"raleigh" poems
STATE SHUT DOWN BY IDIOCY
"This is correspondent, uh, burp...
wait, winds r, yeah, okay go
back on live camera..."
pretend the wind
is
blowing you back
"This is the most major storm in recorded history of this network!"
"My God,
I could die in this sh..stuff."
"Five star hotel what the ****
"Okay, okay, live we are,
look here, pan closer, these leafs on this Raleigh plant here,
see how violently they are moving?"
LEAVES ARE FALLING!
"That is the fear one feels knowing that a category two,
at any moment, could become a category five."
"This Dave Mowers live from Hawaii,
checking in before I possibly die.
Mom I love you, Dad, well,
look how brave I am!"
"Is that an Asian girl?"
"What an a..cute *** that,
cut to...
to the violent leaves again you ****
"I'll fire you cameraman!"
*Four large oak trees have fallen.
HAWAII HAS ENORMOUS SURF!.
Four large oak trees have fallen.**
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC
We wear this city on our feet
Planting our roots with each step
Our shadows
cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak
We grow here
with the spirit of buildings past,
present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance,
the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense,
spires for steeples,
the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles
of our feet pounding the pavement,
Our congregation
seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop
Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage
They march
downtown toward Capitol
holding signs for disarmament
They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance
They move in a blur of faces that become us,
Rush at all hours through our veins
Cross our hearts and keep us breathing,
Moving
wearing the city on our minds
like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads
We assume monk-like appearances
in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat
We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet,
We'll wear their dreams at night
like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible
on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour
We'll keep walking
and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders
under the watch of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
KISSING MR. CHELIDON GOODBYE
Ho...ho. . .oh!
I don't know
if I should be
telling you this.
I was just sweet
as in 16 &
never been kissed
and my *******
hadn't yet arrived
though I prayed and prayed
to a God who did not
heed my girlish plea.
All the girls in my year
had already budded.
******* to the right of me!
Breast to the left of me!
Into the valley of despair
I rode my Raleigh
alas alas
breast-less!
I practiced kissing
by kissing
the you know
inside of
( the whatchamacallit? )
my elbow the
chelidon so called
by an old falling-apart
medical dictionary.
I clipped some hair
from our Yorkshire terrier
stuck it on the crick of
my right elbow
so that it became
my first moustache'd kiss.
And so, was born
my Mr. Chelidon.
Pathetic...yes...I know
but the year after
my bosoms arrived
with a suddenness
that took my breath
away.
I breasting the waves
like a ship's figurehead
as I dived into the sea
a Venus for boys to see.
I was my *******
and my ******* were me.
Somehow I could then not
stopped being kissed.
And once kissed
grew addicted to it.
The bliss of the kiss.
I was my own drug.
I gave Mr. Chelidon
the elbow.
Discovered the joy of boys
inventing various uses
for them
as they
discovered
me.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 5:41 AM UTC
T'was just before Christmas and I went down to the garage
To have my old car looked at by a fellow known as "Sarge"
He said I need tires and my wipers weren't so hot
My hoses all were leaking and my muffler was shot
The repairs just kept on coming and I saw a sparkle in his eyes
He was counting all my money, he was the devil in disguise
I told him "Thanks, but I would go and get another look"
Before I signed for his repair list and I was on the hook
So I went on to my friend's place to see what he could do
We've been friends for nearly 30 years...since 1982.
His mechanic took it out back and while he had it on the hoist
I saw a woman at the counter, looking rather moist
She said my car is leaking there's a hole that must be filled
I thought that if Rob had a coffee, it'd most certainly be spilled
A girl came in and she told Rob her boyfriend had loose nuts
And whenever he was driving her, they slid into the ruts
Rob stepped back, grinned a bit as he was looking down her front
And from where I stood behind her I could almost see her
Donation to the Angel tree that was standing in the corner
A door opened, a breeze blew in, and there was no time to warn her
Her skirt blew up, exposing her tattoo of some sprigs of holly
And Rob came round and covered her just like Sir Walter Raleigh
I'm sorry miss, for I did look when your skirt was lifted
And I must say, you made my night, for my drive shaft has shifted
And then a man came through the door and said "My name is Nick"
"I've problems with my reindeer and I need them seen to quick"
Rob said "we work on cars here sir , I can fix tires or a hose"
"It's nothing major son, I need a bulb for Rudolph's nose"
"It doesn't stay on like it should and the other deer get frantic"
"And I can't risk it going out when I'm over the Atlantic"
"So, if you would replace it now with something nice and bright"
"I'd pay you well for all your time and for aiding in my plight"
Rob stepped up, fixed Rudolph's nose and said "This one's on me"
"And for all work done in my shop you get a guarantee"
We all stood round as Santa left, for we new that it was him
For he left us each a candy cane in a metal alloy rim
And as we watched him fly away, I'm sure we heard him yell
"There's mistletoe tattooed on her too, but...where I'll never tell!"
