he says he loves me
and im not sayin that he doesn't...
im just sayin
that I have no evidence
to suggest that he does... and
have more evidence that sustains that he does not
in fact
give one **** for the amazin yet complicated being that is me...
i am far too jaded
for blind allegiances... and
******* sticks like hot grits
...that bears repeating
******* sticks like hot grits

I am the deepening mystery
I am the weighted blanket that enfolds in midnights
I am a force of Nature
I am the morning coo-ing at daybreak
I am a dew covered field of
swaying wheatgrass
I am bluebonnets by the side of a
little used road
I am fall leaves underfoot
I am a sudden rain shower
I am hightide in a full moon
I am ocean waves crashing the rocks
I am a gently flowing stream
I am the slow breeze that softly
kisses the neck
I am the hard and high wind that leaves one grasping for purchase
I am the lightning storm that ends a scorching day
I am the scorching day
I am an electromagnetic field
I am a solar flare
I am the hazy stillness before the earthquake... and
Every now and again
I am the mothaphuckin earthquake

I once loved a man whose smell was like pheromones to my psyche
his scent lingered on my skin after each embrace and
after a hard days work
he still smelled like
new leather and sandlewood... and to be
buried in his chest and breathe him in
lubricated me
after sweaty freaky ***  
the only time his ***** had an aroma and even that was still not unpleasant...
Tho the romance did not last
the remembrance of my face in that space between his
jaw line and shoulder
lingers in the solar plexus and occasionally
makes me sigh deeply

I once TRIED to love a different man... and
I never liked the way his natural skin smelled
from the very beginning...
something about his odor
lurking under any cologne
grated my spirit...
Not one time did I ever put his shirt to my nose and
inhale deeply... because the
musk
screamed
this man is not for you...
a malodorus warning of what would
manifest... and
the *** smelled like
ph imbalance
had i heeded... I would have wasted
a lot less time... and
had a lot less pain
The nose tried to tell me

In the rising sun
and the waxing moon
quietly worshipping my
Loving creator…my
Source… Sending good vibes
into the universe
Composing ill prose
While breezes
Catch dreams and coax
kitty cat wind chimes
into song…

I want to
grow old
Outside the lines…

There will be
No conformation-
I'm just sayin

No tidy blue hair or
Big church hat and
No ****** Christ on a Cross
Ram-Rod spine or
Fire and brimstone of my youth…

Instead…
An elemental and quintessential rejection of
A lifetime of The Establishment
has settled in these ol' bones...
And with it
Expanded consciousness… and
No cut-in-stone rules
for growing old…
Ya see, I
Need to grow old
Outside the lines…

Looking like the bohemian
that I am
Beaded and Barefooted
Cared For and Comfortable
With unruly mane a reflection of me…
Sometimes messy
Difficult to control and
NOT easily managed... Cuz
I'ma
Good Lovin
Candle lighting
Sage burning
Truth writing
Constantly learning
Dancing naked in the moonlight
Hippie of a poet mama
Happily…
Aging gracefully...
On my own terms...
Outside the lines…

When
doors open with no breeze
chimes sing with no wind
ya blunts keep goin out… and
Candle flames sputter
You’ll know it’s me
Passin through
to color your aura blue
raise your vibration and leave
my scent in your shirt
palo santo or eucalyptus
In the air…
just
breathe deeply Baby…
exhale slowly Darlin…
and feel betta
cuz it’s just me
Carla-Marie
to get on your nerves
or make you smile
or both
as per usual

ya cook a mean oatmeal
with vanilla & cinnamon
& nutmeg (come to me)
make us laugh while ya
slice onions.. which could be a
catagory in some desperate contest
but more importantly tho
ya let me have Peace...
baby i can
whip up my own
all alone
tasty sumthins
but to not be alone
& still have
Peace
makes me stand
in the hallway
where ya can't see me
&
stare at the side of ya face
&
set my clock
to watch ya
sleep

i see his strength as a compliment to my weaknesses/the both of us together a solar flare/an electromagnetic field/a brush fire

he sees my strength as a dimming of his own light/with me blocking the spotlight/the both of us together/a partial eclipse with me the moon/a shade pulled halfway the window/with me the shade

i only cry a little/as i give up/unable to stopper the well spring that is my vibration/and unwilling to even try

i dont like myself of late
i don't like my purple hair or
the texture of my light brown skin
i dont like the way i walk
i dont like the constant pain
or being ****** tired all the time
i dont like this dead *** liver
and ****** up spirit and low vibration
I dont like the ***** that killed me
i dont like that i don't like me

I've concluded that
I dont believe in dyin
sho dont believe
in cryin
at funerals
and lyin
to  faces
that cover the truths
of do not care...
cuz she's just here for
repast and gossip
and he's just here for the widows
chicken and green beans and sweet tea or beer
matronly curves and comfort needin tears
I don't beleeeeeeeve
in dyin or cryin or
lyin faces
that don't see that
Grace is
why we're all still here

