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copyright 2010 TRFTNM
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Friday, October 1, 2010
a whispered love
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copyright 2010 TRFTNM
Friday, July 18, 2008
National Black Arts Festival
Finally!! I have something in Black arts and entertainment that I can feel good about. Stepping away from the barrage of negative images and derogatory stereotypes that are propagated by both black and white media outlets hails the National Black Arts Festival. The festival began in 1988 and is now celebrating it's 20th anniversary! What was originally a bi-annual event has evolved into a year round institution. The festival is a cultural celebration showcasing our diverse artistic talents in the areas of: dance, music, theater, film, literature, and visual arts. Its mission is “to develop, expose and educate audiences to the arts and culture of the African Diaspora and provide diverse opportunities for artistic and creative expression.”
Being an absolute fanatic over all things "indie" and loving to see my culture depicted in the glorious and positive light that makes me ever more proud to be a Black woman, I will be in definite attendance for as many events that I can squeeze into my schedule.
I'm a bit dismayed that as I drive around my city and listen to the radio, I don't see very many advertisements posted nor do I hear much publicity given on the radio. It's a sad testament to our times when we are more apt to be exposed to culturally and racially demeaning images and words rather than those that are rich, uplifting and celebratory.
I'll be doing my part to practice what I preach, as regards helping to build more positive images of Black America by becoming a member and only financially supporting the media and entertainment venues that depict me in the light in which I wish to be seen. As I take my foray into the festival and all it has to offer, I will take time out to highlight many of the events that I attend by commenting/reviewing and yes, posting pictures of them here.
The National Black Arts Festival will take place in Atlanta, GA July 18th-27th. Mark your calendars!
Being an absolute fanatic over all things "indie" and loving to see my culture depicted in the glorious and positive light that makes me ever more proud to be a Black woman, I will be in definite attendance for as many events that I can squeeze into my schedule.
I'm a bit dismayed that as I drive around my city and listen to the radio, I don't see very many advertisements posted nor do I hear much publicity given on the radio. It's a sad testament to our times when we are more apt to be exposed to culturally and racially demeaning images and words rather than those that are rich, uplifting and celebratory.
I'll be doing my part to practice what I preach, as regards helping to build more positive images of Black America by becoming a member and only financially supporting the media and entertainment venues that depict me in the light in which I wish to be seen. As I take my foray into the festival and all it has to offer, I will take time out to highlight many of the events that I attend by commenting/reviewing and yes, posting pictures of them here.
The National Black Arts Festival will take place in Atlanta, GA July 18th-27th. Mark your calendars!
Missy © 2008
For more information please visit:
www.nbaf.org/
http://www.atlanta.net/visitors/national_black_arts_festival.html
http://www.atlantaheritage.com/commonHumanity.html
The Renaissance, The New Millennium, National Black Arts Festival, Atlanta, GA, Diaspora, art, festivals
Friday, June 27, 2008
Royal Ebony
brown eyes that shimmer
of varying hues
skin from yellow
to the darkest of blues
intense in demeanor
determination of steel
there's a need and a way
I have faith that we will
show the world
what we're capable of being
take our places on thrones
as Kings and Queens
a residual flicker lingers
from a once full flame
ebony royalty
will rise again!
© 2008 Missy
The Renaissance, The New Millennium, Kings and Queens, Royal Ebony, Poetry, Unity
Friday, June 20, 2008
Untitled
Everyday
The whole day long
Everyday
The same tired song
Feeling parallel parked
In a diagonal world
This way and that
Our image tossed and twirled
Hope and change vowed on the campaign
Yet we’re going down the same road again
Hope we’re not being used as political bait
Change how we think, let’s try to relate
That airing dirty laundry doesn’t make it suddenly clean
Stand up with a solution, a suggestion, I mean
We sit and we watch as we’re thrown under the bus
And no one says anything because “it’s just us”
So when does it stop, when does it end
How can we bring about a positive spin
We all aren’t lowlifes and tricks on the street
We got to school and work, have ends to meet
I want hope and change that I can follow
Not just words all too soon ringing hollow
Dark as midnight
We hear all the time
If not midnight
Then 11:59
Was the day originally meant for celebration
For good fathers to enjoy a moments elation
Not mentions of men with the backbones of squid
To overshadow the positive and good they did
It’s not that the message lacked real truth
Just that the timing was a bit uncouth
You can’t succeed
And then proceed
To bash us when the heat gets hotter
Our image and esteem your political fodder
We have problems yes, I’ll admit that’s so
So I’m not saying toss them out the window
The only thing I’m really trying to say
In perhaps my own misguided way
Is that continually speaking of the negative without
Offering solutions is no doubt
The quickest way to lose integrity
Not to mention it’s the epitome
of efforts done in futility.
© Missy 2008 Renaissance, New Millennium, New Millennium, diagonal world, change, hope, futility, negativity, positivity, Barack Obama, poetry, social commentary, politics
The whole day long
Everyday
The same tired song
Feeling parallel parked
In a diagonal world
This way and that
Our image tossed and twirled
Hope and change vowed on the campaign
Yet we’re going down the same road again
Hope we’re not being used as political bait
Change how we think, let’s try to relate
That airing dirty laundry doesn’t make it suddenly clean
Stand up with a solution, a suggestion, I mean
We sit and we watch as we’re thrown under the bus
And no one says anything because “it’s just us”
So when does it stop, when does it end
How can we bring about a positive spin
We all aren’t lowlifes and tricks on the street
We got to school and work, have ends to meet
I want hope and change that I can follow
Not just words all too soon ringing hollow
Dark as midnight
We hear all the time
If not midnight
Then 11:59
Was the day originally meant for celebration
For good fathers to enjoy a moments elation
Not mentions of men with the backbones of squid
To overshadow the positive and good they did
It’s not that the message lacked real truth
Just that the timing was a bit uncouth
You can’t succeed
And then proceed
To bash us when the heat gets hotter
Our image and esteem your political fodder
We have problems yes, I’ll admit that’s so
So I’m not saying toss them out the window
The only thing I’m really trying to say
In perhaps my own misguided way
Is that continually speaking of the negative without
Offering solutions is no doubt
The quickest way to lose integrity
Not to mention it’s the epitome
of efforts done in futility.
