It Is

my kind of hallmark moment

It’s couscous, spicy greens,
yams sweetened with syrup

and pecans; it’s my clothes
laid out and my messes

put away without any
fussing; it’s the lists

made for me, emails reminding me
what I’ve forgotten; it’s coming

home each night to a kiss
and him listening to my

fussing; it’s the conversations:
Darfur, indi films, preteen

obsessions. It’s the knowing
I’m enough and I have plenty.

How does the change in line breaks affect the read for you?
* In honor of my recent talk of food and comfort here's an oldie. I'm in the mood for revision. All feedback welcome. What direction should I take? How do I expand or condense this?

NaPoWriMo #10

Friday

basket of catfish
fries and a diet coke
eating way past full


PAD prompt is Friday. To read more, go here.

Typical Evening

I
I folded the laundry,
scrubbed carrots and potatoes,
read some poetry,
avoided balancing my checkbook.
Ate meatless stew and drank
cran-apple mixed with soda,
read some poetry.

II
Pulled off twice worn jeans and sweater
slumped into bed alone.
Under the blankets, I clutched my sides,
tried to push black back to the corners
finally, I cried. Cried because I had stuffed
tears down as long as I could.
Missed him, missed my children,
missed me.


This is a revisited piece. I'm sharing this for TOP's prompt, solitaire.

NaPoWriMo #2

Dichotomy of Race and Language: A Girl from The Hood

When I was growing up we could not say finna, ain't or lie.
Slang in general would unleash an automatic correction-
and scowl. You don't want to irritate my mother.
Dropping the endings of words-
Correction. And the ominous skies
before the storm.

Where I grew up, everybody said dang, finna, doin'.
Everybody went to the neighborhood school.
My sister and I at eight and seven caught the bus
to a better school- according to my mother.

We were often teased: "Why, y'all talk white?"

I live in the suburbs; a single, educated woman
with two daughters. Our favorite food is Indian.
I work for an established reference publisher.
My peers are liberal, middle class and educated.

We eat lunch together, debate social ills, talk about
latest art films, exhibits and what we're reading.
We visit each other. I read poetry at their weddings.

Inevitably though, someone slips up: "You don't
talk like other black people."

Today's PAD prompt is outsider. I would have preferred not choosing race, but the truth is the dichotomy of race, culture and language hugely colored my upbringing. It was a natural choice when I read the prompt so I went with it.

Today is Poetry Friday. Find more poetry reads at ayuddha.net.

napowrimo #1

The Origin of Brain Farts aka 30 days of Bad Poetry

Five steps in-
I'm drowning in white noise.
Five minutes more
and the static is a roar.
Five steps back; what was
I thinking? Was I dreaming
I'd last five minutes
before drowning in white noise.

I don't know what's worse, brain farts or brain freeze. I'm going to go through with this but I really want to back up and run like hell right now.

Center of Trees

He watches me while I remove
what little make-up I wear; I
slide out of tummy support panties
and unhook my bra.
I smile- I like the way
my breasts relax, rounded out
against the sides like dough,
inviting hands to knead.

I drape myself in pale splashes
of daisies. I am godess.
His growing urgency tells me
I'm pretty. I smile slightly
with lips he's kissed almost forever.

I walk to him, a ritual sashay
across the room. He's transfixed.
The flowers dance and he watches
petals sway against my sugar-baby skin.
His eyes wander to my firm, full thighs.
He wants to touch; my gaze
says not yet.

I pull off my beaded hair band
and a sultry free fall of raisin
and henna locks splay across
my broad shoulders.

He pulls me close and holds me tight.
I feel wise and blessed not ancient.
He loves me more each new gray,
each new line. Years like rings-
bind, never ending.



*This week's prompt at Sunday Scribblings is aging. I wrote this a few years ago because I wanted something that was closer to what I was experiencing in my my middle years and my belief in loving in my later years. Visit readwritepoem for 'get your poem on' and one single impression is a cool place for poetry as well. Okay, I'm really getting mileage out of this single piece today, but the truth is, it frees up time for me to blog hop and comment to your work. Hope you check out my friends.

readwritepoem

I Like The Sound of My Voice

I like the sound of my voice- blue, blue black
factory bent, southern descendant- mama’s
hopes tied up in three little brown faces.
Hips swayin', dashki wearin’,70s’ sexy sangin’
Davis’ fro pickin’ & Panther dreams explodin’ .
It’s about the Revolution, baby & love & baby-makin’ .

This is me with my rhythm;
I write my own anthem.

I like the sound of my voice- click, click, heels
on stairs stepping into the blue lights in the basement.
Come on baby & slide, come on baby & slide.
It was Strawberry 23 the first time you kissed me;
Stevie was blaring ribbons in sky, ribbons in the sky,
ribbons in the skies of your love-
between my thighs.

This is me with my rhythm;
I write my own anthem.

I like the sound of my voice- sista in locs and Birkenstocks
in the blue lights at open mic. How I wish I were the cup
that touches your lips. Scented locs & anks & incense burnin’
Come on baby, I don’t have much just a little beans & wine.
Politics & Love Jones. More Jones. Wanna be the funk in your thigh.
Let’s celebrate Mandela’s release; revolution is won, baby.

