Healing

in prayer

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



*First I tried to write something new, but my mind kept coming back to something old. Find more 'healing' submissions at Sunday Scribblings.

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.

Sunday Scribblings

Each week at Sunday Scribblings we're given a prompt. This week's prompt is trust. I actually posted my quote for today before reading the prompt. I couldn't ignore the serendipity. I posted my first thoughts in the wee hours. After sleeping (I work midnights), I gave the prompt more thought. This is where I was lead.

I can’t think about trust without thinking about faith and belief at the same time. I asked myself do I trust anyone or anything completely. Then I asked myself is that the right question, the right context. For me, trust like faith and belief is an ongoing process. It’s going to the well again and again to get what I need. The things I believe in and therefore have faith in are the things or people I trust.

I run a community project Color Online and I run the library where we meet. I believe that the work I do with these young girls and young women is love and true love is always right.

I believe in my two daughters. I doubt my ability to parent but I never doubt my love for them. I trust they never doubt my love either.

I trust my partner, my spouse. When we met, I doubted I could give him what he needed. He taught me I give him what he wants. When my flaws frustrate or disappoint him, he doesn’t give up on me. He believes in our relationship. I believe and therefore I trust him.

Years I ago, I had a yearning. I had no spiritual home and I missed that. I wanted a place to anchor my faith. An odd series of events and ideas led me to the Quakers. I found a meeting online and set off for a meeting that same week. The members embraced me warmly and I knew I was where I wanted to be. I trust that what I seek eternally, I can find when I listen. That’s faith.


Go here to read more thoughts on trust.

Sunday Scribblings

"After Watching An Episode of The United States of Tara"

No one likes Alice, but I wish I had been her:
donning an apron, smiling sweetly and cradling
my young tightly.


This week's prompt at Sunday Scribbling is regret. Go here to read more.

sunday scribblings

*Reposted for Jboogie because I remember, too.

Nursery Rhyme

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

This week's prompt at Sunday Scribbling is phantoms and shadows . I wrote this not long ago but it's been with me a very long time. Maybe I'll expand on it. Maybe I won't. Maybe it doesn't make sense to the casual reader. Sadly though, I think many little girls know this rhyme.

Living History

From Sunday Scribblings

The exercise this week is to decide what era in history you would choose to live in if you couldn't live now. Not just when, but why? While you're at it, how about where? What do you imagine life would be like?

I have seen this question posed before in different ways at different times, and my immediate reaction is always the same: As a black woman with American sensibilities, I can’t imagine living in this country during any previous period. And like many Americans, I don’t know the intimate histories of any other country well enough to think I’d like to live somewhere else as a black woman. As a woman and feminist, I cannot think of a period of history where I’d like to live as the every day woman. No matter what the period, I’d like to think I’d be an activist, a socially conscious person who sought the good for all people. This would also likely mean I’d be without power and status. I think this is the best time to be who I am.

Maybe, I’m not romanticizing the query enough. Maybe I’m too jaded by my current beliefs and world views. If pressed to choose another time, I’d like to have been born and become old enough to have actively participated in the Civil Rights Movement of the sixties. If there is a time I fantasized about most during my childhood, it was my parents’ time, a time when this country was on the cusp of change. While the time was rife with struggle, there was also a faith and hope that was palpable. It was a time when good men and women of different races, economic status, religious beliefs and cultural backgrounds came together for a greater good. It was a time of urgency and conviction catapulted into action.

Today, I feel as if I have been given a chance to live anew that kind of conviction and hope. I believe in possibility of real change and hope. I believe the candidacy of Obama says this country is on the cusp of a paradigm shift. The collective hope of the people who support the man represents an intense desire to move this nation closer to its true greatness. There is no period in my lifetime that is more exciting, more promising than now. We are living history in the making. I am grateful to be a part of this time.

For more thoughts on history, visit, Sunday Scribblings

When The Bohemian, Quaker Mama Contemplates Writing Her Wedding Vows

Dedicated to those who continued to believe and found love later.

I'm not a blushing bride in white and you're not a knight in shiny armor (fairy tales really are over-rated). We aren't young lovers with stars in our eyes, dreaming of babies, careers and growing old together.

We're older now. I don't know about becoming wiser with age, but there is clarity and peace, an absence of doubt about who we are and where we are going. We have a few character lines, just a little somethin' to hold on to and baby, gray is very sexy on you.

Most evenings, I am feelin' good from one of your meals and a belly full of laughter. We spend our evenings talking politics, world affairs and sometimes about our children who call to tell us their latest drama (okay, my girls talk about drama), and I can sense the pride you feel about your boys even though you try to mask it. They are fine young men who are very much like their Papa.