© Missy 2008 Renaissance, New Millennium, New Millennium, diagonal world, change, hope, futility, negativity, positivity, Barack Obama, poetry, social commentary, politics
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
HERO
My father is my hero
And his daddy was his.
It is the way it should be
It is the way it is.
He is always there.
My granddaddy was special;
He was a short,
Thick, tree stump
And was a smutty brown
Like the soil in
His vegetable garden.
And he took me
and my friend fishing
and I hated the worms
but I showed him I could
do what he could do
even though I was a girl.
My granddaddy let me
drive his blue Malibu.
I was only fifteen.
I liked his house.
His back yard was
Woodsy and sunshiny,
with a black iron pot with
boiled squirrels
and chitins,
And I ate them
and I hated them,
choked on the smell
but I showed him I could
do what he could do
even though I was a girl.
My father is my hero
And his daddy was his.
It is the way it should be
It is the way it is.
He is always there.
My granddaddy
Let me hug him
With my little girl arms.
And he hugged me
Back.
And I loved him,
Until
He wanted me to
Be his flower,
And be a part of his
Special garden.
But I didn't,
He wanted it to
Be our secret,
But I couldn't
Even though I was a girl.
My daddy
heard my secret.
My daddy could slay dragons,
but his daddy was his hero.
He kept my secret
and said nothing more
I asked him years later
As a daughter woman
If he ever had ever thought
About it
And got angry about it. He looked at me and would not say anything.
Because he kept my secret
And said nothing more
His daddy was his hero,
And my father was mine,
It is the way it was
The mystery it remains
For all time.
Copyright © June 2008 by CC Gill. All rights reserved.
cee_duncan@hotmail.com
The Renaissance, The New Millennium, heroes, dragon slayers, anger, granddaddy, daddy, poetry
And his daddy was his.
It is the way it should be
It is the way it is.
He is always there.
My granddaddy was special;
He was a short,
Thick, tree stump
And was a smutty brown
Like the soil in
His vegetable garden.
And he took me
and my friend fishing
and I hated the worms
but I showed him I could
do what he could do
even though I was a girl.
My granddaddy let me
drive his blue Malibu.
I was only fifteen.
I liked his house.
His back yard was
Woodsy and sunshiny,
with a black iron pot with
boiled squirrels
and chitins,
And I ate them
and I hated them,
choked on the smell
but I showed him I could
do what he could do
even though I was a girl.
My father is my hero
And his daddy was his.
It is the way it should be
It is the way it is.
He is always there.
My granddaddy
Let me hug him
With my little girl arms.
And he hugged me
Back.
And I loved him,
Until
He wanted me to
Be his flower,
And be a part of his
Special garden.
But I didn't,
He wanted it to
Be our secret,
But I couldn't
Even though I was a girl.
My daddy
heard my secret.
My daddy could slay dragons,
but his daddy was his hero.
He kept my secret
and said nothing more
I asked him years later
As a daughter woman
If he ever had ever thought
About it
And got angry about it. He looked at me and would not say anything.
Because he kept my secret
And said nothing more
His daddy was his hero,
And my father was mine,
It is the way it was
The mystery it remains
For all time.
Copyright © June 2008 by CC Gill. All rights reserved.
cee_duncan@hotmail.com
The Renaissance, The New Millennium, heroes, dragon slayers, anger, granddaddy, daddy, poetry
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Ghetto Summers (part 7 of 7)
GHETTO SUMMERS
Three holidays, in the summertime,
the backdrop for my ghetto rhyme.
Memorial Day finds me on my way,
to a shore,
a shore with a boardwalk, a bikini, and, a party.
I depart, for a moment, from the confines of my beloved ghetto,
to the clean, endless sand of a Virginian beach.
In July, I depart, for a moment,
to pay homage to someone else’s beloved ghetto.
I depart to the smell of charcoal, of hot dogs.
In someone else’s beloved ghetto,
I taste of cooking put to good use,
and, lay low with a gin and juice.
September finds me at home,
enjoying the sights, enduring the sounds,
feasting on the aromas of a rapidly fleeing ghetto summer.
Money’s too short, now, for one last
trip to that shore of sand, bikinis, and, parties.
So, September finds me at home.
I can’t pay homage to another’s beloved ghetto,
as their money is too short to entertain.
Therefore, September finds me at home.
So, the distinct smell of charcoal
gives way to
the distinct smell of hot dogs and burgers,
gives way to
the distinct smell of ribs and gin,
but,
with city workers on strike, again,
it all gives way to
the distinct aroma of festering ghetto garbage.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Ghetto Summers (part 6)
Shorty
I see what they cannot.
They are trained,
and, I am not,
yet, I see what they cannot.
That’s why Shorty sells the drug
that’s on the one.
Out in the open, for all to see,
Shorty, without shame, disrespects me.
Yes, he politely speaks each time I pass.
But,
he buffs his Lex, and, makes it shine,
then, laughs at the Malibu that I claim as mine.
New Chucks, big bucks;
vintage wine, and, a brand new vine,
Shorty sells the drug that is on the one.
Anonymously tipped,
with names, and places, and, dates, and, faces,
those who are trained
cannot see what I see.
Yes, I see what they cannot.