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:01 PM UTC
mr moonlight
mr nowhere
maxwell edison
mr jones
dr robert
sgt pepper
mr kite, bb king
edgar allen poe
walter raleigh
mat busby
the hendersons
and maggie mae
mr mustard
captain marvel
rita lucy jojo
vera chuck and dave
mother nature
polethene pam
mr heath doris day
and buffalo bill
loretta martin
**** sadie
hey jude eggman
my michelle
rigby and pilchard
or elenor and semolina
took father mckenzie
too see a dancing horse
henry his name was
rocky raccoon was there
prudence rode elephant
to the i me mine waltz
---
There gonna crucify me
the way things go
christ it aint easy
the next day dont know
you know the walrus was paul man
johns bird can sing
george was a genie
ringo wore a ring
but paul is dead now
george stole his soul
john is alive though
ringos in a hole
her royal highness the tax man
commit the perfect crime
she asked for more
with a belly full of wine
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
Read Shakespeare and Milton and all of the rest
Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth are some of the best
Read Ted Hughes and Sylvia, Motion, Duffy
They say what I want to say better than me
Read Homer and Ovid, Basho and Su Shi
Chaucer and Boccaccio they've stood the test
Read Donne, Spenser, Marlowe, Jonson and Raleigh
Read Shakespeare and Milton and all of the rest
Read Swift, Pope, Blake, Tennyson, and Rossetti
The two Barrett Brownings are of interest
For feelings romantic as true as can be
Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth are some of the best
Read Larkin and Betjeman if you're depressed
Read Wendy Cope to enjoy all of life's zest
Yes please don't think I despise modernity
Read Ted Hughes and Sylvia, Motion, Duffy
And how about all those I haven't addressed
Yeats, Auden, Joyce, Longfellow, Poe and Shelley
And all of the others I'm bound to have missed
They say what I want to say better than me
But what of the poet, with poets obessed?
In prose I am prolix, in speech stuttery:
So where will you find my emotions expressed?
On MySpace, on Twitter, read my poetry
It says what I want to say
Oct 7, 2009
Oct 7, 2009 at 11:12 AM UTC
The red flower centered
between exotic curled lines
evokes the smell of old Jaipur
the Hawa Mahal ~ Palace of the Winds
where the maharaja’s women once peered
from pink honeycombed windows above streets
overflowing with painted elephants, camels, turbaned men.
A river of color, movement, sound
from red-dust shrouded sunrise
to ember scorch at the horizon line
the desert broken only by the organic rise
of dung and mud-bricked houses sheltered
by one denuded tree, a mirage of shade.
A cobalt hurricane spiral or vine’s end
worn smaller than its origins
its story, the shelf on which it sat
perhaps a fragile immigrant, hand-carried
from the old country by someone’s mother’s mother.
Whole and admired for a century before
its demise, told with regret-laden mouths
mother to daughter, daughter to mother
*Oh, I wish we still had that blue bowl
great grandmother dropped
when she heard about Roy*
a circle of memory, come to rest
on this distant curve of beach.
The cream and blue striped shard
could be my grandmother’s coffee cup
rimmed brown and lipstick stamped
sip, then drag on the Raleigh cigarette
always attached to electric-tipped fingers.
The cup was most likely broken in the war
that raged until death parted my grandparents
maybe it sailed harmlessly past my grandfather’s shiny
head and hit a rock near the creek, exploding into pieces
a small token of their shattered marriage
a lifetime of regrets carried to the sea
grievance-scrubbed, muted by the journey
this sliver must be handled with care.
The largest fragment found
tangled in the eelgrass at my feet
delivered on a tide of need
at the ebb of an unexpected storm
a perfect cross, soft edges raised
on a rough slab of terra cotta.
