Cast Iron comb held freedom between its teeth
Release me from these naps- it’s straightness I seek
Praying I don’t get burned and have to pay a price
Just to get someone to notice and say my hair looks nice
It’s blowing in the wind just as smooth as you please
Fingers don’t get stuck; they flow through with ease
Walking down the street I catch a few winks and stares
I’m flowing with my hot combed hair without a care
Thunder rolls and lightning strikes...cumulus clouds gather
Umbrella in the car😳, this is no laughing matter!
Minutes pass and strangers still smile as they stroll by
I couldn’t muster the energy to figure out why
My hair, no longer straight, must be ***** and knotted by now
I looked in the mirror and still gathered compliments but didn’t know how
I thought for a moment about how carefree I felt as the sun came into view
I realized I’d just been released from those sad old hot comb blues.
I am lost in thought
Some one will have to catch me up later..
Sure, I’ll pretend I was listening with a hmmm mmm here and a nod there..
but really, I’m on a journey...
a retreat for my mind ...
from this mundane conversation...
so I’ll treat myself with this little trip...
just about riiiiight here* in this very one-sided “exchange”
so boring I may as well be elsewhere...
anywhere but here...
you prate on and on...
self-absorbed, as am I...
So preoccupied with your chatter...
you don’t even seem to notice that you’re talking to yourself
For those who have ever found yourself in a boring, one-sided “conversation”
Closed eyes drown out the day
Until he stirs and his voice sings
A short poem about the soft stirring beauty of a quiet morning.
My man is so good to me...
And treats me so fine,
He keeps me coming back for more...
Each time I think I’ve had my fill, I’m back again,
It’s a treat for all my senses really, every last one stands at his attention.
I mean, how can I resist?
Look at him, moving like the king that he is, with that **** grin.
He brushes aside my hair...I feel his cool breath on my neck, a soft tickle on the skin...
Then he whispers,
“More eggs baby?”
Don’t you just love a man who can cook?
For those sweet intimate moments shared between two.
I have eased into summer...
She ambles as enchanted limbs invite me in and I rest in her curved back.
Her soft cerulean waves wash over me and I am warm...
As she provides a gritty paradise for feet to rest.
Shay Loves © 2020 lyricalpurging.com
With rich stories
While I execute dreams
Unrealized and extinguished
This poem is dedicated to my ancestors. May they rest in power
This right is sacred
Marking this ballot is my rite...
a passageway to true freedom.
I feel the blood of ancestors coursing...
I hear the haunting cries of arrested dreams...
Stolen hopes for my enslaved great, great grandparents...
persecuted & denied rights, beaten for daring to read & write.
I do this for them...
I feel the heartbeats of my children and my descendants ... this is my legacy...
I do this for them.
Oh yes! This right is sacred...
This is my justice... righting these wrongs...
These stickers symbolize the spoils...Prominently displayed
And these collective voices will be heard...battle cries of suffrage
this rite is ours...
it belongs to us...
it always has...
this is our ancestors’ hope,
This is our right...
This is our voice...
This is our vote...
Side by side
Another name... perhaps another age
Though the Paths have changed
Her soul remains the same
She is lone Poet living on sandy earth
Bathing in sun’s light
As She Chronicles to earn her worth
Her days aligned with tide of her mood
Rising with the day-A lullaby for the night
A mediocre Substitute for a brood
On the edge of this aquatic paradise
She thinks she has all that was in store
Yet there’s a hint that she once longed for more
Something perfectly designed for her spirit
A Lingering faceless, nameless feeling
A whisper of something missing almost too soft to hear it
Too vague to define but with oneness of soul and shape
If only she could trade: if only she realized what was at stake
Only then from this slumber’s dream will she wake.
A poem about parallel universe
Stolen glances between strangers across a crowded space
Love hangs in the balance waiting to take her place
Two strangers stories yet untold waiting to be written
Love partners with desire with designs on making you smitten...
Though you may think she is coy she is quite uninhibited
Purposely colliding two strangers and staring back at the scene she’s exhibited
It’s probably best to surrender now to the power that will leave you utterly defenseless
As she writes the performance of a lifetime these impending lovers are poised to witness
— The End —