All of my mothers have gone...
I'm sure their spirits live on
somewhere
but it feels like not here sometimes,  ya see...
ALL
of my mothers
FEEL gone...even
the ones
that I didn't particularly care for and
right now...
right now...
I really would like
to... maybe...
have at least one'a dem bodies
with fleshy arms and
warm soft bosoms
to pull me in as only
full women with fleshy arms and
warm soft bosoms can-
kiss my forehead and
tell me
no matter HOW it feels in THIS moment Baby
it's gon BE alright...
cuz you come from ME... and
MY strong mama and
HER strong mama and
HER strong mama and
HER strong mama...
so
before it gets too late
before somethin in me breaks...
I'ma wrap my own fleshy arms
around my own full *****
embracin my own self... and
know that I know that I know that
the spirits of all my mothers
even the ones that I didn't particularly care for
are ridin wit me
and I'ma hafta make up my mind
to be
comforted
with that

Cuz I know that a mind is a terrible thing sometimes… the way it can turn on ya…. I sit here tryin not to judge…  but  can’t help but see in the corner of my eye… and oh no… tell myself that I don’t … see her face… all screnched up… lookin like a car done parked on her foot… all screnched up… lookin like she got a helluva Charlie- Horse in her left *** cheek… as she tilts her head and digs in her scalp… diggin like she tryin to get through… to herself… in some newly discovered way… and keep on diggin… and keep on diggin…  til she finally come up with somethin… and right there… in our too crowded office… she… with relish… and with gusto… in slow motion seem like…  deposits her newly found treasure… Into. Her. Mouth… and with a loud and wet POP… then with a satisfied sigh… finishes her memo like this is nothing... no thing at all... a regular occurance… leavin me right now starin straight ahead… writin a poem... and "blessin-the-goddess"glad... that it ain’t me... partakin of… untraditional snacks… cuz life can be rough and cold like sidewalk concrete in winter… and if you hit the wrong way... sidewalk concrete in winter... somethin just might break... and obviously there is a... not so readily obvious problem here… so I decide that… I ain’t one to judge…  just act like I don’t see… and  finish my own **** memo…

Seems my life’s things
Have been disremembered…
Either
Accidently just
Fell away
Or purposely
With focus and enthusiasm
Put away
As things of
Middle Aged People
Sometimes are

Noticed today that
Our room smells like
Old People…
Like dust and
Things sitting
Too long in one place
Reluctantly forgotten
Yet stubbornly retained…
I’ma fix this...
Cuz I’m not there yet…

They said
Tell her we said “hello”
Not knowing
That she had lost her mind
Many moons ago… so
I pass the message anyway
She sneers her lip
Turns her face away
Stares out of the window
Into a day
That she refuses to feel
And never says a mumbling word…

I don’t smell him
But he looks malodorous
As he…
Oblivious…
To the rest of us…
Sits here on the city bus
While I unsuccessfully
Try not to see
Him oh so enthusiastically
Pick at and between
His gnarly toes… and
As if this is apropos
He never says a mumbling word…

Hate the mornings
That I awake with regrets
Open my eyes
With weight on my chest
from
If onlys… and
I wishes…
til
eyes  squeeze shut
to not start my day
by futilely wishing
life was some other way
So face down in my bed
Sigh deeply and pray
But never say a mumbling word…

while it is understood...
and probably
goes without saying
that everyone
as the saying goes
is a critic
most self appointed reviewers
fail to realize that

Poetry exists in the mind
belonging to the thinking subject... rather than
to the object of thought

Poetry is personal... placing emphasis on one's own moods
and attitudes... funky or otherwise...

you love it...
or you hate it...
you read it...
or you do not read it...
it does nothing to you.. or
hits a sweet spot
ignites or dampens a fire
permeates the soul
takes root... and
stays with you
for such a time as it is needed
to brighten your day...
luxuriate in solitude...
commemorate a love... or
accentuate a hate

Poetry
is abstract... illusory... instinctive... relative
to where one is at the time...
and therefore
not open to
editorial examination...
or critique

...I'm just sayin

you're the oldest in the line
you're now the matriarch
exclaimed my beloveds...
**** how'd this happen?!
I thought with a start- cuz
this is not a part
that i tried for
expected or vied for
All i did was keep livin...
didn't even do it
to my own satisfaction
but all of my mothers are long gone... and
i had to learn to
be my own caution sign
listen to my own still small voice
hug myself when necessary... and
it's taken quite some time
to reconcile me with me
come to grips with my nature
find my
Individuals Peace
which is good... ultimately...
Cuz all of my mothers
are gone

This is for the old brother...
the seasoned brother... who made it
(you made it baby)
to have pretty much gone everywhere he had to go and
did every thing he had to do
for every body he had to do it for and
now rises each day and shaves and dresses and
dons his hat to gather down to the
barbershop or general store or shade tree or park to
play checkers or chess or bones or spades...
tell tall tales and short lies...
about how and when and with whom it was back then...
but stops
as i walk by and
breathes deeply as if to
enjoy a whiff of womanly me... and tips his hat and
holds the door and smiles a smile that even now
under the ravages of
time and being black in america
is still **** and kinda sweet..
while the others softly co-sign...
"ump, ump UMP!" or
"my, my, my.." or
"Miss Butterworth!"
and makes a well-rounded old girl like me
smile her own kinda sweet smile....
and thats enuf
this age old ritual
is enuf somehow
for now…

and we grow yet older...
love of my life...
    knees snappin
         joints poppin
              just percussion
                        dear one
                             accompaniment to a life much lived
background music  to match
             my heartbeat matchin your heartbeat

as we grow yet older...
           and gently kiss each others pains away
here
       here
              and there
                         and here
                                   and again right there...
this could be fun...