They are trained, and, I am not.
Therefore, from the rising moon to the rising sun,
Shorty sells the drug that is on the one.
copyright © 09.07.1997 blackstarr
Monday, June 9, 2008
Ghetto Summers (part 5)
(il)legal tender(ronies)
I see tights, covering healthy thighs,
and, halter tops that attract my eyes,
and, micro-minis that solicit my sighs.
I see tights that
illuminate every curve of vivacious vixen;
thighs covered tightly,
in tights that slightly cover
luscious curves.
Halter tops, and, blouses that
are not sheer, but, SHEER,
allowing a glimpse of ample cleavage.
Micro-minis coerce my sighs,
causing me to stare, harder than is wise,
at legs that tower unto infinity.
. . . and, Charlene leans, and, whispers to Jean
“Now, you know . . . !!”.
I truly believe that I see
women with perfected bodies,
fully developed in every way.
But, I find that what I see, instead,
is the essence of youth and vitality;
an essence blossomed ten years too soon,
old enough for motherhood,
young enough to call me Sir.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Ghetto Summers (part 4)
A Visible Pulse
the pulse of just-bought groceries,
the pulse of someone’s hurried driver,
or,
just the pulse of too many cars,
parked on too many, too small streets.
I see the blink blink pulse
of caution lights,
as someone is always double-parked.
It has become the lay of the land,
to leave one’s car unmanned,
with the blink blink pulse of caution lights.
It’s not that anyone even minds,
as it’s done by people of all kinds.
Everyone does it, this visible pulse.
They blink blink out of courtesy,
as if to say
“I’ll just be a moment.”
Now, they’ve returned,
and, the flashing stops, as they finally drive away.
But, before too long,
the visible pulse begins anew,
as another takes the place of the blink blink
that has left for another
temporary parking space.
Renaissance, The New Millennium, blink blink, pulse, double-parking, courtesy, flashing lights, poetry
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Ghetto Summers (part 3)
Verbal Abuse
not wanting anyone in particular to hear,
but, instead, just wanting what they’ve said to be heard.
Two young voices have the sound of three,
and, three, the roar of a crowd.
They ring out, they scream out,
with no particular destination.
Any ears will do,
so long as their voice is heard.
Someone else is always shouting,
and, it’s always that same someone else,
always having nothing to say,
but, saying it loud enough for all to hear.
That same someone
always has nothing to say,
at least,
nothing that anyone else wants to hear.
Voices ring out,
with the shrill of a siren,
or,
above the shrill of a siren,
that pierces the night air.
911 zooms through my street, at 2am,
obviously not headed for my street, but,
some far away street.
Its siren is
vibrating,
activating car alarms.
. . . and, Charlene leans, and, yells
“Turn that damned thing off !!”
copyright © 09.07.1997
Renaissance, The New Millennium, sirens, voices, 911, poetryMonday, June 2, 2008
Ghetto Summers (part 2)
Ghetto Pulse
It is still a block away,
so, I can’t see the car.
But, I can feel the bass.
There is a pump, pump, pump it up, a pulse
that emanates from every other car
that cruises my street.
That pump it up is
the unique sound of a BOSE system,
blasting Reggae, Rap, or, R & B;
sometimes blasting a sound that’s foreign to me.
The unique sound
announces the arrival of
the unique sound
of a TUPAC,
or,
of a B.I.G.,
coming, soon, to a neighborhood near you.
But, that pump it up
is more than a sound,
is more than a song.
I don’t just hear it,
and, I don’t just sing along,
I feel the beat within my pulse;
it is my own ghetto pulse,
dancing throughout my body.
That pump, pump, pump it up
becomes my pulse.
I watch the car, as it fades from sight,
but, that bass returns,
as the ghetto pulse emanates
from the next approaching car.
blackstarr52@gmail.com
Renaissance, The New Millennium, pulse, Tupac, B.I.G., poetry, poetry
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Ghetto Summers (part 1)
With summer rapidly approaching, I thought it only fitting to present an oldie-but-good entitled "Ghetto Summers", a seven (7) part poem which chronicles life in my beloved ghetto. Enjoy.
blackstarr52@gmail.com
Charlene Leans
But, as she squints at the fading rays of sunlight,
Charlene
leans
out of her second story window,
and, without looking, calls (yells) “Malachi !”
He frowns
as her sounds
disrupt the flow
of a well-earned free-throw.
From blocks away, the voice of his mother
sends him towards home,
and, in two strides, he is at his doorstep.
To his misfortune, so is his mother.
She lets out screams,
and, lets out blares,
and, without out fail,
she always out stares
him, as he blankly searches
for reasons (excuses) for such a messy room,
or, for shooting hoops when dinner would soon
be on the table.
Perhaps she yells because
his once-worn underwear
is under a chair,
or, elsewhere,
instead of where
he knows they belong.
Who knows why a mother screams?
But, Charlene leans,
and, Malachi
never has to wonder why.
copyright © 09.07.1997 blackstarrblackstarr52@gmail.com
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Back In The Day
Back in the day
I remember
back in the day
When I could listen to music
And like what they’d say
Back when lyrics meant something
And they didn’t make you blush
Make mom come out yelling
“Don’t sing that mess, girl hush!”
I remember
Back in the day
When the street light came on
Meant the end of our play,
“Don’t make me come find you!”
We heard on the way out
Enough to get us back by dark
Of that there was no doubt
I remember
back in the day
Getting my hair done
By Miss Laura down the way
A stop at Mr. Henry’s
For a pickle on the run
Knowing that my head and ears
Miss Laura was sure to burn
I remember
Back in the day
When teacher meant honor
All the way
We also gave them, the utmost respect
they didn’t sleep with students
Calling it love
“What the heck?”