The fragile sun had warmed
the worn shape nesting
in my palm like a missing piece
as my restless fingers traced
down and across, across and down
asking questions, seeking answers.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
the patrol car has left the block once more,
a bull shark circling
nearer to some shore, headlights
blared, a black silhouette steering the vehicle;
night kisses the horizon, pecks it sharp
like a bullet case
scraping the darkling pavement,
only the whitest stars visible above.
many like me stroll sidewalks at this hour,
smoking a stogie
or sitting on empty swings
in playgrounds vacant of laughter; it is better
that children sleep while they can and can dream
before the true night,
that blight of bruise blue, sirens
wailing on their way to steal away some dark man
from the streets. where I stand on an apartment stoop
I count the vehicle
for the fourth time, lurking
out around the corner, like a wolf dressed metallic.
nothing gets better come nightfall. nothing
gets done while asleep.
i slip on my shadow, hood
dark, concealing my face. lean back into the steps
and light another cigarette. inhale.
exhale. most don’t have
to worry: their paleness turns
them ghostly, invisible, to the patrolling cars.
but I wear my darkness. i wish I knew
how to make sparks fly,
have them issue from throat, crack
into splinters of glass. the law tells me to sit
but I refuse. i am a phosphorus
fuse; i am whitened;
but i am impoverished,
and I too have my own reasons to be frightened.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC
Plastic pistols, cowboy hats
action men, palitoy combat
Hotspur, Tiger and Hurricane
leather footballs, broken panes
Matchbox, Corgi, Airfix, Meccano
Stickle Bricks, and (only) red and white Lego
Triang scooters, Raleigh Choppers
Dunlop plimsolls, orange space-hoppers
Down the park’s obstacle course
Witches Hat, iron rocking horse
Bumps and scrapes, grazes and cuts
rub it all better, just-get-back-up
Home before dark, in time for tea
Billy and Ian, my sisters and me
Dec 13, 2021
Dec 13, 2021 at 2:26 PM UTC
Fifty years ago today
A half century. Yes--seems like a long time when we say it that way, sublimely forgetting time is a dimension we chop cheaply for convenience. In earth time, in galaxy time, the vast blue stretch since the cosmos’ first coding coughing of carbon, that five decades has been but a clipped comma in a thousand page tome, with a single stout capital letter being the history of a country, and a verbose sentence or two being the tale of our two legged species. For me, the 50 years since that day has been most of my book--nearly all that has been written since the dawn of light.
I was on the Kanto plains of Japan, so it was already Christmas--though I guess my world has always spun faster than most. During the night, my father had assembled my new black three speed 26 inch Raleigh English racer, a serious upgrade from my red 24 inch Schwinn, my first bike, long lost to spinning memory, and likely the property of some dump in the heartland.
The new bike stood beside the table in our large combination kitchen/dining room of our temporary officer quarters. I can’t recall if it was too cold to ride that day, but I probably ventured out, either in the real rays of the sun or in the land of imagination, the two being of equal measure in the realm of memory.
A month before, my father woke me with the news of Kennedy’s assassination. Like others who were old enough to remember, the events of that November day have much crisper edges than any other, including the Raleigh racer Christmas or any Christmas I can recollect.