lay hands on me baby...
                           let me love you...

miss
the smell of baby neck and
***** handprints at **** level from
damp and funky hugs fresh from outside...
two against one
wrestling matches and
hide-and-go-seek in
closets and clothes hampers with
indian war paint
made of toothpaste...
Lifetime-Channel-cries (for her)
with crab legs and scrimps... and
steak and Stone Cold Steve Austin (for him)
cuz "real men (even little ones) eat beef"... and
don't do Lifetime Channel...
the sometimes uncomfortable feel
of heartfelt children's advice
as only they can give it
basic and to the point...
laughing... and sometimes crying
but laughing again
eventually...
oh
how i do miss
that which was
in its time
so taken for granted...
gone for good
into their audacious
adulthood

Just alright are e-books  and
just okay are e-zines
I suppose they have their place in the
natural progression of things
but I
love Books...

Old books and new books
soft books and hard books
to sniff an stroke and even listen to  
when antiquated stiff bindings moan
after sitting unopened for far too long
I just love books...

to pile up beside my bed... and
trip over in the night
to scan and browse and finger  titles
and check dates of copyrights

to feel the vibrations
from cover to cover of
previous generations of
fellow book lovers

to peruse
for forbidden doodles and
marginal ramblings
personal rememberances
and briefly noted things

purposely yet
inadvertently left
for future word finders
like myself

Okay... so...  e-books  and even e-zines
now have their space  
in the way of things
but I still hold
a special place
for
Books...

Read, watched, Listened for snippets
Wore the buttons,
Devoured anything…
Apartheid

Had my own personal
Bedroom Revolution...
Jumped high…In place… with the best of them
Little balled up fists…
Pumping…
Chanted the chants
Sang the song

Freeee-ee Nelson Mandelaaaa
Freeee-ee Nelson Mandelaaaa

And I meant it!  
Oh My God I meant it from my
young revolutionary soul
Cried adolescent girl cries
For our South African brothers and sisters
All of the martyrs
Known and unknown

STOP APARTHIED!
STOP APARTHIED!

Free Nelson Mandela!!

To this very day

I love me some Nelson Mandela

Love the man he is
Mourn the man he was
Big Fine Educated Pugilistic
African
Man
Passionate
Compassionate
On that serious mission

Who, though technically still breathing upon his release, in reality
Gave his life
To promote the cessation of
An idea more merciless even than the Rwandan genocide
In that Death
Seldom came quickly
A system more sadistic even than the African Slave Trade
In that it was not based economically

Therefore ALL the
“Kaffers”
Could be maimed or die
And it wouldn’t cost a thing…
Monetarily speaking

A society wherein
Each Black death  
Someone’s Job… or
Someone’s Entertainment
Every atrocity’s purpose to serve only to
Douse fuel on the already
Brightly burning fire of
Hate and torture and hate

I love Nelson Mandela

For making like David
And having the *****
To take on the Goliath
Apartheid

Satan is creative
His minions resourceful
We will never know the indignities;
Can only imagine the violations
My Nelson was forced to endure
Imprisoned for 27 years

I love
Nelson Mandela
For having the strength
To keep living
When so many others couldn’t
Still able to put
One
In front of
The other
Albeit gingerly
But still locomoting
Out of hell
On his own two feet…
That alone makes him a hero
To me

In my heart he will always be
The

Big
Fine
Educated
Pugilistic
Passionate
Compassionate
Hero
­
That the young revolutionary in me
sings about…

See…
This is private reverence
Basic and primitive
Surging through my soul
Not open to debate or explanation… and
I don’t even care
Who might think it’s silly
To dance like I do
Don’t nobody have to understand
My praise…
Don’t have to agree
With my spirit’s celebration…  
Or feel at all
like dancin with me this mornin.. cuz
I think... this time...
I'll dance
All by myself … it’s
My praise
Hallelujah
And I’ll
Dance all by myself

I have been advised (“…now don’t take this the wrong way”)
That I
Am too RAW…

It was suggested (“…merely a suggestion”)
That I
Water down my art…
Dilute it…
Make it more palatable…
Sugar coat
What may be bitter…
Make what is not nice
Nicer…
For the more…
“Delicate Audiences…”

Don’t expound upon
Addiction or Anger or The Streets
Politics, Passion, ******* or Love Gone Bad
Don’t say
****… or ***… or Hell… or ****…
Bottom line…
In the name of Money… and
In an attempt to reach a wider suburban demographic
Tone it down… sweeten it up…
Sell out….

And you know…
He’s probably right…
Commerciality does sell…

My dilemma… if I took out the
Politics, Passion, Anger, and The Streets… the
Damns , *****, Hells and *****
I may as well be Doctor Seuss…and
A cute and flowery poet~  I am not

I am what I am (a woman fully grown)
I’ve done what I’ve done (some things only Me and God know)
I’ve seen what I’ve seen (I’ll tell you about it one day)
I write about life … and

Not only is life not always palatable
It can be quite bitter...

