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

A ***** deserves respect
When she can break you down
To her level
Whether you want to go
Or not
When just the PROMISE of her arrival
Shakes one to the core
And when in the REALITY of her arrival
One is faced with but two choices-
UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER… or
A FIGHT TO THE DEATH
She’s so bad… That...
She can decimate an entire family… One by one…
Or show up where she is least expected… in a surprise attack…
And I do not like her… And she don’t RUN things here… but
She IS given respect…In that
This low-down cruel ***** will
make a believer out of the hardest man
make your life... and the lives of your loved ones
revolve solely around her
make you break your bank
make you drive miles and miles
for unproven remedies… and
experimental relief
make you try ANYTHING
from crystal necklaces to copper bracelets...
to banish her evil self... and
I DO NOT LIKE HER…
but whether I like her or not...
she DOES command a ******-up sort of
respect
So I always capitalize the C in Cancer... cuz
She is my enemy… and
One should never
underestimate
the enemy

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

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…

Some time ago.. I decided
To not allow
Your problems
To be
My problems
You gon hafta pull that wagon by yourself…

Hell… my own load is heavy… sometimes real heavy…
And I just can’t pull yours and mine too… though I do sometimes try…

But I’ve found that when I try… for too long…
I start to droppin’ stuff… and then I feel bad…If it’s your stuff…
And I feel worse... if it’s my stuff…
Then it’s not just heavy…
But it’s heavy and dropped stuff… and

I’m scramblin’
Tryin' to make sense of it all… or fix it… or patch it... or clean it up… and
It’s affectin' me… and my head aches… and my stomach hurts… and
I’m wonderin’… why…? and
I’m countin’… how long…? and
I’m wishin’ somebody would come along… to help me…
To pull this load…
Until finally…
It came to me…

I need not allow
Your problems
To be
My problems
You gon hafta pull that wagon by yourself…

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

One day
My children will
Stop by
On their way
To somewhere else…

To
Kiss their old mama
See what I need
Fuss at me
For not eatin’ right… or
Stayin'
Out or Up
Too late…

If
By chance
I don’t open the door
Cuz I’m busy
With
A Good Smelling Man… and
Aretha Frankin

Sippin’ wine …And
Smokin’ Cigarillos…

They will blow up my phone…
And be all upset... Reprimandin’
My old self
When I finally answer
Speech softly slurred

(Aretha... moanin’ in the background)

Cuz I didn’t check in
In a timely manner...

Makin’ folks worry…

I will simply smile the learned smile
Of tried and tested mothers …
And have
A little more wine…
And
A little more Aretha…
And
A little more good smellin’ man…
One day…

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…

I’m trying to have a

Pity Party…

But people just won’t leave me alone…

I’ve got all the necessary accoutrement...

A bottle of Richard’s Wild Irish Rose...

Flannel Pajamas with oddly shaped holes

In all the wrong places...

A proper toothache ensuring my face is

Properly lumpy…

Worked ******* this body now properly bumpy

From too much soul food

That is... Food For The Soul

Such as

Pizza… and

Pudding…and

Tater Chips and Dips… and

Coco Puffs by the large serving bowl...

Donuts

And the holes to go with them...

Lifetime Channel already tuned in...

Blinds pulled down...

Unplugged my phone…

But these people!

They just won’t leave me alone!

Being all supportive and huggy and lovey and clean-y

I don’t see…

Why they don’t see…

That now is just not the time…

They need to get on out’a here

And let me drink my wine… cuz

I’m trying to have

A Pity Party!

But I swear they just won’t leave me alone…

NOW HEAR THIS!

NOW HEAR THIS!


Would

All

Pity

Party

Poopers

Please

Just Go Home!

Without effort… not even trying… I used to see poems everywhere…

While sitting in my yard of a summer eve… there were poems in the sway of trees… and in the flight of the hummingbird… and in mother cat and her babies … and little girls holding intense conversations… and kids chasing dogs and dogs chasing kids… and little boys ***** from a hard day's play big-eyed and determined to talk to me…

poems… everywhere…

While standing on the bus stop in the hood… there were poems in the kitchen smells calling to me from each little house… and in the swagger of them in training talking loud and testing the waters of manhood… and in the tired face of the tired old woman who should mostly likely have been retired just trying to make it home one plodding step at a time…

poems… everywhere…

Then too much death and illness and suffering… clogged my flow…

So…

I had to make a conscious effort…  to SEE again.. so that I wouldn’t die myself… of obstruction of the expression gate… or collapse from a deficiency of thought originality… or succumb to an overdose of banality… or break down under the weight of too much…ORDINARY

It was hard… but it had to be done… and a poet like me does not give in… a poet like me
can’t help but SEE… eventually…so I looked and I looked…  with an eye toward the esoteric… an eye toward the eclectic… and the beauty... and the color… and it’s working… I’m getting there… I’m getting there… I’m starting to see… though while not… EVERYWHERE… I once again thank The Creator who flows through me that… I do see …

poems ALMOST everywhere…

You watch too much tv…

I am not what you see.. on

cop dramas…Or

reality shows…or even… at this point...