We've spent some years together now. There's no need to rush down the aisle. We've done that before. This time we're not running towards happily-ever-after instead we've found heaven on earth in each other's arms.

While you're not my first love ( and thank Maude for it because when I was younger, I didn't have the best judgment), you are more love than I could have ever imagined. I'm so grateful you accept me for who I am. I'm glad that at this stage in our lives, love is what we give not what we're desperately seeking. I'm glad you came along just when you did. With you, I don't need to be or do anything different than who I am. We are everything I want.

Weddings is the prompt this week at Sunday Scribblings.

An Invitation for Dialogue

For years, I lived in a vacuum of academia. I’ve taken more English courses than I’m ever going to admit. One of the things I loved most about these courses was the involved, sometimes heated, discussion about a work. Good writing evokes a reaction, contemplation sometimes dialogue between readers, or a reader’s response in writing. In these intimate circles, I learned to focus on the work and to avoid making indictments against my peers or the writer.

Because of the Internet, we can create a virtual environment for discourse. Blogging allows us to create a bridge between reader and writer. For many of us, the ability to form this bridge is gratifying. But there is also a risk, a risk that has always existed for the writer: the writer is vulnerable to scrutiny and criticism. While the act of writing is a private exercise, sharing the work is a public affair.

A writer’s life requires a thick skin. While praise is nice and always welcomed, I remind myself writing is work. When I publish, I am extending an open invitation to the public. When a reader takes time to comment, it’s like they showed up to my party and thanked me when they left.

I write because I have something to say. I hope I say something worth responding to. I invite you to honestly share what you think. We don’t have to agree. I hope you’ll accept my invitation.


Sunday Scribblings' prompt this week is invitation. Click on the link to read more.

coffee suite

columbian roast
curls hips sunnyside up
giggles pop pop pop

*

last year this time
we sifted grains not grinds
through our fingers

*

sipping on you
flavor lingers into night
daily ritual


For more thoughts on coffee, visit, Sunday Scribblings

Worship

sitting together
bound by expectant waiting
light streaming within








* There is a profound sense of peace when I attend Meeting for worship. Here is my contribution to Sunday Scribblings' prompt for 'miracle.'

Somewhere

somewhere between lines
rounding my lobes and my lips
kisses rain sweetly




*feeling syrupy. Here's my submission for Sunday Scribblings

What Do I Want?

I want to save the plant
so that my babies' babies will have
clean air to breathe and trees
to sit under and fruit to eat.

I want science not evolution.
I want us to be stewards of
heaven on this Earth. I'm not
ready to be added to the endangered
species list just yet.

I want environmental policies that
promote sustainable urban development;
suits and Birkenstocks, together creating
green spaces where healthy people thrive.

What Do I want?

I want a real orange that tastes like
sunshine and its juices stick to my fingers.
I want to live long enough to giggle with my babies'
babies and inhale long, sweet breaths.

This week's prompt at Sunday Scribblings asked contributors to ask a question. I want a lot of things. This draft was inspired by Majora Carter's impassioned presentation on Ted.com

Sunday Scribblings

I’d been mulling over this topic of traveling for some time and hadn’t been able to come up with anything I felt I could present in a fresh and inviting way. Reading other bloggers' posts led me back to one of the initial thoughts I had about traveling: the places I’ve experienced through reading.

In the latter part of 2007, I joined Shelfari a site for book lovers. As much as I love writing, I love reading more. Through reading, I have visited places and experienced personal journeys I would not have known otherwise. I read to heal, to learn, to grow, to connect with others. I enjoy hearing about what others are reading.

I also run a lit study group for young women, and it is my life work to help these young women find their voice, to discover they are not alone, to realize they matter and to believe their stories matter. The young women of Color Online are amazing and I am convinced our shared journeys will lead to healing, empowerment and change.

Truth be told, I joined the blogging world because I wanted to create a space for Color Online. I needed to learn how to blog so I could introduce our members to another writing tool and to help them increase their technology skills.

What I didn't know was how much I needed to write for me. I hadn't realized how much I would gain choosing to travel this road. And this brings me back to why I read: I heal, I learn, I grow, I connect with others.

To read more travels go here: Sunday Sribblings.

draft

Makin’ Sausage

It was somethin’ we just did. We made sausage everyday. At first I didn’t know what to do. He told me to just be quiet so I was quiet. I didn’t understand much so I just took things in like how he looked. His hands were puffy like sausage. Swollen. Sausage ain’t one color. It’s got spots on it: some white, some pink, some purplish and brown, kinda greasy lookin.’ It’s ugly.