Not only is it sometimes not nice
It is sometimes not even
Sanitary...

And if the more…
“Delicate Audiences…”
Can’t get with it…
Then
**** their ***** to hell
Let ‘em watch a ******* TV

In a past life… I’m sure of it… I was exceedingly

Grandiose…

And as grand as myself… each entrance-

Pausing in doorways

To give each and every head the privilege

To turn and peruse the

Magnificence that was me…

And with each exit

Shatter champagne glass… and

Slowly… hip swayingly….

Drag full length mink along the floor….

But not this time around… No…

This phenomenal, prosaic, and unpretentious time around

If I drag full length mink…

Some heifer would accidentally… or purposely

Be guaranteed to step on it.. making me hafta

Step to her…

(get off’a mah coat!)

And no good can ever come

From two grown women…

Rolling in gutter gum

And miscellaneous sidewalk debris

‘til the cops show… and I catch a case…  

With footprints on my coat…  

gum in my hair… and

My spirit of woe…

Cuz it wasn’t s’posed to go

Down like that… not the way I saw my

Grand Exit at all…

So…

I’ve concluded … evidently… by the way it seems like i should roll…

Not this time around… but in a past life…

Surely… I was exceedingly

Grandiose

History has shown
They will **** their own
Before living with others in peace
Have no doubt
That hatred is as nourishment
Sustenance
Subsistence
A necessity for existence
They can not do without

Burning hot as fire within the wretched souls
Of those
Whose evil knows
No bounds
Would **** you
As soon as kick you
Because your skin is Olive or Brown
Or you pray to a Deity
That your life revolves around
The depravity
The corruption
Never cease to be astounded
By

Those that NEED someone to hate

Who would these mongers hate
If successful in their efforts
To eradicate
Everyone who was, from themselves, different?

If they knifed all the *******,
Burned all the *******,
Chopped up all the chinks
Would this, their hate, augment?

If they tortured the towel heads
Killed the catholics
Hanged the homos
Would this, finally, curb discontent?

Or

Would the haters implode
And begin to feed upon themselves

Would short people
Shoot tall people?

Would merely looking at skinny
Make fatty incensed?

Would brown-eyed people
**** blue-eyed people?

Would red hair and freckles
Be a stoning offense?

Would black-haired people
Break blond-haired people?

This is a hate poem…

And hate seldom makes sense…

But sensical or no…
Seems the real status quo
Matters love that we show
There will always be those
That just plain NEED

Someone to hate

Today I’ve decided
To rush my weeks no more
I’ve chosen, from now on,
To be happy…
When-ever I am
No more depression on Sunday
Dreading Monday
No more “Can’t wait ‘til the weekend!”
While in Wednesday’s traffic jam

Because for each of us
The moment will come,
When we’ve consumed
Our respective allocated days,
That we will leave this life
With what may possibly amount to
No drama… Nothing exciting
A singular non-event…
Merely go out… quietly
No glorious blaze…

You see…
I’ve had an epiphany...

I don’t want to find
That when it’s my time
My last thoughts are of all the things I
Should have done

Like

Hugged each baby
Especially when life was crazy
Been a little less busy
Had a hellava lot more fun

Made more recitals
Missed more meetings
Told more jokes
Gave more enthused greetings

Asked “How are you doing?”
And actually waited for the reply
If you were doing well… Rejoice
And if you were doing poorly…Cry
With you…

I still have time…

To stare into the fire
Crackling in the fireplace
To kiss his neck while he’s sleeping
And take in his much loved face
To rest my hand upon his wrist
While we’re riding in the car
To laugh ‘til I cry at his made up songs
To accompany him
By guitar…

I’ve always wanted to learn to play guitar…

So today
I’ve decided
To rush my weeks no more

I’ve chosen, from now on,
To be happy… where I am

And live each day

Maybe not
As if it is my last...

But possibly
The day before

Easing from the center of a
Six foot ever-green hedge
As if thru an invisible doorway
From Zombie-land
Head first
Eyes like headlights
With high-beams on
Swiveling on too thin neck
Checking the scene
For a victim...
Emaciated shoulders
Pointy knee
Stretches
Ragged pant legs and
Ashy ankles
Flopping shoes… with
Empty lace-holes
Until finally
An entire man
Or what used to be one
Spies me…
But not before I see…
Just trying to get to work
But it’s the two-legged animals
That one must
Beware of
At five a.m.
In the city

≈

Police car cruising
The complex parking lot
Spotlight shines
But I don’t mind
Check me out Mr. Officer…
If you need to …
Cuz I’m not the one you are looking for
So he passes… as
Dusty Perpetrator
Rises
From inside
The dumpster across the way…
Scabby,
Crafty face
Uncomfortably resting under
Debris filled hair
Turns on
Boney neck… and
Spies me…
But not before I see…
Casually shut the door… and
Engage the locks
Cuz it’s the two-legged animals
That one must
Beware of
When the door **** jiggles
In the city

My Sweetie,
My Baby,
My Love…

Crashing through the morning
Like a
Bull in a china shop
Like a
White man in a jungle movie

**** chest-rumbling eleven- o’clock-pm voice
Echoing, echoing in the six o’clock am sunrise

Clearing the mist…
Scattering the dew…

Disturbing… the… peace…

Would never hurt his feelings and say
Baby please don’t walk with me

Although I can’t see myself causing him pain
At times I want to make it plain
And say-

Honey…
Shut the hell up…

You’re scaring all the animals away
Mr. Woodpecker’s not pecking,
Ms. Mockingbird’s not mocking,
And I haven’t seen my young squirrel friend today
Then I missed the opening of the Morning Glories,
Cuz you were standing in the way.