Tomorrow is another Christmas. I won’t look at that day too much when I am walking in the park this afternoon, for tomorrow is not waiting for me at all. It will be there even if I am again dancing with stardust. More likely, I will be here, on the same rolling rock, eating the flesh of a fallen gobbler and making new memories I will recall only hazily in fifty hours. And if I were promised another fifty marching years, I might lament their passing before they arrived, knowing full well they too would be filled with forgetting.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
There is moonlight on the mountains on a
cold December night, behind the glass
On my way to Raleigh-Durham like a
bullet, six miles high, and fading fast
I know that in a year or so your
little broken heart will surely mend
Loving you was heavenly but
leaving you will **** me in the end
I can lose myself reflecting on that
moment of the day that we first met
Drinking from a rocks glass full of
bourbon, with a chaser of regret
Tonight I've got raise the strength to
face an empty hotel room alone
The time we spent together was the
sweetest thing that I have ever known
I am trapped within - all that might have been
I know in time your memory will fade
Better bitter tears than all your wasted years
So I'll live with all the choices I have made
Like a teardrop in the ocean,
our love is lost and gone beneath the waves
And our old, romantic notions lie in
pieces, while the memories remain
The pain that lives inside me like a
devil is no more than I deserve
But hearing that you loved me was the
sweetest thing a man has ever heard
There is no fool like an old fool
And when you're in the autumn of your days
I'll be done and gone, and you'll have long moved on
And you will struggle to recall my very name
If I had been a better man, I
never would have kissed you on that day
But the days roll ever onward, and there's
really nothing left for us to say
Baby, I'm afraid that I'm too old
To try to change the way I am
But Loving you may be the only thing
I've ever done that's worth a ****
And when you lie awake in bed
I hope you know I tried to do what's right
and remember how I loved you when
I left you on that cold December night.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
how can I make a translation
of these never before felt feelings
if their language I don’t possess
one of which mine ears
have never had a previliage
of previous precous encounter
and one which overwhelms so powerfully
mine eyes; and my tongue but in realisaton
is powerless to pronounce
yet can do nothing else than confront them
these feelings, these feelings, oh these feelings
a painted mosiac of plasure and gulit
that leaves me in such a quandadry as I don’t know why
yet has me beliebve that the only thing I trust
any longer is this very moment; the moment with him
where pure and untainted feeelings break upon me
as foamed waves upon a pebbled beach
where convention does disintigarte
in splintering bursts of Vulacn light
oh to be yet disintangled in my mind
to be detached, feeling each succeeeding thought
as it seperates itself from the centreal core of my mind
to examine them in the srange sub-lit detachement
where I find myelf now floating
there is no known languange for its expression
these feelings, these felings, these feelings
only Raleigh, only Raleigh, I hope
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
You can choo cha, doo da, hula with a hoopla,
It's all an oil on canvas by the man that they call Dali and you go sail away like Raleigh with the Queen and off to Bali, but your Sheila and the Children wait for you in
Basildon.
It never makes a rhyme when you **** off every time that the debts start mounting up and it shows in the starved faces of the cold and golden places in the eyes and on the lips you leave behind.
You,
the star now
going far now
and forgetting who you were,
are you aware in some false state that this love can turn to hate?
are you bound so tightly to the dream, does it make you happy, can you hear the scream of fate?
The kids are still in Basildon
but Sheila met a soldier boy and moved away to Warrington, long gone the Queen and dream
you're getting old, can't hula hoop, but you seen it all and now you fall into a reverie.
With Dali
and
a cup of tea.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
Greensleeves.
that's the tune
every day
around about noon
******
Greensleeves.
Elizabethan ear ache for
a Walter Raleigh or a Francis
Drake, cornets
with a flake?
Greensleeves
******
Greensleeves,
wish the man in the ice cream van would play some Eminem
then I might stop moaning.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 1:27 PM UTC
Babe Ruth smokes a Raleigh in the doorway,
as i give birth to a broken mirror
if home is where the heart is, i live on the state line
or on my sleeve
he knows that, and as he finishes his cigarette
i ask him if he ever thinks about cancer
"i think of it like i think about 1949,
so far away"
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
As Rasputin rapture he'd fraudulently claim
that his thoughts were a divine mystery
as he sought finally that debachery was where he laid
but were cloudy rains only nigh round Nicholas II
a kremlin in red square that he liken to a Soljeniten
that must bear incredulous vapor due cultivation
aflame in aura of tobacconist ALA Walter Raleigh.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 4:28 PM UTC
Do not think because I have a roving eye
that I am any less in love with you.
A knowing wink, a bashful smile, a haughty stare,
these are the terra incognita
which I, beauty's student, must needs explore.
But like Raleigh in Guiana, in search of El Dorado,
thinking of his Bess,
or Daniel Boone in Kentucky,
it is you I am thinking of, always,
and it is to you I will, Odysseus-like, return.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC
KISSING MR. CHELIDON GOODBYE
Ho...ho. . .oh!
I don't know
if I should be
telling you this.
I was just sweet
as in 16 &
never been kissed
and my *******
hadn't yet arrived
though I prayed and prayed
to a God who did not
heed my girlish plea.
All the girls in my year
had already budded.
******* to the right of me!
Breast to the left of me!
Into the valley of despair
I rode my Raleigh
alas alas
breast-less!
I practiced kissing
by kissing
the you know
inside of
( the whatchamacallit? )
my elbow the
chelidon so called
by an old falling-apart
medical dictionary.
I clipped some hair
from our Yorkshire terrier
stuck it on the crick of
my right elbow
so that it became
my first moustache'd kiss.
And so, was born
my Mr. Chelidon.
