I like my days melancholy.
But beautifully so.
When the sky is grey,
with the few solitary raindrops.
I stand at the sink, in the fading sunlight,
washing my two navy dresses.
A soft old jazz piece plays on the radio,
I turn the fabric over in my hands.
Scrubbing between buttons and seams,
washing the remnants of church services,
a job interview, presentations
down the rusting drain.
I dunk a lace collar into the water
it comes up dark, black, heavy
as though someone has dipped it in tar.
It's delicacy is gone,
but it's spaces seemingly filled.
I stretch it across my palm,
black against alabaster.
The emptiness is here, today,
as it is in all days,
but for a few moments,
it feels filled.

Bruised and blistered hands
from digging up memories.
Someday, child, you will understand.
When your joints ache,and your skin is creased,
you will understand.
Your hands will sting against the shovel
raw from blisters you didn’t take the time to bandage.
Time is to precious to waste here.
No one wants to greet death
without these memories by their side.
Every bruise it worth it, dear.
Never forget to remember.
For when everything has slipped away,
youth is gone,
the places and people you knew,
vanished.
All you have are memories.
So dig them up.
Brush away the dirt,
turn them over in your hands.
It will all come back.

I picked my poison blindfolded.
Fumbling like Jane Grey
at the execution block.
Grabbed the jar closest,
cool glass with death beneath.
It was the slowest.
Death by leeches,
who **** the spirit dry
and replace it
with lead.

The world lost a beautiful soul today. But the beautiful thing about poets is that they never really die. Their secrets, their hopes, their most intimate thoughts are tucked between the lines, even in their most light hearted pieces. Poetry is a very honest medium. Maybe not as honest as sitting and having conversation over tea, but scraps of living soul are always left in the spaces between letters. David, Ovid, Homer, Shakespeare, all of these have survived the centuries as poets. I have no doubt that centuries from now, if our world is still turning, Maya Angelou's works will be counted among these eternal ranks.

there is always somebody or something
waiting for you,
something stronger, more intelligent,
more evil, more kind, more durable,
something bigger, something better,
something worse, something with
eyes like the tiger, jaws like the shark,
something crazier than crazy,
saner than sane,
there is always something or somebody
waiting for you
as you put on your shoes
or as you sleep
or as you empty a garbage can
or pet your cat
or brush your teeth
or celebrate a holiday
there is always somebody or something
waiting for you.

keep this fully in mind
so that when it happens
you will be as ready as possible.

meanwhile, a good day to
you
if you are still there.
I think that I am---
I just burnt my fingers on
this
cigarette.

I had forgotten how it aches.
Like old men before a storm,
complaining how the weather
makes their knuckles throb.
Here you are,
dredging up the things I buried months ago.
The old ache returning
as the clouds gather.

stand quietly here, love
yes, next to me.
Enough to feel the air pass between us,
between breaths,
as the wind gasps.
do you hear them, dear?
those voices the Echoes bring to us?
Ghastly, aren't they.
******, dark voices,
wrought and rent like the chests they came from.
Look at them, darling.
watch their feet melt into red earth.
their hands, too, fraught with iron.
Faces, see their faces?
There is your father, your husband, your brother, your son, dear.
Your daughter, your wife, your sister, your mother.
See their hollow mouths agape?
Hear their voices screaming?
That's what pain sounds like.
Your heart is making the same noise, isn't it?
I can hear it.
This is hell, love.
Just another part of life,
and death, I suppose.
It's all a circle anyway.
This is where we learned
to spell hell with three letters.
Remember that, dear,
remember that.