We should try to bring back
Our “back in the day”
They were the very best of times
Before we lost our way
copyright © 2008 Missy
myeishaspeaks@gmail.com
Renaissance, , New Millennium, , lyrics, , respect
I remember
back in the day
When I could listen to music
And like what they’d say
Back when lyrics meant something
And they didn’t make you blush
Make mom come out yelling
“Don’t sing that mess, girl hush!”
I remember
Back in the day
When the street light came on
Meant the end of our play,
“Don’t make me come find you!”
We heard on the way out
Enough to get us back by dark
Of that there was no doubt
I remember
back in the day
Getting my hair done
By Miss Laura down the way
A stop at Mr. Henry’s
For a pickle on the run
Knowing that my head and ears
Miss Laura was sure to burn
I remember
Back in the day
When teacher meant honor
All the way
We also gave them, the utmost respect
they didn’t sleep with students
Calling it love
“What the heck?”
We should try to bring back
Our “back in the day”
They were the very best of times
Before we lost our way
copyright © 2008 Missy
myeishaspeaks@gmail.com
Renaissance, , New Millennium, , lyrics, , respect
Friday, May 23, 2008
Near-life Experience
I had a near-life experience
I was thinking today
And while busy reflecting
on the way
My lifestyle obsession
That “must-have” possession
Still left me feeling
empty inside
And try as might
of that I can’t lie
And now filled with rage,
In my sad gilded cage
Miscarriages of justice
Are downright abhorrent
Please tell me where
is the Federal Government?
They stepped in with Vick
And they interceded
I guess with my people
They feel it’s not needed
We watch as all charges
Are acquitted or dropped
You know at some point
This has got to stop
Depression is here
And our Holocaust now
We must each make a difference
We see that now
Deep seated rejection
By America “The Great”
And it all stems from
A history of hate.
Like the Phoenix I’ll rise
Try this on for size
Teach one, reach one
And they’ll lift you up too
We all can be great
Both me and you
For crimes against us
there is always ablution
Unite and be one
Is a solution
No use in sitting idle
Thinking I’m on the fringe
We can be our own heroes
And be slavery’s revenge
I know that God
Did not mean this our due
If we make but one step
He will make two
You may not get it now
But maybe soon hence
You’ll wake up and see
Our near life experience
copyright © 2008 Missy
myeishaspeaks@gmail.com
Renaissance, New Millennium, life experience, ablution, justice, Federal Government, lifestyle obsession
I was thinking today
And while busy reflecting
on the way
My lifestyle obsession
That “must-have” possession
Still left me feeling
empty inside
And try as might
of that I can’t lie
And now filled with rage,
In my sad gilded cage
Miscarriages of justice
Are downright abhorrent
Please tell me where
is the Federal Government?
They stepped in with Vick
And they interceded
I guess with my people
They feel it’s not needed
We watch as all charges
Are acquitted or dropped
You know at some point
This has got to stop
Depression is here
And our Holocaust now
We must each make a difference
We see that now
Deep seated rejection
By America “The Great”
And it all stems from
A history of hate.
Like the Phoenix I’ll rise
Try this on for size
Teach one, reach one
And they’ll lift you up too
We all can be great
Both me and you
For crimes against us
there is always ablution
Unite and be one
Is a solution
No use in sitting idle
Thinking I’m on the fringe
We can be our own heroes
And be slavery’s revenge
I know that God
Did not mean this our due
If we make but one step
He will make two
You may not get it now
But maybe soon hence
You’ll wake up and see
Our near life experience
copyright © 2008 Missy
myeishaspeaks@gmail.com
Renaissance, New Millennium, life experience, ablution, justice, Federal Government, lifestyle obsession
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Symphony for Sin in Seven Parts
a soul as old as the sands of time
owner of a house without reason or rhyme
only infidels are invited in
to partake all the delights of sin
thus the doors are opened wide
welcome to the darker side
Livia, Delilah and Jezebel
grin as they greet you at the gates of hell
keepers of the eternal fires
grantors of your darkest desires
thus the doors are opened wide
celebrate the darker side
a room full of mirrors crack’d and stained
sad souls dance before them ‘til they’re drained
down vanity’s slope these souls did slide
into the valley known as Pride
thus the doors are opened wide
take a look at the darker side
for those who Envy there’s a special hoard
of lovely things they could never afford
items they wish they could’ve bought
baubles for which they bitterly fought
thus the doors are opened wide
rejoice in the darker side
there’s a massive kitchen for Gluttony
in here you can eat everything you can see
smack your lips and watch your belly swell
then waddle thru the halls of hell
thus the doors are opened wide
drink deep of the darker side
the cellar holds a diabolical jury
for those who spent their lives in fury
follow a steep and spirally path
to cavort with the demon Wrath
thus the doors are opened wide
gambol in the darker side
we’ve not left out a room for Greed
so satisfy your every need
money and sex, or jewels and power
you’ll never have an idle hour
thus the doors are opened wide
delight in the darker side
lazy souls can pledge their troth
to the slovenly spirit Sloth
a simpering and mindless jerk
with him you’ll never have to work
thus the doors are opened wide
all hail the darker side
our favourite room was saved ‘til last
for boasters of their sexual past
the attic holds the incubus Lust
come copulate amidst the dust
thus the doors are opened wide
learn to love your darker side
copyright © 2007 KPMCL
Renaissance, New Millennium, darkness, poetry, sin, deadly sins, Hell, the darker side
owner of a house without reason or rhyme
only infidels are invited in
to partake all the delights of sin
thus the doors are opened wide
welcome to the darker side
Livia, Delilah and Jezebel
grin as they greet you at the gates of hell
keepers of the eternal fires
grantors of your darkest desires
thus the doors are opened wide
celebrate the darker side
a room full of mirrors crack’d and stained