First he would grind the meat. Grind, grind. Grind till he was sure wasn’t no bone it. He didn’t ask but I coulda told him there was no bone. I didn’t feel anything. When he was done grindin’, then he’d pump the meat. I didn’t know if you needed to pump meat when it was already mushed up, but he’d pump it. He’d pump and pump and pump some more. He’d take the meat and stuff it in his skin. Stuffed and pumped. Stuffed and pumped till he couldn’t get no more meat in his skin.

When he was done, he’d sometimes wipe the sweat off his forehead with his hand. Makin’ sausage was hard. Sometimes there would be a little blood but not usually. He was good at makin’ sausage. He’d grunt a little when he was done. I didn’t say nothin’. I was quiet like he told me. We made sausage everyday till we didn’t do it no more.


This is an old draft I think fits the prompt for foul. To read more check out Sunday Scribblings.

First Date

This is an old piece that fits the prompt at Sunday Scribblings. Hope to write something new as well.

You smiled. I said hello. As reserved as you were, I knew you were equally giddy. Sitting in my Tonka toy in front of that grungy Greyhound station we shared our first kiss. I drove off and secretly hoped we'd end up somewhere. We stared at one another and blushed when we caught the other's glance. We had dinner. It was one of those rare times I wasn't hungry. Later, we walked down quaint suburban streets. We smiled a lot. I was sure we waddled. We were brimming with excitement as intense as any fourth grader's first crush. We practically took up residence in a chic coffeehouse with oversized sofas and gourmet desserts. We drank cappuccino, sipping slowly as if time would keep our pace. At our rate, we wouldn't have to consider going to sleep for another twenty-four hours. Oblivious to the constant movement and incessant chatter around us, we pecked at each other like hungry newborn chicks. We had to have looked foolish: two middle-aged romantics ogling each other in a public place. If we had been teenagers, we might have left and necked in a parked makeshift room on the side of the road.

american sentence

Another American Sentence for new at Sunday Sribblings' prompt for the new year.

Like an old penny dipped in vinegar, I am shiny and pretty.

Sunday Scribblings: Holiday Meaning

It seems a lot of people feel stressed out over Christmas. Many are turned off by how commercial it is, and they are disgusted with the debt and waste. But when I was growing up, Christmas meant so much more than the stuff. When I look back, it wasn't the presents that made me happy. It was the family gatherings, the food, loud talking and visiting (which I complained about and now I’m glad I had to go).

As an adult, there has been the stress of shopping, cleaning, money and fatigue. Still, the older I get the more I know why Christmas matters to me: it is the giving and receiving joy, it’s memories building, and it’s loving people while I can. I’ve lost a lot of friends and family over the years, and during the holidays, their absences is magnified. Now when I think about Christmas, what I miss most is the large gatherings and thinking about who is no longer here. I think about family I grew up with, members who even if we weren’t particularly close, I realize how those holiday get-togethers impacted how I feel about family and other important relationships in my life.

The contrast between the holidays I experienced growing up and what my reality is today is so sharp that in recent years, I find myself sometimes sitting alone this time of year and mourning, sometimes crying, wishing I could have past holiday times back. I’ve lost so many people I care about during the holidays that I think more about loss than debt this time of year. I think more about creating memories with my family than shopping. I think more about remembering to be grateful for this year because I don’t know who might not be here next year.

This is the time of year, when I want to be especially caught up in what is good and right about us.

Read more holiday reflections from Sunday Scribblings members.

Dance

Here is my Sunday Scribblings contribution- another American sentence.


Beneath blue lights I flood the floor like unstrung beads in a frenzied pour.

Sunday Scribblings

Here's my response to competition at Sunday Scribblings. The older I get the less inclined or interested I am in competition, yet I still compete. When I was younger I wanted adulation, acceptance, access to what I felt was outside of myself. In looking back I realize I was in a hurry to be the best or to be good at something, or to get head because ultimately I believed with winning, I would be good enough.

Competition

Cranking the gears, spinning quickly to get ahead instantly and then peddling furiously backwards or in place to rewind the time sped past, because I'm no longer in a hurry to arrive at place I wish I hadn’t reached so quickly.

draft

This week's prompt at Sunday Scribblings is walk. ((sigh))

How about a list poem?

heart walk

seventeen minutes has become a ritual that was born out of necessity
seventeen minutes is the distance between home and my first stop
seventeen minutes are mine to meditate, to lower my blood pressure and to heal
seventeen minutes a day is a welcomed journey