*This is me with my rhythm;
I write my own anthem.

*Writing prompt at readwritepoem is to write a bop. We also had to borrow two lines. My *refrain comes from rmilana. At Totally Optional Pompts it's write an anaphora.

read write poem

you lay blossoms at my feet
weave liquid silk round
my ankles running upstream


*I'm sharing an older piece inspired by my love for Nikki Giovanni's work and prompted by a recent article about the poet at rwp.

Like a Rabid Dog

The police said he had ninety rocks in his pockets when they found him
splayed in the street like a dead animal.

Witnesses said he was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog.
They watched him collapse in the street.

Some say he was screaming and crying like a wild animal.
They stared at him.

They stood by while his body convulsed and he went into cardiac arrest.
They watched his body go limp.

They said he had ninety rocks in his pockets when they found him.
He died with foam around his mouth like a rabid dog.

They stared at him.


*The prompt at readwritepoem this week is 'rubbernecking.' I've wanted to write this poem for a very long time. Thanks to Carolee for the prompt that helped me record a part of my history.

draft

Her pod floated, touching the sides of the bubble. She imagined her Cubis had sharp edges though she really couldn’t see. The Embus didn’t need them to see so she couldn’t bring the spaces into focus. Something was wrong. Their impending budding had been delayed. She didn’t know why and she didn’t care. In fact she didn’t feel anything. They didn’t need them to feel. That’s not why they’re bred.


*Okay, I'm on a mission to write something daily. Today I looked to3WW and readwritepoem to draw inspiration. I combined Polkadot's prompt to stretch my imagination and the rwp random word generator. Whatcha think?

Nursery Rhyme

Ring around the trousers,
pockets full of poses;
hush child, hush child!
We all fall down...

harlequin: sista style

babe nothing quite as satisfying
as my head buried in your armpit
my shoulder falling asleep
inhaling our funk

stepping over strewn jeans
and empty video cases
eating cookies
made just because

swishing dish water
captured on film
so later you can watch
your honey doing
household chores
in your denim shirt

serving lunch by candlelight
toasted baguettes with
hummus and cherry tomatoes
nothing quite like
love


*Bounce over to read write poem. The theme for the week is clothes.

draft

in prayer

caressed absently      like a rosary
comforts the devout
if only serenity could be
rolled between fingers

draft

more than i imagined

i am lunar spheres, crests jagged and cooled.
like threadbare linen     wrapped round old wounds,

i lay still beneath melted beams, feel his breath
trace beginnings in places long forgotten.

he is water coursing through tributaries
into lakes of grey and blue stripes
over smooth stone.

like new rain dancing on ancient grounds,
floral yawns and sprouts take root.

i am lunar spheres, crests made smooth;
his breath traces beginnings
in      places i want remembered.



*for deb who has an affinity for moon poems. :-)

draft

Okay, I tried Tom's prompt at readwritepoem.org.

I MET a grad student from the university
Who said: there is a house on Heidelberg draped in tires,
And piping and an old doll with blinking lids, faded red lips,
And limp yellow locks dangling over one eye.
Despite the grime and cold she is smiling, almost pretty.
It’s clear in better days she was a pampered child’s companion.
There are rusted wind chimes and holey shoes dangling like
New Year Eve's streamers. And the whole spectacle says:
“I am your orphan, abandoned, take in my beauty,
You silly visionaries, don’t despair!”
What remains: crusty dreams, wind tossed and naked,
A lone maiden with arms outstretched to welcome.

It is

my kind of hallmark moment

It’s couscous, spicy greens and yams sweetened with syrup and pecans.

It’s my clothes laid out and my messes put away without any fussing.

It’s the lists made for me or emails reminding me what I’ve forgotten.

It’s coming home each night to a kiss and him listening to my fussing.

It’s the conversations: Darfu, Guantanmo, Indi films and preteen obsessions.

It’s the knowing I’m enough and I have plenty.

comfort food

When you come, I want potatoes and beans and bread
and long naps that lead to visits with Aunt Mattie.

When I hear Donnie Hathaway, I think of Auntie’s smile
And the refuge I found in her childless arms.

When you leave, I think how my bones respond slower
and how much I look like her.

I wonder if this longing, this ache is how she felt.


*need a better title. Not sure where this is going. Ideas?

draft

And the List Goes On

Ronald: internal rage splattered
against a backroom pillow with a single shot.

Arverna: never beautiful enough despite chiseled biceps
and nose, aphixisated on perfectly combed white carpet.

continued

RWP #3

Okay, I really wrote this response to readwritepoem in minutes inspired by Linda's superior piece. I relate to her day. I'm embarrassed that this might be beyond emulating but I like the sounds of the piece, and when I have time, I might revisit it to make a honest poem of it. Please be kind, I'm an artist. I'm sensitive.

I tumbled over the side and uneasily tilt upwards
almost always just shy of toppling back over.
Brush my teeth while thinking of new posts
and e-mails and those thank-you notes
I haven’t written yet.
I toggle all day until I arrive home and yeah-
toggle all night till I tumble over sideways,
almost face downward, curl my feet round
each other and toggle in my head
till finally I fall asleep.