sad souls dance before them ‘til they’re drained
down vanity’s slope these souls did slide
into the valley known as Pride
thus the doors are opened wide
take a look at the darker side
for those who Envy there’s a special hoard
of lovely things they could never afford
items they wish they could’ve bought
baubles for which they bitterly fought
thus the doors are opened wide
rejoice in the darker side
there’s a massive kitchen for Gluttony
in here you can eat everything you can see
smack your lips and watch your belly swell
then waddle thru the halls of hell
thus the doors are opened wide
drink deep of the darker side
the cellar holds a diabolical jury
for those who spent their lives in fury
follow a steep and spirally path
to cavort with the demon Wrath
thus the doors are opened wide
gambol in the darker side
we’ve not left out a room for Greed
so satisfy your every need
money and sex, or jewels and power
you’ll never have an idle hour
thus the doors are opened wide
delight in the darker side
lazy souls can pledge their troth
to the slovenly spirit Sloth
a simpering and mindless jerk
with him you’ll never have to work
thus the doors are opened wide
all hail the darker side
our favourite room was saved ‘til last
for boasters of their sexual past
the attic holds the incubus Lust
come copulate amidst the dust
thus the doors are opened wide
learn to love your darker side
copyright © 2007 KPMCL
Renaissance, New Millennium, darkness, poetry, sin, deadly sins, Hell, the darker side
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Aphrodite’s child revisited
thoughts both beautiful & obscure
a heart as dark as it is pure
the sum of everything she’s sown
is Aphrodite’s child full-grown
lost lovers like so much debris
the strong gnarled arms of her family tree
the reflection of tiny lines on her face
as she grows old in another place
without & within the doors are open
a little wiser & well used to copin’
at childhood’s demise she will not mope
yet loves & writes with childlike hope
she works / she cleans / she cooks / she eats
then dreams at night on crisp linen sheets
unspoken wishes in a brain that’s yearning
dark desires that keep her stomach churning
a woman alone without a womb
at peace in Eden’s grey & green room
where angels look down from the walls
& memory dwells in hallowed halls
she lives with the voices of the ages
& with the Magi regularly engages
no matter that her arteries harden
there is joy amongst the words in her garden
what care she for the grey in her hair –
she, who’s endured the black dog’s glare?
she’s happy with the witch doctor’s pills
& the damp embrace of the Scottish hills
there’s no fear in the mistakes she accepts
just anger & grief & ashen regrets
yet she will fight a wee bit longer
& every battle will make her stronger
rejecting the role, rejoicing in the place
her duelling done with style & grace
demons & tricksters & stealers of hearts
felled at her feet with poison-pen darts
no matter that her waist grows thick
her breasts remain firm & her mind is quick
immune to anybody’s taunts
serenely meeting her needs & wants
barely free, torn between two homes
inside her head she endlessly roams
divided mind with heart still wild
is aging Aphrodite’s child
copyright © 2008 KPMCL
a heart as dark as it is pure
the sum of everything she’s sown
is Aphrodite’s child full-grown
lost lovers like so much debris
the strong gnarled arms of her family tree
the reflection of tiny lines on her face
as she grows old in another place
without & within the doors are open
a little wiser & well used to copin’
at childhood’s demise she will not mope
yet loves & writes with childlike hope
she works / she cleans / she cooks / she eats
then dreams at night on crisp linen sheets
unspoken wishes in a brain that’s yearning
dark desires that keep her stomach churning
a woman alone without a womb
at peace in Eden’s grey & green room
where angels look down from the walls
& memory dwells in hallowed halls
she lives with the voices of the ages
& with the Magi regularly engages
no matter that her arteries harden
there is joy amongst the words in her garden
what care she for the grey in her hair –
she, who’s endured the black dog’s glare?
she’s happy with the witch doctor’s pills
& the damp embrace of the Scottish hills
there’s no fear in the mistakes she accepts
just anger & grief & ashen regrets
yet she will fight a wee bit longer
& every battle will make her stronger
rejecting the role, rejoicing in the place
her duelling done with style & grace
demons & tricksters & stealers of hearts
felled at her feet with poison-pen darts
no matter that her waist grows thick
her breasts remain firm & her mind is quick
immune to anybody’s taunts
serenely meeting her needs & wants
barely free, torn between two homes
inside her head she endlessly roams
divided mind with heart still wild
is aging Aphrodite’s child
copyright © 2008 KPMCL
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Aphrodite’s Child
at the tender age of ten
come the attentions of the men
merry monkeys who endeavoured to appear innocent
as they praised her parents for producing
“such a beautiful child!”
& her parents - wishing not to appear too proud
responded with “she pretty, but she wild!”
bony bare-legged black boys
made her gifts of their most-prized toys
& watery-eyed white boys wistfully wished
for a way to get her alone
(they wanted no witnesses when they asked to walk her home)
moody & mesmerizing
teasing & tantalizing
fully aware that she’s everybody’s baby
neither affirmative nor negative, always a murmured “maybe”
the boy next door is on the precipice of manhood
know-it-all 19 to her tentative 13
& goddess status is no guarantee
against infallibility
fooled by flowers & flattery she falls from the pedestal
eager to believe this is love
(unable to perceive it’s merely lust)
too soon she is forlorn & forgotten
her love reduced to ashes & dust
the powerful patriarch plays with thoughts of slaughter
of the upstart who dared to seduce his daughter
quietly the queen mother dissuades him
using her womanly wiles to persuade him
to hunt for an Hephaestus for their errant Aphrodite:
“lest this attention make her vainglorious,
before she develops appetites notorious!
already she’s caroused in the conjugal bed –
to save her face (& ours) she must be wed!”