But alas
These things to my dear sweetie
I know I’ll never say

Cuz my loud baby
Loves me
And THAT,
Much more than my early morning walk,
Is what gets me through my day.

This poem is
Of me
Something I have birthed
Been blessed to give life to
As surely as I have been blessed
To give other life and
Without this poem
As with
Without the other
I would surely die

I could do
Without you
Before I could do without
This poem
Even if removing you
Would leave me
An amputee
Spiritually speaking…

I have enuf love to cover you both~
You should not make me choose
Between this poem
And you
Tho I do love you so
You will lose

On the crowded bus / from my nice downtown job / looking expensive… and smelling expensive… cuz I am / expensive that is…/ and I’m immediately ****** / cuz I’ve had a long day and I’m tired / and this homeless brother is in the back / talking loud / to his Invisible Confidante / and / without a sign or a signal / but nevertheless as a group / we do not see him…
He is to be ignored…

But my ears do not comply as he sez

It’s one thing to fight to be who you are- and another to fight just to be

And I’m like / ****… that was deep / and the poet in me needs to write this down / cuz “Crazy” follows with

My mother wasn’t nothing- wasn’t no kinda woman at all / Homeless since fifteen how do you explain that? / Nobody’s got the answers to the questions I ask / so I fight in the war / now what’s our new Black president gonna do for me? / When am I gonna get mine?

I sense a burgeoning forgiveness in the crowd / this boy’s… a Vet / but an irritation in my own spirit blossoms because forgiveness / I’m sure / is not real high on the list of all this boy needs / and I suddenly feel like I’ve been somehow negligent*

His Invisible Confidante must have interjected / as he replies

Because… / Big people don’t care about us /  David shuda gave everybody a slingshot / and if they got too big we could **** ‘em / We don’t want to have to look AFTER each other / or even AT each other / can’t even spare a dollar / Tell me to go get a job / like I didn’t try /  It’s hard to fit a camel through the eye of a needle /  So I’ma take my time / Take my time /  Take… take… take… sumthin / Just try to stay modest… just a modest sum is all I need.

The bus has slowly / gotten quieter / all pretending to be ignoring this eloquent schizophrenic / as he merges the holy bible with the u.s. constitution / and adds

Farmers usta run thangs but now Man and God together made satan / I know what I did for my country but what’s my country gonna do for me?

And by now he’s making a jacked-up kind of sense / to more than just me alone... / as he continues

It’s always the black people who think they cool with whitey / I go to the justice center / and they say "leave us alone” / it makes ‘em feel so good / that they could quit THEIR OWN jobs.
  
Which brought to mind the last time WE had to ask for help / Caught myself just in time-- cuz I’se classy now / But I almost said out loud “Say That!” / And he was on a roll…

“I’m sorry” / they say / “go to church” / they say / and at the same time they lookin’ at me / and I know I could never be part’a they church

Somewhere in the front / a sistah couldn’t hold it / and said "Ump!" / In agreement / as only a Black Woman can

And he was speaking…

They say / “I give to charity” / but charities don’t give to the likes of ME… / but people gon be people / so I aint trippin' off that  

I need time and I need help / But I’m a take my time… take… take… my time.  Yeah…

At this point / there is no pretense / we are all actively listening to this accidental poet / this inadvertent incentive to being your brothers keeper / as he says

They act like my mental defect is THEIR disability  

****… that’s ****** up

And so I guess I’m supposed to go downtown / and be all nasty and ***** / just so I can get their little piece of paper / and- smoke- some- cigs- and- smoke- some- crack-and- be happy / is that it?
but they don’t know / In the end it’s not about gettin’ high /  it’s about gettin’ by
Right …? / Yeah…

Here / he finally / mercifully / signals his stop / and prepares to leave his Invisible Confidante with

Thanks for lettin’ me free my mind, baby /  Like inna waffle house… / drinking so much coffee… /  I just wanna be inna room again… / Maybe even a cell… / Where I can read a paper and think deep about today

Wow... / With that one / we collectively exhale / and look at / our hands / or our laps / or out of our respective windows

Changed

By one of our own
Surprisingly well groomed
Oddly articulate
But deeply wounded
Sons

As he
Head hanging
Shoulders slumped
Disembarks from the number twenty-three city bus
And leaves on us
The residue
Of his melancholy…
  

Note:  Usually when the "Crazy" leaves the bus-  a vocal "Whew, I'm glad that's over!" circulates.  But when this broken young man was gone... no one made a sound.  Not a cellular phone or side conversation... nothing. We rode on in silence…

Hypothetical question inevitably comes to mind-

When we are old and past our prime

Should “they” decide that it’s our time and take upon themselves to douse the flame?

