What Is It?
Okay, so I had this creative writing class assignment where I was supposed to write a poem about a small object. This is the assignment. Tell me what you think this is...
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Allow the air to use me as I cling so closely,
refusing to release. Such a tortured
relationship we have. Your weakened ache
yearns for my pristine armor.
Every moment that we are close,
your warmth melds me with you.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
You get stronger as I become tainted,
tarnished with your remnants of weakness.
Later I am falling apart for you.
Yes, you!
Your once shattered pieces
become whole. Your need for me
weakens and as I hold on as long as possible
to help you, you begin to cleave. Your warmth
becomes cooler. The strength that I once had
fades as I fall away from you.
Finally, you push and pull,
aggravated with my dingy presence.
So precious I was to you, now I evoke
so many distraught emotions.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
A final release tosses me aside,
but confidante?
How will you bid me adieu?
Not with disgust and disdain.
Ah, yes.
No pain.
Place me in a position of dignity
before you set me free.
Fold me into threes.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Allow the air to use me as I cling so closely,
refusing to release. Such a tortured
relationship we have. Your weakened ache
yearns for my pristine armor.
Every moment that we are close,
your warmth melds me with you.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
You get stronger as I become tainted,
tarnished with your remnants of weakness.
Later I am falling apart for you.
Yes, you!
Your once shattered pieces
become whole. Your need for me
weakens and as I hold on as long as possible
to help you, you begin to cleave. Your warmth
becomes cooler. The strength that I once had
fades as I fall away from you.
Finally, you push and pull,
aggravated with my dingy presence.
So precious I was to you, now I evoke
so many distraught emotions.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
A final release tosses me aside,
but confidante?
How will you bid me adieu?
Not with disgust and disdain.
Ah, yes.
No pain.
Place me in a position of dignity
before you set me free.
Fold me into threes.
Labels: My Writing, Poetry
Of Joy
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
"A man's heart is like a sponge, just soaked with emotion and sentiment of which he can squeeze a little bit out for every pretty woman."
----
Helen Rowland
If there is joy in sight, receive it.
If there is joy within, offer it.
If there is joy received by others, give in to it.
If there is joy around, bask in it.
If there is joy resting, excite it.
----
Helen Rowland
If there is joy in sight, receive it.
If there is joy within, offer it.
If there is joy received by others, give in to it.
If there is joy around, bask in it.
If there is joy resting, excite it.
Labels: Feel Goods, My Writing, Poetry
Speechless...
Friday, May 26, 2006
Angry
I find myself
beside myself.
Myself and I
become two.
It takes me to see
when I am angry
it affects all three:
Me, Myself, and I.
----
Lesia Nixon
Well, I'm speechless. Not really. I'll be back later and add to this. Maybe drop some of my poetry.
I find myself
beside myself.
Myself and I
become two.
It takes me to see
when I am angry
it affects all three:
Me, Myself, and I.
----
Lesia Nixon
Well, I'm speechless. Not really. I'll be back later and add to this. Maybe drop some of my poetry.
Labels: My Writing, Poetry