the peeved papa searches for a suitor well-bred & well-read,
one who’ll welcome such a treasure to his lonely bachelor’s bed
still grieving, before she can find her voice
the goddess is girded to a man not of her choice
a slovenly adoring ass, incapable of original thought
like Judas, her father sold –
like a slave, she is bought
despite her outrage at her father’s wrong
her sense of filial duty remains strong
she decides to make a go of this life
& at first she is a wonderful wife
she cooks/she cleans/she hides her gloom
a lady in company, a whore in their bedroom
of course he’s happy with his lot
but she’s not – she needs another
& so determines to take a lover
in a greasy garage with oil on the floor
she stumbles on the key to desire’s door
fully equipped with all the arrogance of youth
he’s self-important & uncouth
yet free from all taint of sin, & - blessed bonus! –
a veritable virgin
her stars are lucky (or the gods are kind)
so without examining sub or conscious mind
eyes shining, lips swollen & wet,
she decisively draws him into her net
& he is willing, & he adores her
in abject abasement he grovels before her
in his eyes a kind of madness burns
but before she knows it, the tables have turned
now she’s hypnotized/mesmerized
a body enslaved & paralyzed
a heart beating hard with love & trust
a woman laid low on the alter of lust
her adoration makes her crazy
the constant worship makes him lazy
but he’s there:
to her & for her,
a ballsy sibyl that can do no wrong
seducing her & swamping her
with love’s sensual song
she is swept away from her stupid spouse
from father & family &
the hated husband’s house
o infidel! o infamy!
poisoned by passion & pride
convinced of invincibility
as long as he’s at her side
the world is theirs, for so she arranges
then Chance erupts, & everything changes
into their interlude falls cold white snow
& he dances with a demon
in a place she dare not go
he dances while she dreams & schemes
of a way to win him back,
but the demon brings a Darkness
that forebodes a future black
thunder & lightning, all that is frightening
is passed through the end of a phone
snow surrounds, then topples
Eros from his throne
the sea rages & swells
the sacred shell shatters
Death rescinds love
now her life does not matter
lamenting & lost
in a tempest she is tossed
& she drinks as she cries
she screams/she shrieks/she sighs
in vain she tries to understand
why the gods have withdrawn their hands
the Muses warn she must repent
before the Parent Gods relent
doomed by love
damned by her loss
she flees Olympus
the last line is crossed
so she wanders with whispering voices in her head
capering cacophonous demi-gods
on her journey to the Dead
bleeding/bruised/broken
she wanders without will
seeking potions sweet & noxious
to render heart & body still
a tightly entwined rope
around her slender saddened neck
surely somewhere, something or someone
can put this grief in check
in her woe she is wanton
open to forces beyond her ken
so she roams, restless & reckless
lying with many men
some are nice (& some are not)
most are total shits
something better soon must beckon
so one day she simply quits
she runs/she hides
she makes a brand new home
& her eyes reveal acceptance
of a life that’s lived alone
she buries herself with Art & books
her new life is quiet & pure
to strangers passing on the street
she appears serene & sure
& other lonely souls believe she’s found a magic cure
eyes downcast or hidden
she lives this way for many years
a helpful & happy exterior
swimming in solitary tears
& she dare not admit (especially to herself)
that life & love are passing
while she dwells on this dusty shelf
then one day the gods relent at last
& send her one who obliterates the past
on a hot & hazy morning
sun shining in her eyes
the Divinity appears behind her
transported from the skies
he smiles at her, & she is bewitched
he speaks & she listens, totally transfixed
his demeanor is somehow both gentle & grand
awed & acquiescent, she allows him to claim her hand
he guides her to the garden she’d created for herself
& there he does things to her
that divests the dust from the shelf
her body is a blank book that he writes in
her mind is a fountain that he delights in
then he tells her that he loves her
his voice confident & strong
the words deliver her from the darkness
that has hidden her heart for so long
the chains have been cut
the past has been banished
the monsters of memory that hounded her have vanished
all that once hurt her he has abolished
the demons that dogged her he destroyed & demolished
the goddess has been restored
no longer afraid or alone
in the heart of the Divinity
Aphrodite’s child has found a home.
copyright © 2007 KPMCL
Aphrodite, innocence, tantalizing, mesmerizing, goddess, deathless, Sappho, temptress, adoration, Olympus, Divinity, Ahrodite's Child
come the attentions of the men
merry monkeys who endeavoured to appear innocent
as they praised her parents for producing
“such a beautiful child!”
& her parents - wishing not to appear too proud
responded with “she pretty, but she wild!”
bony bare-legged black boys
made her gifts of their most-prized toys
& watery-eyed white boys wistfully wished
for a way to get her alone
(they wanted no witnesses when they asked to walk her home)
moody & mesmerizing
teasing & tantalizing
fully aware that she’s everybody’s baby
neither affirmative nor negative, always a murmured “maybe”
the boy next door is on the precipice of manhood
know-it-all 19 to her tentative 13
& goddess status is no guarantee
against infallibility
fooled by flowers & flattery she falls from the pedestal
eager to believe this is love
(unable to perceive it’s merely lust)
too soon she is forlorn & forgotten
her love reduced to ashes & dust
the powerful patriarch plays with thoughts of slaughter
of the upstart who dared to seduce his daughter
quietly the queen mother dissuades him
using her womanly wiles to persuade him
to hunt for an Hephaestus for their errant Aphrodite:
“lest this attention make her vainglorious,
before she develops appetites notorious!
already she’s caroused in the conjugal bed –
to save her face (& ours) she must be wed!”