Pathetic...yes...I know
but the year after
my bosoms arrived
with a suddenness
that took my breath
away.
I breasting the waves
like a ship's figurehead
as I dived into the sea
a Venus for boys to see.
I was my *******
and my ******* were me.
Somehow I could then not
stopped being kissed.
And once kissed
grew addicted to it.
The bliss of the kiss.
I was my own drug.
I gave Mr. Chelidon
the elbow.
Discovered the joy of boys
inventing various uses
for them
as they
discovered
me.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
I'm so tired.
And it's so late.
My eyes are blurred.
Slower.
I'm skipping letters,
Or just writing the wrong ones.
But I know there's still something to say.
Some weight before sleep can lift me.
She texted me this thing.
A guy she was hanging out with.
How he was such an artist.
I immediately thought he was a piece of ****
He had taken her phone and
God knows why,
Was texting me.
Didn't know it was a guy.
Thought I was humoring
One of her girlfiends.
He tried to convince me
Raleigh was the "cultural capitol of the south."
"If I could go anywhere, I'd go to Savannah."
"...nah."
That ******* line. "Nah (my opinion is more valid than yours."
****
Any guy that had Jessie's phone
Would have been a ****
Because I saw that girl one day,
She's never
Out of my head.
God.
Three years.
Or two?
Still.
Two years and nothing happened.
Nothing even came close to happening.
I can take a hint but,
Is she even that good of a friend?
Why?
The hell am I upset of this?
I'm planning some crazy trip.
Risking the life of my car
(she's on her last cylinder)
And...
I can't think of a good reason.
She doesn't even like me.
I'm not sure I even like her.
Unless of course I'm stupidly in love
with a person I've had two years to
barely know.
And all that was denial.
Grasping at reasonable straws.
God I'm lost.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
i bring you to Tru, it's a wine bar
(and they have sandwiches during the day, in which i over-order avocado and eat sloppily over my homework sometimes)
close to my home.
raw wood tables, low lighting, black leather couches.
i order red wine, cotes de rhone.
you order...the same thing
i ask if you like red wine, because
that's something i know a little about
we go to sit outside with our 6 oz blood cups
and my teeth go white in the dark
its a 78 and humid september night
but i just came from work so i'm sweaty anyway
you're from Mumbai, or New York (long island actually)
or Raleigh. I grew up around here,
so you just bring up my hair and my legs,
i instinctively feel the need to run
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
I'm done with firsts;
I'm done being Eve
and wickedly foraging my way forward.
Pioneering is dangerous,
pawns that went first
had to be slashed down by still others
or their betters,
and those who returned to their familiar land
were cast like Raleigh into prisons of mental standstill
unfulfilled.
The rewards of adventure are great,
But I'm done looking at the world with naive wonder.
I will no longer
be naming new findings after people I barely knew,
like myself,
as explorers before me have done.
I don't want another journey-
to set out in the hopes of finding another place
that resembles home in the smallest way.
I don't want another conquest-
burning the homes of others
so that I might find
an ounce of worth among their possessions,
hoping to define myself
by what I leave left of them behind me.
I'm far too comfortable,
have far too much at stake
to set out again,
uncertain of my return.
I've decided to settle in this wild land-
this New World full of wonders
that I hope will one day become mundane,
but I know they won't.
This land has such heights-
mountains shining in the setting sun
orange and red halos burning on their edges like forest fire passions
and they are reflected
shimmering
on the water's surface
as it lazily rolls tiny hills to lap at the mountains' feet.
That landscape was such a welcome sight
after so long spent on black seas,
nothing but empty grey skies
and my lonely vessel.
Storms beat their drums in ominous rhythms,
the reverberations of their peals on the surface
wreaking havoc,
ripping wildly at sails and heart.
I had feared mutiny
only to be betrayed
by gods in much larger battles.
But I entered the cove, calm,
and its glass comforted me
as the arms of its coast encircled my battered life boat.
Soon the strange sounds of the forests,
that rustling at night at the forest's breath,
animal calls
and the sound of footsteps behind me
were normal.
I would not soon trade
the stability and comfort of this solid bedrock
For the tumult of that sea
No.
I've built my home
out of the strong trees here
that have sheltered me from wind in my journey.