B E T

I don’t use

“is” in inappropriate places

Nor do I finish sentences with prepositional phrases

Such as “who you is?” or “Where my coat at?”

I don’t do elaborate handshakes

I don’t work my neck

I don’t purse my lips… constantly sneer… or

“go off” at the drop of a hat

I do walk with quiet dignity… and

Shake off your devilish ways with God given grace

I do have a life… a peaceful “unbroken” place to go home to

Hence the serenity that you see on my face

Leaving you nonplussed-

That I have no desire to be you… and

You find yourself… trying to bond by

Putting the word “be”

Where no “be” should be… cuz you’re

Trying too hard to understand me…

And I

Wear this faint professional smile.. though my eyes do not

Which (as an aside) you don’t even see

Use all of my vowels and consonants

Never acknowledge any flirtatious compliments

As I render unto Caesar what Caesar’s should be… and

Escape to my loves…And

read something… or

grow something… or

learn something…

Now that’s the me that I don’t mind if you see… but

You’re not interested in THAT reality… cuz

It would wreck your notions preconceived…

So I've concluded... by your manners… or the lack thereof… that

You obviously just watch too much tv



.

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

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…

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 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…

Days gone by… by this point…  I’da been
Toasted
Buttered
Three Sheets To The Wind
Toe’ –up from the flo’- up
and
Highly Intoxicated
But that was then and this is now…
NOW… I don’t smoke… I don’t drink… and I don’t get high
Not no more…
BUT I DO COOK!!  And loooove my own good cooking!!
AND I DO EAT!! And loooove that too!!
With that said... here is my confession...

on the day my mother died… I consumed…
2 deep fried chicken sandwiches… a Hostess Ding ****… a Snicker Bar
And enough Apple Jacks to need an intervention and a visit to A.J.A.
Apple Jack Anonymous

So today... I repent... Say 3 Hail Mary's... and eat a salad...

I talk to myself

I talk to myself and that’s okay cuz

I like myself

I know what to expect from myself

I’m never ever rude to myself

Or even a little bit sarcastic with myself

I have been known to deceive myself

And do occasionally surprise myself

Though I can usually predict

What’s going to happen with myself

Every now and again I let myself

Down

But that’s to be expected as myself

Is only human

So when it is necessary

To get a grip on myself

I set aside

A little time

To

Talk to myself




...To The Things That I've Learned Along The Way
Carla Marie 2011

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

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

It appears that I am now
At that age…

The age at which
The older folks of my youth
Shook their heads and talked softly together and
Pat-hugged each other and held hands with sad eyes... and
From the corner of my young ear
Without full comprehension or understanding~
“If there is anything I can do…”
Or
“I’m so sorry for your loss…”
Or
“Bless your heart…”

Then time got away … and
Here we are… and
Somehow surprised to be…

At the age at which
Every other body’s
Mom or Dad or Parents
Are merely needful
Or dying
Or dead… and
We are now the
Caregivers… or
Caretakers… whether
Primary or In Addition To…
Enthusiastically or Reluctantly… it is now
Our turn…
With
Every other body
To shake our heads and talk softly together and
Pat-hug each other and hold hands with sad direct eyes and
Complete and Profound understanding~
“If there is anything I can do…”
Or
“I’m so sorry for your loss…”
Or
“Bless your heart…”

For sadly
We are now
At
That Age

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 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

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”

There are elevated thick spots
Directly beneath the finger next to the pinky…
From my share… and on occasion
Other folk’s shares of
Hard work… and
I don’t mind…
These aged hands… that
Once gestured prettily to
Wave away a swoon… or
Disperse the heat… or
Point a direction… or
Pat him on his chest while
Girlishly giggling “boy you so craaazy…”
Now with their
Raised and rugged veins… a
Narrative of my life… like
My Mother’s hands… and
My Mother’s Mother’s hands… and
I don’t mind these aged hands… that have
Patted the babies… and
Held faces to kiss away tears… and
Spanked some tail so the police would never have to…
No-  I don’t mind…
These hands that have
Stroked… and
Rubbed… and
Massaged…and
scrubbed… are now
No longer so pretty…
No longer so dainty…  but like
My Mother’s hands… and
My Mother’s Mother’s hands…
Each line is a tale of it’s own… and
Every ache an account of the past… and
Every callous a memoir… and
I have lived a love filled life… and
The years have given so much to these aged hands …so
I don’t mind…

Though the date may be late… and
Those type things don’t happen anymore…MUCH…dare I say

Those type things don’t happen MUCH anymore… (yes I dared)
It is nevertheless ingrained…

No matter the age or the date
However young or old…
It is in our DNA… and
Our DNA does not forget
Will not allow us
As other cultures will
To easily enjoy
The remote loveliness… and
Maniacally flowering greenery… and
Beauteous quiet of this
Southern forest… this
Confederate lake…  
Without our spirits
Sadly counting
The cumulative number of
Hundreds of years of
Fertilization by
Black Men’s bones…

But like my father and his father before him
We show up anyway…
Albeit somewhat uneasily…
While the native good-ole-boys
Stand stock still and stare
Actin’ like they never seen one’a us before… and
Though we arrived obviously prepared for what we came to do
They still stare… as if
wondering what we could possibly be doing here…
or maybe… how dare we enjoy God’s green earth with our brown selfs…