the peeved papa searches for a suitor well-bred & well-read,
one who’ll welcome such a treasure to his lonely bachelor’s bed
still grieving, before she can find her voice
the goddess is girded to a man not of her choice
a slovenly adoring ass, incapable of original thought
like Judas, her father sold –
like a slave, she is bought
despite her outrage at her father’s wrong
her sense of filial duty remains strong
she decides to make a go of this life
& at first she is a wonderful wife
she cooks/she cleans/she hides her gloom
a lady in company, a whore in their bedroom
of course he’s happy with his lot
but she’s not – she needs another
& so determines to take a lover
in a greasy garage with oil on the floor
she stumbles on the key to desire’s door
fully equipped with all the arrogance of youth
he’s self-important & uncouth
yet free from all taint of sin, & - blessed bonus! –
a veritable virgin
her stars are lucky (or the gods are kind)
so without examining sub or conscious mind
eyes shining, lips swollen & wet,
she decisively draws him into her net
& he is willing, & he adores her
in abject abasement he grovels before her
in his eyes a kind of madness burns
but before she knows it, the tables have turned
now she’s hypnotized/mesmerized
a body enslaved & paralyzed
a heart beating hard with love & trust
a woman laid low on the alter of lust
her adoration makes her crazy
the constant worship makes him lazy
but he’s there:
to her & for her,
a ballsy sibyl that can do no wrong
seducing her & swamping her
with love’s sensual song
she is swept away from her stupid spouse
from father & family &
the hated husband’s house
o infidel! o infamy!
poisoned by passion & pride
convinced of invincibility
as long as he’s at her side
the world is theirs, for so she arranges
then Chance erupts, & everything changes
into their interlude falls cold white snow
& he dances with a demon
in a place she dare not go
he dances while she dreams & schemes
of a way to win him back,
but the demon brings a Darkness
that forebodes a future black
thunder & lightning, all that is frightening
is passed through the end of a phone
snow surrounds, then topples
Eros from his throne
the sea rages & swells
the sacred shell shatters
Death rescinds love
now her life does not matter
lamenting & lost
in a tempest she is tossed
& she drinks as she cries
she screams/she shrieks/she sighs
in vain she tries to understand
why the gods have withdrawn their hands
the Muses warn she must repent
before the Parent Gods relent
doomed by love
damned by her loss
she flees Olympus
the last line is crossed
so she wanders with whispering voices in her head
capering cacophonous demi-gods
on her journey to the Dead
bleeding/bruised/broken
she wanders without will
seeking potions sweet & noxious
to render heart & body still
a tightly entwined rope
around her slender saddened neck
surely somewhere, something or someone
can put this grief in check
in her woe she is wanton
open to forces beyond her ken
so she roams, restless & reckless
lying with many men
some are nice (& some are not)
most are total shits
something better soon must beckon
so one day she simply quits
she runs/she hides
she makes a brand new home
& her eyes reveal acceptance
of a life that’s lived alone
she buries herself with Art & books
her new life is quiet & pure
to strangers passing on the street
she appears serene & sure
& other lonely souls believe she’s found a magic cure
eyes downcast or hidden
she lives this way for many years
a helpful & happy exterior
swimming in solitary tears
& she dare not admit (especially to herself)
that life & love are passing
while she dwells on this dusty shelf
then one day the gods relent at last
& send her one who obliterates the past
on a hot & hazy morning
sun shining in her eyes
the Divinity appears behind her
transported from the skies
he smiles at her, & she is bewitched
he speaks & she listens, totally transfixed
his demeanor is somehow both gentle & grand
awed & acquiescent, she allows him to claim her hand
he guides her to the garden she’d created for herself
& there he does things to her
that divests the dust from the shelf
her body is a blank book that he writes in
her mind is a fountain that he delights in
then he tells her that he loves her
his voice confident & strong
the words deliver her from the darkness
that has hidden her heart for so long
the chains have been cut
the past has been banished
the monsters of memory that hounded her have vanished
all that once hurt her he has abolished
the demons that dogged her he destroyed & demolished
the goddess has been restored
no longer afraid or alone
in the heart of the Divinity
Aphrodite’s child has found a home.
copyright © 2007 KPMCL
Aphrodite, innocence, tantalizing, mesmerizing, goddess, deathless, Sappho, temptress, adoration, Olympus, Divinity, Ahrodite's Child
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
dark wonder
a dark wonder
manifest in verse
life as a blessing
love as a curse
hopes that curdle
like spoiled cream
depression devours
every dream
lawless / legless
tortured thoughts shifting
vainly seeking
light uplifting
a buzzing noise
a heart like stone
sweaty / sleepless
nights alone
copyright © 2008 KPMCL
dark wonder, nights, depression, thoughts, love
manifest in verse
life as a blessing
love as a curse
hopes that curdle
like spoiled cream
depression devours
every dream
lawless / legless
tortured thoughts shifting
vainly seeking
light uplifting
a buzzing noise
a heart like stone
sweaty / sleepless
nights alone
copyright © 2008 KPMCL
dark wonder, nights, depression, thoughts, love
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Father Figure
Kenny kissed me on the cheek before getting out of the car
a gentle kiss
in a space on my face where the cheek ends & the lips begin.
“yo, I’ll call you” drifted lazily over my shoulder as he strode across the street
hipshot & arrogant
his hat cocked back at an angle that said he was large & in charge.
the spot on my face where he’d kissed me tingled with warmth.
I watched him cross the street, a remnant of my big sistah role
other men nodded at him respectfully, & women black & white
furtively flirted & followed him with their eyes.
& I felt surprise:
somewhere along my path of acquisition & ambition
he had become a Man.
echoes of my girlfriends’ voices whispered in my head:
“girl, yo brotha is fine”
even Sharon, & her & Kenny had never gotten along.
