Resilience Unveiled”

To the woman who weeps upon betrayal’s blade, Her heart’s fragile wings, in tempests swayed. Yet within pain’s chisels, a metamorphosis blooms, Mating intelligence refined, wisdom consumes.

She deciphers subtle cues in future mates’ eyes, No longer blinded by love’s sweet disguise. Her heart, a compass, guides through the storm, Detecting low mate value, keeping her warm.

But what of the other woman, entwined? Dancing with deception, love’s twisted bind. Her prize: a man who betrayed with ease, A heart ill at ease, history’s infidelity keys.

Days pass, the all-woman stands tall, Dress discarded, memories small. Her worth, her happiness—her own throne, No charity case, no borrowed zone.

Malice whispers, venomous hiss, She invokes Hanlon’s razor, dismissing the abyss: “Never attribute to malice,” she imparts, “That which is explained by stupidity’s arts.”

Human behavior, folly and wisdom entwine, And silently, one weeps upon life’s knife.

Tainted Blood

They lost me because I loved them enough to let them go, If you love something, set it free; if it returns, it’s yours. Or perhaps they wanted to have their cake and eat it too.

As poets, we often shy away from lines like these, Odium-filled phrases that don’t necessarily mean failure. A failed relationship doesn’t imply personal failure, But rather a problem—either created by us or our partner.

Let’s list the problems:

Lack of capital

Lack of patience

A weak man seeking rescue from a strong woman

And the list goes on, each issue a thorn in the heart. The pain fades after the first heartbreak, Yet trust and love become elusive.

I knew I would lose them—the scent of tainted blood wafted from their pores as they drew near. So, I stopped the kisses, the intimacy, and then came the unwarranted jealousy, the emotional hurt of rejection.

We see them for what they are, and sometimes, that’s enough to set us free.

Grief Unmeasured

I measure every grief I meet—
knowingly, they’re all related to me.
Some smaller, some larger,
but all carry weight.

Yesterday, a friend’s text arrived:
“Her daughter was shot in the head.”
The words formed a puzzle I needed to unravel:
What, why, where?
I kept asking.

Death came too soon for this young woman.
My thoughts turned to my own children—
why must mothers bury their offspring?
Black-on-black violence, a painful reality.

I reached out to my friend,
but she refused my texts and calls.
Understandable—the shock is overwhelming.

Will pain ever grow old?
Will humanity cease its violence?
Or will weapons persist indefinitely?

Why does existence hurt so much these days?
Will we run out of comforting words?

This morning’s headlines were grim:
“A young mother abandons her newborn.”
Heartless? Perhaps not.
Fear for the child’s life drove her actions.

What future awaits that abandoned soul?
What trials lie ahead?

Emily Dickinson once wrote:
“The meaning of life is just to be alive.
It is so plain and so obvious and so simple.
And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic
as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves.”

In passing, we find solace—
a piercing comfort on our journey through Calvary.

Elegy of the River and the Sea

For life and death are one,

like the river and the sea.

In grief, our tears taste different,

our ways of mourning unique.

You weep; I compose elegies.

My brother, high on marijuana,

the island battered by hurricane Beryl.

As the sea crashes upon the land,

seaweed lashes out like demons.

Are we prepared for this?

To whom it may concern,

do not call me early in the morning.

I am not yet awake for words.

Give me time to sip my coffee,

to savor the warmth of intimacy.

Let me read “Good Morning, Sunshine.”

For life and death are one,

like the river and the sea.

My daily poem whispers:

"Leave me alone in the morning

with my thoughts."

My mother outlived my father.

I aspire to outlive the sparrows.

In God, I entrust my life.

Lillian’s Echo

In the dayroom’s dim embrace, Lillian sat—a survivor etched in time. The air clung to stories, whispered secrets, and the lingering scent of suffering. She, the one-character legend, spun her tales—prose blabber, raw and unfiltered.

Born into the system’s cold arms, Lillian emerged as an adult onto Brooklyn’s unforgiving streets. There, she tasted the bitter brew of inhumanity—the kind that seeps into bones, leaving scars unseen.

Abortions etched memories on her soul. Each child, born or unborn, imprinted on her heart. Tears flowed freely among the day roomers, their lives force-fed with drugs until the final breath. Neglect and abuse danced in shadows, haunting their fragile existence.

Lillian’s own children—thirteen souls conceived in the crucible of ****. Some lost to the system, others to her desperate choices. Abortion, a relentless companion, etched its refrain: “You will never forget.”

Ms. Smaldone, wise and weathered, shared her truth. Money, she warned, was no legacy for offspring. Instead, travel—imbibe life’s nectar before the curtain falls. Merril Lynch riches crumbled when sickness struck, and family greed devoured her nest egg.

Lillian listened, her eyes reflecting pain. She vowed to seize life’s moments, to honor the lost and the forsaken. Four west day roomers, souls adrift, yearned for salvation. May they rest in peace, their echoes woven into Lillian’s prose.

Echoes of Solitude

An old man, unpopular and weathered,
Sketches cartoon characters of his childhood tormentors.
Their names, like bitter echoes, resound in his memories.
“Those *******!” he mutters, lips trembling.

He refrains from tears, fearing their taste—
A blend of loose cells from his mother and father.
Weeks pass, and Eugene, his friend, remains absent.
Hospitalized, perhaps, for an unknown pain.

The dayroom chats, oh, how he misses them!
Eugene’s face would light up when they spoke
Of Aunt Harriet’s cookies and Uncle Jack’s fishing trips.
Just the two of them, sharing moments by the lake.

But his parents? Ah, they were different.
His father’s advice: “******* to ease the pressure.”
His mother’s counsel: “Run from the bullies.”
And the therapist? “You’ll amount to nothing,” they said.

He harbored resentment, wishing he’d never been born.
Shunned, scorned—a life marked by isolation.
Yet poetry became his refuge, a soft spot in his heart.
I gifted him my favorite pen, urging him to write.

Empathy, my duty, compels me to tell stories—
To amplify voices silenced by circumstance.
For in the ink-stained verses, we find solace.
Dark n Beautiful, your words resonate.

Written by Dark n Beautiful. 🖋️

“Embrace and Release”

In the quiet of night, I pondered—
the art of severing ties, like pruning a tree.
The weakest links, once tightly bound,
now set free, like a maiden’s unclasped bra.

2024 dawns, a canvas for transformation.
Covid’s grip loosens, and clarity emerges.
Meltdowns yield to focus, tears to savings.
My *** life, like New York’s winter, chills.

Raw verses spill forth, unfiltered and true.
Yet my smile softens toward strangers,
and I find myself liking humanity anew.
Trust remains distant, a horizon to reach.

Biblical tales echo vulnerability—
the weaker devoured by the strong.
Have I surrendered my worth for fleeting moments?
No tears stain my words; they remain silent.

As I gaze upward, pondering thoughts,
my brain’s triad—forebrain, midbrain, hindbrain—
collaborates, yet sometimes drifts apart.
Do I know myself anymore? Today, I listen.

Goodbye, old lover; hello, new friends.
Life’s tides carry me forward,
and I embrace the journey, raw and unafraid.
May vulnerability be my strength, not my undoing.