I've harnessed my uncertainty
when faced with this new environment
and now sit in front of a warm hearth,
warm of heart,
and say goodbye to the sea.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
wind soughs outside
slightly
I'm up late tonight
my sister careens
on the eastern coast
touches Topsail
with her lacy fingers
and I cross mine
wheels and wheels
like lockstep men
march inland
automobiles whine
like soon, treelines
I'm up so late
my best friend dreams
in the wayside,
somewhere west of me
after a long day
of convincing her boyfriend
to high-tail his *** out of Raleigh
Clayton, it is
he decided
her fret only calmed enough to sleep
by his promises of a high-rise property
and below 70 mile wind speeds
I can feel my eyelids tug
my brother's fingers thrum
on countertops
well-wishes in morse
as he says he'll stop thinking about it, now
no, wait... now
and my mother works to bend
each emerging frown
as my fingers drum up natural disaster nonsense
I watch, wait for the earth's recompense
as it surely blares through my old house's fence
rippling through the silhouette of the statue
my sister's soul had attached itself to
every crevice of county road
every man-hiked piedmont mile
interstices of feet and snow
the dirt that has seen every trial
to fail under inclement weather
they say it's overdue
that it's been a while
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 1:48 AM UTC
Love is growing
From within.
From the bottom of my insecurity,
Taking the worst of me,
Building it into eternity.
Eternally, we sit on broken thrones
Built up, on the past.
Feels too much like home
Our pain, can’t see how far
We’ve come.
Obscured, because we’re too wrapped up
In ourselves.
****** up
How we treat ourselves.
Tells us,
That we can’t be
A you and me,
Won’t make it through a year,
Much less eternity.
Don’t you worry,
I understand what’s happened,
I know the past is hard
To understand.
I don’t demand,
I just try to revitalize,
Both myself,
You,
And I.
Can’t heal nobody,
It’s hell to try,
But this is my story:
In a city like Raleigh
I rumbled down streets,
With a couple beers and a few shots in me,
The New Year’s coming,
But I just couldn’t see,
had to get out,
just for me.
Hit the big city for a couple days
Driving down avenues
Littered by Christmas lights and Christmas trees,
Christmas in New York,
Spent drinking and stumbling,
Spent away from you
Broken and mumbling,
My pain dripping into the sewers,
As I ****** away the anger and anguish,
And I ****** a pretty little Ms.
Who never could love me,
and I could never love she.
In the spring, I spent,
A lot of time,
With a pretty dime,
she wanting my child,
But in the end it wasn’t meant to be,
The choice of life,
Ain’t up to you and me,
I said to she.
In the midst of fall,
When it all falls apart,
I met a woman,
Twice my age,
Willing to have *** for days,
But she couldn’t handle her own pain,
Demanding all the love,
But her, I just couldn’t save,
Fights and fights and fights
Until calls to the cops were made.
No hands put on,
No hands displayed,
No hands up,
No call from the soul to say,
"Let’s let it go,
It’ll be best for you and me,"
No, we hung on,
Hanging onto the precipice
Until the love in us died.
Winter comes,
More Hennessey shots taken,
Taken for days,
For you I don’t know if it’s easy to say,
But I was lost,
So lost in those days.
Spent cold nights
In a car,
Cold mornings in a Mcdonald’s
Biting bad meat,
Tainted with an unloving scar,
Couldn’t even love myself,
Felt that would take too much time,
So I found help
Drowning, drinking, soaking
Thinking that would help.
But in time,
At the right,
I found you driving down the parkway,
Down the right line.
An accident brings us together,
Love, ain’t no beautiful story,
At least not then,
Kind of ****** up, a horror, sorry,
Ours littered with skeletons,
But from the ashes and bones
Gardens grow.
And now, roses bloom
Where once the earth was dead.
Dead as death.
Heavier than metal,
Now lifted as a breath,
Warm as the kiss of a petal.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
Today I wake up frightened
limited to only a pigment
Blue and red lights cause
more trepidation than
equanimity, palms sweaty
brows furrowed terror
sneaks up behind me.
Thoughtless bigots
ready to beat me
blindly. Stop my car
because I don't have a
tail light intimidation
evokes more concern
cornered by three blue
lifes in comparison to my
one. One hand on their clip
the other by their side
To them there is only die
this may be goodbye
- A Black Girl Untold
“ RTI found black female drivers got pulled over in Raleigh's Southwest District at a higher rate than other population groups.'' - Abc 11
Title: all credits to the lovely Jess Rizkallah
May 20, 2020
May 20, 2020 at 2:41 PM UTC