I watched him make his way across the street, & my eyes told me the voices spoke true –
he was fine:
tall & thick & long of limb,
his frame graced by Adolfo suits, Pierre Cardin shoes,
his neck caressed by thin expensive gold chains,
exuding confidence & Polo.
a Man had replaced the brother who’d given insulting names to all my boyfriends,
bitten all the fingers & toes off my Barbie dolls, then arranged them in obscene positions
with his G.I. Joes.
surely this black Adonis was not the brother who’d given me a 10-pound bag of Vigaro,
telling me it would make my chest grow.
enraged, I’d told my parents – who did nothing.
only son of my mother, she’d ruffled his hair.
only male issue of my father’s loins, Daddy never even lowered the paper he’d been perusing,
merely mumbled from behind it that
“yo’ brotha got a point, men like wimmen wit big titties.”
they never did grow, but Kenny did.
& with the bestowal of that kiss, it was declared that
the brother of my childhood had been laid to rest,
replaced by this man elected by primogeniture to assume the role of Father,
now that the real Father was dead.
I drove home on auto-pilot,
slowly & in awe, thinking, “Kenny grew up!
Do I have to grow up now, too?”
copyright © 2007 KPMCL
a gentle kiss
in a space on my face where the cheek ends & the lips begin.
“yo, I’ll call you” drifted lazily over my shoulder as he strode across the street
hipshot & arrogant
his hat cocked back at an angle that said he was large & in charge.
the spot on my face where he’d kissed me tingled with warmth.
I watched him cross the street, a remnant of my big sistah role
other men nodded at him respectfully, & women black & white
furtively flirted & followed him with their eyes.
& I felt surprise:
somewhere along my path of acquisition & ambition
he had become a Man.
echoes of my girlfriends’ voices whispered in my head:
“girl, yo brotha is fine”
even Sharon, & her & Kenny had never gotten along.
I watched him make his way across the street, & my eyes told me the voices spoke true –
he was fine:
tall & thick & long of limb,
his frame graced by Adolfo suits, Pierre Cardin shoes,
his neck caressed by thin expensive gold chains,
exuding confidence & Polo.
a Man had replaced the brother who’d given insulting names to all my boyfriends,
bitten all the fingers & toes off my Barbie dolls, then arranged them in obscene positions
with his G.I. Joes.
surely this black Adonis was not the brother who’d given me a 10-pound bag of Vigaro,
telling me it would make my chest grow.
enraged, I’d told my parents – who did nothing.
only son of my mother, she’d ruffled his hair.
only male issue of my father’s loins, Daddy never even lowered the paper he’d been perusing,
merely mumbled from behind it that
“yo’ brotha got a point, men like wimmen wit big titties.”
they never did grow, but Kenny did.
& with the bestowal of that kiss, it was declared that
the brother of my childhood had been laid to rest,
replaced by this man elected by primogeniture to assume the role of Father,
now that the real Father was dead.
I drove home on auto-pilot,
slowly & in awe, thinking, “Kenny grew up!
Do I have to grow up now, too?”
copyright © 2007 KPMCL
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
de promised land
you laugh too loud
you smoke too much
& wit’ yo nasty walk & such
you can fuhget about de promised land
you’ll nevuh reach de promised land
yo’ head is hard
yo’ temper’s quick
yo’ dirty jokes just make me sick
you can fuhget about de promised land
you ain’t gone see de promised land
“what I do makes me happy,
& this you’d begrudge?
when did God die & make you my judge?
all I’ve done, all I have
was done by my hand,
right now I’m in the promised land
I am in the promised land.”
you talk too much
yo’ words are brash
& yo’ deeds ill-thought & rash
you can fuhget about de promised land
you’ll never make it to de promised land
you foreswore yo’ father
you neglect yo’ mother
you deny yo’ sistah & brotha
you can fuhget about de promised land
you ain’t wanted de promised land
“how I live
is my own affair.
for your words
I have no care,
cause I’m livin’ in the promised land
I’m already in the promised land.”
you drink too much
& you smoke weed
fo’ others’ thoughts you have no need
you can fuhget about de promised land
you ain’t fit fo’ de promised land
yo’ only concern is
yo’ wants, yo’ goals
& you pursue both at the cost of your soul
you can fuhget about de promised land
you don’t belong in de promised land
“if narrow-minded people
like you can get in,
then I’m better off
with what you call sin.
I’ll make my own promised land,
I’ll make my own promised land.”
copyright © 2007 KPMCL
you smoke too much
& wit’ yo nasty walk & such
you can fuhget about de promised land
you’ll nevuh reach de promised land
yo’ head is hard
yo’ temper’s quick
yo’ dirty jokes just make me sick
you can fuhget about de promised land
you ain’t gone see de promised land
“what I do makes me happy,
& this you’d begrudge?
when did God die & make you my judge?
all I’ve done, all I have
was done by my hand,
right now I’m in the promised land
I am in the promised land.”
you talk too much
yo’ words are brash
& yo’ deeds ill-thought & rash
you can fuhget about de promised land
you’ll never make it to de promised land
you foreswore yo’ father
you neglect yo’ mother
you deny yo’ sistah & brotha
you can fuhget about de promised land
you ain’t wanted de promised land
“how I live
is my own affair.
for your words
I have no care,
cause I’m livin’ in the promised land
I’m already in the promised land.”
you drink too much
& you smoke weed
fo’ others’ thoughts you have no need
you can fuhget about de promised land
you ain’t fit fo’ de promised land
yo’ only concern is
yo’ wants, yo’ goals
& you pursue both at the cost of your soul
you can fuhget about de promised land
you don’t belong in de promised land
“if narrow-minded people
like you can get in,
then I’m better off
with what you call sin.
I’ll make my own promised land,
I’ll make my own promised land.”
copyright © 2007 KPMCL
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