While we cry for our beloved… cuz those that are supposed to know…

Say it’s time to let her go… and

Mourn... cuz four legged people, are people just the same…

She’s just old... as most people hope to one day be… So may

She not moan… Or

Be in pain... and

Let her ease away in loving arms with none to blame… cuz

Good four legged people,

Are good people just the same…*

.

Upon being told that I am a poet
Suggested I have my work added
To the local grade school curriculum
Meant well but
I think not...

Emily Dickinson
And
Robert Frost
I truly... am not...

This is NOT what I do

Though I do agree with Emily
who aspires to"Dwell in the possibilities"

And with Mr. Frost I concur that
"The only way out is through"

Like Dylan I
"Do not go gentle into that good night"

That is not what my poems are made of...

Racism
Newly found Love
Motherhood
And children he forgot

Addiction
*******
Loneliness
And working with what you've got

A working man's hands
A homeless man's lot
Betrayal
Destruction that genocide wrought

May not always sound nice...
But Beloved, it's life

Life is what my poems are made of

The man always met the enemy at the threshold
Lays down a carpet… grabs his crooked hand… and
Escorts him in
Clears a space for him to sit… and
Like an apostle
Cleans his busy feet of road dust
Garnered while traveling  to and fro
Seeking whom he may devour…

Then… giving him a high place…
Strained to Listen
As he whispered…
Yet is somehow still surprised
When his world is aflame… and he curses the enemy
Gives him all the blame
And the enemy laughs…
As yet another foolish man
Gives him the Credit, the Glory, the Joy and the Power

It’s okay… in my opinion… to go home to glory… with some things

left unsaid.. cuz some things are better left unsaid… and I may

never run that marathon… that for at least... five years...  

I’ve been preparing for… in my head… and should I meet my maker...

carrying that last twenty pounds… that I’ve been lying about losing … well…

let’s just say… that… since my maker made me… I don’t see a problem… and

if the Creator should call before I learned to play guitar…. cuz

I’ve always wanted to learn to play guitar… I admit it will be a

disappointment… but not as big a disappointment as it would be… if

I died with my bedroom looking like this…

Long ago day on a country porch… cuz
It was too dern hot in the kitchen…
Three generations of women
Surrounded by trees and fields of greens
Snappin a whole heap’a beans…
Swattin at flyin buzzin things…
Laughin big laughs… and
Tellin small lies…
Wavin one hand as the car goin by
Stirs red dirt into the sultry air
Comin from “down yonder”…and
Headin “up ‘ere”…
Touchin giggle tears
With apron hems
Forward thirty years… and
I still see them… although
I’m the only one left…  

All the bean snappin porch ladies
Have gone the way
Of the natural progression of things… but
I can still hear that old screen door slam
I can still hear the old ladies sing…and
I now sing alone,
The hymn they usta bring
“… it’s anotha day’s journey, and I'm so glad, so glad about it… feels so good to be here”

You
The enigma
Refuse
To leave
Determined to fight
This futile fight
Perhaps your heart can not conceive
That
There are
Other worlds
To dance in

A big *******
Relentless Pac Man
Cancer is…
Usurping your glory
From the inside
Out
Leaving blinders on your lovely eyes
A hollow shell
Of your former self
Unable, even, to realize
That
There are
Other worlds
To dance in

A NEW PARTY awaits…
Better than this...
New adventures
New Loves
New lips to kiss

Fight so hard
To stay
But It’s okay
To go…
Maybe you’re afraid
Or maybe
Just do not know
That
On that
“Great gettin’ up mornin’”
All will be well once again
And though this
Wonderful… horrible… bumpy… smooth… journey
Will have finally come to an end

Keep your dancing shoes on…

This
Groove
Ain’t over

Lay down your mournful woes
Cuz my hopeful spirit knows
That there are
Better worlds…
Sweeter worlds…
Other worlds… Mom

To dance in…

It wasn’t always this way
She was lovely once…
A beauty to make a brothers
Chest ache… And
Breath come short...

Before
Too  many dreams deferred
Deadened a too free spirit
Too many pains
Damaged a too big heart
Too many losses and not enough gains
Too much liver killing corn whiskey
And soul stealing violent man
Made it now easy
For her to enfold herself
In the tragedy of the day

Anguished runny jaundiced eyes
Sunken under fake lashes that
Look too heavy for the job
Her late idea of beautification
Trying to work with what shes got
Only to accentuate the misery
In the much worn brown face where
Cheap foundation
Does a backwards slide
Into tale-telling lines that
Scream louder a narrative
Of brokenness

And she sits… alone
Always
On that stool
In a dark and dingy
Numbing place
Leaned on one elbow
Slightly to the left
Blond wig perched on her head
Like a church lady’s pillbox hat
Only this ain’t no church
And she ain’t no lady
Not no more…

But it wasn’t always this way
She was lovely once...