And my beautiful Black Man
with ease of motion
Audaciously pays the Black Tax
(the quoted price over what the sign says the price is)
As I bait my line in defiance
Albeit somewhat uneasily… and
Cast it out into this confederate lake

And my beautiful Black Man
Also stands… broad shoulders back… and
Pointedly does not acknowledge the presence of the natives
As they stand stock still and stare
But it is there
(We will NOT be afraid… and we will NOT go away)
Unspoken between us... But
Always in the back of the mind…
The recesses of the consciousness…
Preparation for this day… and the worst that it can bring…
Is ingrained…

I want to leave something
When I die
To show that I was here
Of course I’ve got young people
And my sweet lover
And various keepsakes
That I hold dear
But
This bequest must be
Of poetic design
As melodious as my spirit
As lyrical as my mind
Buried like hidden treasure
For future word finders to find
Small portions of me
To know me by
Left behind
To discover
After I die

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...

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

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…

I mourned the loss of US that died suddenly...
Lowered the flag to half mast
Rent my clothes
Donned sack cloth and ashes
Covered the mirrors with black satin… and
Lovingly prepared green bean casserole and pound cake
Gifted  it to and comforted and assured
myself… that
everything’s gonna be alright…
Offered to myself
Condolences
Which I graciously accepted
yes…
US will be missed
yes…
US was so nice
No…
I didn’t even know that US was sick… and
I mourn US that died suddenly
But not for too long…
After a respectable period of time
****** the satin off of my mirrors
To better see me twirl in my hot red dress
After I lean in… and kiss myself
Throw the green bean casserole out… cuz I hate it
Eat all the pound cake… cuz I love it
Laugh out loud… cuz I am
Comforted and assured… that
Everything’s gonna be alright… and then
…Raise and Let My Free Flag Fly!

Busy people…
Oh so busy people….
You step real hard when you walk real fast
With your busy scowls on your busy faces
Making busy wrinkles in your busy forehead
From thinking all those
Wondrous… and
Special…
Busy thoughts…

**** sho too busy to
Make small talk… or
Ask about… or
Even be pleasant to
Us regular people…
Oh so busy…
Would make an old man wait for 6 hours
For the answer to a 5 minute question…

Cuz you busy…

Too busy to even answer the phone
Especially…  If you know who’s callin’…
Sho too busy…Way too busy…
To answer
For the likes of me… or even him… cuz
That’s not what you busy people do…
We should all
Just be happy
To have your
Wondrous… and
Special… and
Busy self
To be
Ignored by

But Oh Mr. Busy…
One day…
Mayhap…
You will look up from your busy-ness… and
Find that there are
No more some bodies
To step past real hard… or
To dismiss… as unimportant
With your busy scowl and busy wrinkled forehead
No more callers
To  ignore… or un-pleasantries to share
Cuz you,  yourself,  have gotten
Unpleasantly old
And every body else

Is just too busy…

It’s complicated…


And comes in

Varying shades of gray…


Up the scale

To sweaty FUSCHIA

Or down the scale

To dismal BLACK


Let it be

What it be…

Because

It is…

What it is…


Don’t overthink it

Don’t micro analyze it… or

Make excuses for it… or

For the lack of it…

Because…


It’s complicated

Love is…


And comes in

Varying shades of gray

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 have learned my lesson / One should not give the impression / of being too happy / as you don’t do

happy / you and angry / are comfortable / misery / your longtime friend / but with happy / you are

unacquainted / and / too much joviality / for too long a period / puts the proverbial underpants in a bunch /

too much free-range fondling / and unnecessary emotion / is a commotion / that puts the Neanderthal in

you / into uncharted territory / off the clear and obvious path / with a virtual stick / banging the bushes of

my spirit / waiting to see what emerges / and surprisingly / you are surprised / that what emerges is /

seldom what you expect / but what do you expect? / That i will continually ride this / histrionic

rollercoaster? / apprehensively peaking hills? / uncertainly braving valleys? / stop the maniacal ups and

downs i think i want to get off / on you / and with you / but that just wont do / cuz you / fail to realize /

that I am / percolating and oozing / straight inundated with / sweetness / and to get the full overflow / of

said sweetness / is a privilege… / and not a right… / therefore / to the benefit of no one / and as a

consequence of your / vacillation and inconstancy / i have made the determination / to Cap this most

fundamental Well / sadly / i have learned my lesson…

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

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

in the darkest hour, after the day is done, TV’s are off, and the melody of

our house has settled to the muted percussion of ticks and creaks... and

again sometimes when the night is fading but the clocks have yet to

chime the new day...

he whispers a song to me...

warm and fuzzy, eyes still closed, i surface to sweet and funky exhalation

just above the ear curve...

softly whisper-singing... almost to himself...

“And I feel fine anytime she's around me now
She's around me now
Just about all the time
And if I'm well you can tell she's been with me now
She's been with me now quite a long, long time
And I feel fine…”

snuggle deeper... inhale the sweet funky aroma of his breathy song…

and I feel fine too…