In the hard and cold city
There were no
Two a.m. train whistles…
Sometimes
Window rattling hip-hop woofers…
The occasional
Tequila soaked domestic dispute… and the like…
Leaving me now
Laying in the darkened silence feeling
Vintage…
Imaginary whispers of Brook Benton
“…feel like it’s rainin all ova the world”
Subliminal theme music
Setting the ambiance for
Trying to think of something
Not cliché to say about the
Two a.m. train whistle in the distance...
Cuz I still
Often wake to the
Absences of
Warbling sirens of high speed chases … and
Fusion of passing dialects beneath my window
That I never really heard…until I didn’t hear them …
Replaced with
Fat plops
Of nocturnal rain drops…
Far away clack-a-lack of iron wheel on rail…
Silence…
...and that lonely
Two a.m. train whistle in the distance…

No my dear… I don’t want to go
not fishin or shoppin or sight seein… NO
I want to stay home ****…
Looking crazy… in a doo rag… and plaids and strips…
And look at the caller id… and still not answer the phone…
and talk to myself… and/or
Scratch in inappropriate places…
I want to eat leftover spaghetti... for breakfast…
I want to pretend like I’m cleanin my room…
and 4 hours later realize it’s still messy… and not mind at all…
I want to walk into that other room… and turn around and walk back out…
I want to lay down… and get up… and lay back down again…
Then listen to some music… really loudly…and sing… really badly… and
Talk to my plants… so that they don’t feel neglected
cuz I spent all morning talkin to myself… and
stand in the front doorway… and look out of the glass screen…
and open it up… just to feel the temperature outside…. And
then shut it back…
and lock it
It’s just one’a them days… So No…
I don’t want to go…
And go… and go...
You feel me...?
Today...

I just want to stay home…

They were so not interested when the brother was so very available
Lonely even and longing to be needed longing to be loved it
Didn’t seem like it cuz he could be so very surly but desperately longing
To laugh out loud and secretly longing to dance to no music but that which
was in his lover’s heart but they would have had to but didn’t care to
dig under the bravado or be lurking behind the door to his otherwise
empty sanctuary when he locked out the needy and narcissistic and
peeled the ess offa his chest before hanging his all-purpose multi tool belt
on the all-purpose multi tool belt nail and became
merely his naked self to see that what he truly had to offer could
not be built or repaired or paid for or driven or
traded for the promise of some ***** which he would have settled for in
lieu of real companionship cuz that’s all people seem to be about these days and
*** is easy and love is hard and therefore a fella could hardly hope
for something that songs are written about  and hope deferred
is unpretty at  best  and ****** tragic at worst  so imagine
their surprise when one day he walked in with his large workman’s hand wrapped
around a smaller softer hand and he was suddenly not so surly maybe joyful even
and they wondered how they didn’t notice how **** he is and they
asked themselves did he grow two inches cuz he sure seems taller and
they don’t understand when he no longer comes just cuz they call and they find
that for some reason they hate that ***** that he is with and she ain’t so cute
so why is he not noticing how he is now coveted or catching the
obvious and disrespectfully thrown  hint… and
in their selfishness would see him unhappy before seeing him
with her before seeing him not sniffing around them
trying and hoping to be noticed and their arrogance
dictates to them that he is not unavailable… not truly…  that she is just a
passing whim and their ignorance whispers to them that he has forgotten
how not so long ago and for years and years
they were so not interested
…now ain’t that somethin

When you got the
Whats-the-use’s
cuz ole' Scratch
done pulled off yet another coup…

Remember to remind yourself to
keep on…

When you don’t think you can…
When you feel so alone…
Dig out… from under…
cuz if we stay
down
then wrong will win…

Yes…
it is a long and dusty road...

but let us not lay prostrate
no matter how tempting
in the aftermath... and
seemingly well worn path
of insanity's destruction...

get up
Beloved…

Lift your eyes to the hills
From whence your help comes… and
Speak a word
To your self…
Encourage
Your self...
Lay hands on
Your self...
Dust your own self off… and
Keep on… keep on…
Run On!

I heard the singer say
“I think I’m gonna run on, to see what the end is gonna be… “
And that feels
mighty good to my soul… so
Let’s run on…
And see what the end is gonna be…

Take my hand
Beloved…
Let's run on
Together…

And see what the end
Is gonna be…

I want you to know Edward
That I took a hit for you…
Jumped under and between
To stay the song of that
Accursed four inch strap
Took it in my fist
Wrapped it around my arm… and
Tried to pull hers out of socket.. cuz
She was addicted… and
You were only four

I want you to know Edward
That I wrestled you into the bathtub…
Disregarded your panicked cries
Scrubbed your little body
‘til you were four shades lighter… cuz
There was four inches
Of stagnant water
In the bathtub  at your house…
And you ran four times faster
Without the dirt
Weighing you down…

I wish you could know Edward
Wherever you are…
That I cooked for you…
Poured milk to go with your dinner… and you
Were afraid to ask for more
At first… then…
You went back four times
And you were happy…
Cuz she left you with me
While she just went to get cigarettes… and
Was gone for four days

Cuz there is power in being a woman… power in being the mrs… and
Cuz he is the type of man that will still do it… even if I don’t…
I may one day… on the grounds that he has forgotten to appreciate me… just quit my job… and
refuse to think of anything more strenuous than
How i would love to punch Judge Judy cuz she's rude... I will
Get up each morning… put on my face…and something casually chic…
Fluff out my hair… clip on some earrings… and when I am all dressed...
Sit at the table and drink coffee…
For as long as I feel like it…
Then I will stare at the walls
for so long that I begin to see pictures in the
texture of the paint…
become a closet horticulturist… and grow things…
lots of things… and write poem… after poem… after poem…
until I’m exhausted and have to go to bed… and that will be the only place
that I put in real work… there I will allow him to run his hands over and through my
rolls and creases… lick all the sticky nasty places… that he can’t lick on just anybody… drip sweat
on me…  and ****** loudly…  cuz it’s good… and he can’t help it… and
finally when he has my juices from his eyebrows and his beard… to his chest and his thighs…
he will be snoring… and
my real work will be done…
I may then get up… slip on satin… and fix him one’a those
Spell casting louisiana dinners… if he’s been sweet to me… or
If he has again forgotten to appreciate me… and
Cuz there is power in being a woman… power in being the mrs
I may just sit at the table and drink coffee
For as long as I feel like it…
and grow things…
lots of things...
And write poem … after poem…

Cardinal Number…  The product of ten and five... or
Degrees of temperature… or half’a century … or the amount of feet
I be screamin for folks  to
Back up and give me
labor pains… and mental strain… Losses…  Gains…   and I’m still sane and baby
I’ve paid my dues…  yes sir I’ve paid some dues… and at times…
Paid a coupla other folks dues too… rememberin
stretchin the hell out some red beans & rice…
candle lit camp outs in the livin room… laughin our way through unpaid bills… rememberin
hiding behind bushes… jumping from tree to tree…  so they think they’re
trick or treatin by themselves… thinkin
Can you say “TEENAGER”…  I sho can… both bein one…  and raisin some…
shootin from the hip tryin ta figure it all out…
Young folks askin you the meanin of life… and YOU don’t even know yet what it’s all about...
Gettin mad when HER teacher gave YOUR science project a C… cuz you know YOU do A work...
Sittin off by yourself as he walks across the stage… cuz this moment is to be savored...
Learnin the difference between ALONE and LONELY…  
Learnin that **** is not something you take off or put on… ******, **** just is…
Learnin to work with what you got...
Learnin that nobody can MAKE you happy… you got to find that for yourself...
Learnin to see the Big Picture and pick out whats important… cuz
It’s tough to get to Fifty…
That’s why a lotta folks don’t make it….
All the moments… good and bad…
break ups…
break downs…
and breakthroughs...
It’s Fifty…
And by Fifty
We’ve all paid our dues…
Yes, Fifty
You've paid your dues…  and if you're lucky…  and livin right…
Paid a coupla other folks dues too

I am going to love you…
For
Commonality
******* In its intensity
Midnight whisper songs… and
Puns and metaphors
Gently passed between fits
Of giggles and almost morning breath…
For
Private Jokes… and
Running gags
Shouting matches… and
Makeup ***
Discarded baggage… and
Tender kisses
For screen doors
Hickory floors
Fishing reels… and
Ill-timed poems
For being unafraid
To grow old… encumbered and entwined…
I am going to love you
For right now… and
For all
the right nows
to come

I lost myself a while back...
not quite sure where… and
the strange thing is
I didn’t even realize I was losin myself…
didn’t just look up one day… and
find myself gone…
lost myself a little bit at a time...
little bits of me...
miniscule soul-full particles...
slow leak...
‘til not only was I supremely empty
but the whole ****** world was
flat...
leavin me head scratchin and puzzled
cuz last time I looked I was there...
right there… where I left me...
so I had to find myself…
a tedious and sometimes dangerous task...
looked high… really really high
and found…  no self
looked low… way too low… and
thankfully… again no self...
looked places that I was sure that I had never been
where I sometimes, surprisedly, found pieces of myself
picked myself up… dusted myself off… held myself close as
gathering slowly myself… growin… into regeneration…
comin together realization…  that I
love
my
self… and
hope
to never again be.. as I once was… so full of myself…
only to just be full…
only to just be…

Perplexed and amazed… and maybe it’s my fault
Probably my fault even…
that it doesn’t appear  to occur to some folks
that there is even a possibility
that I am really NOT thinking about them…
or worrying why
Someone is crying or mad or why the ‘tude
Or if they are hungry or rested or had a fight
Or what they plan to do about their latest dilemma…
Hell… Today… I don’t even need to know the good news…  
Sometimes I've just got things on my mind…  
Like
Who’s gonna do my next pedicure… or
What will be the outcome of this next test… and
today is the anniversary of my mother’s last breath… or how
I wish he was here to kiss my neck… cuz
I do love the way he kisses my neck… and I
Wonder if there is any of that fried fish left…
Ya see…  today I just do not care
What’s going on in their world… cuz I choose... today...
To be about my world and the sound of my own heartbeat… and
I think that I plan to have more of these “about me days” and I don’t
give a **** who doesn’t get it… or feels put upon cuz
It shows that I’m disconnected…
Cuz everybody on this whole spinning rock is so into just themselves
and if I’m into you…  and you into you… then who's into me…?
and perhaps I’m breaking some cardinal rule
by determining at this late date to be
About my own personal thoughts… but I’ma build this mental wall
to protect them from intruders… cuz it is what it is…  and I don’t even feel like explaining that
Sometimes I’ve just got things on my mind…