wait just a minute, brotha

this poem is in response to a spoken word piece you can find here by mike geffner.

i was a tad heated by his need to justify his choice to be with non-white women over sistas, by vilifying sistas (while also mocking a typified version of a black woman). anyway, without further ado...

now...now...my "brotha"
let's not play the blame game
...seems to me
like you're extra salty
because you bit off more than you could chew
you chose a rat
from the hood
that wasn't no good
looking for that ever elusive
and much talked about good good...
lemme guess?
she was fine?
light- skinned divine?
did she have that cola bottle shape?
was she the one all the girls loved to hate
[making her the envy of all your friends]
giving you rights to brag
on that hottie you bagged...
yet, you thought that trite shit
wouldn't come to an end?
hmmm...
lemme see,
you paid them bills
because her head gave you chills
and though you lived with your mama
you were a good man, still...
and you're tight because she preferred thug drama?
...but it's "US" though, right?
so, you chose this ho
who equated ass with cash
who chased thugs with cars...
am i right so far?
and...according to your mocking
popped gum while talking...
and you're blaming "SISTAS"...
for this bullshit, mister?

no sir, you may want to stop right there
let's be 100 and let me make this clear...
just say you fell in love
no explanation required
don't shift accountability
onto a sea of sistas' lack of humility
because,
while you were macking ms. tacky
and chasing big booties and just-right thighs
some geeked out fat girl
was praying you'd see her past her size
and perhaps,
her hair wasn't as long
her personality not as strong
you had on shades to look through her
but want US to throw rose-colored glasses on
so we can "get over"
that you chose peach over brown?
i could respect your choice
to be with whomever you want
far easier if you weren't
trying to simulatneously front
making hoodrats and hos
your scapegoat for your woes
when the truth is this...

you chased what you saw
seeing no flaws
then you cried foul
after finding your supposed diamond
was just a bit too raw
YOU chose the woman
who used her body for barter
YOU chose the woman
who used you for sugar, daddy...
now you wanna get cute
because you're dating beth, jane and maddy?

now, you're all
"fuck you and fuck her, too"
because your daydreams of rocking her world
were over so soon
due to you never being a glimpse in her moon
and as you were watching her,
someone more suitable was watching you
whom YOU didn't see
in all the revelry...?
you wanted the trophy so badly
that you may have run past one
willing to run the ball beside YOU, sweetie
so, don't blame ALL black women
because you chose the WRONG black woman
if you like peach over brown
well then "get on down"
but don't box us in
to this group you resent
among us are the ones
who WOULD have given you a chance
had you not been wrapped up
in a bad romance...
we all have been through
i've been hurt, too
but, I keep hope alive
for my ebony king to arrive
no one chased you off
you ran in the other direction
and guess what?
it's NOT a direct reflection
because you get to love...who...you...choose
just don't make this about win or lose
and blame everyone else...
just say you love who you love
and keep your excuses to yourself


© 2013 Kween Kiwi 

perfectly alone

i can remember

even now

how before we were split

from one soul

into endless pieces

how the kind tone

in your love

gave me eagle wings

placed posture in my stance

gave grace to my dance

and added immeasurable time

to my life span

i haven't forgotten,

the way your praise of me

was full-bodied

outspoken

genuine and far-reaching

your genius my genius

me learning, you teaching

you everything

i wasn't seeking

the first

to ever stretch your hand

past the skin on my breasts

wanting mostly

just to tap on my soul

stoke its fires

and be what i needed

to keep the pyres heated

your valiance

and chivalry

protection and proclamation

given so easily

no thought required

no return desired

so, with all those things

nestled sweetly between

then and now

how is it,

that the source

of these zealous declarations

are trapped off

in painful echoes

in my mind

heart

from your lips

with no thing offered

with no thing sacrificed

with no urgency applied?

how could you love me so,

still...love me so

and leave me

teetering on a pedestal

with no way down

no room for a companion

on this idyllic plateau

of your esteem

and left with

the fear of heights?

what am i to do

with all i remember

and no way to forget

what i once had

deserve

but, cannot seem to touch?

...i want to know

how do i fall from this high place

and in love again?

© 2013 Kween Kiwi 

kiss of change

when he met me
i wore red lips
and fingertips
my hair was as high as my esteem
my clothes
hugging me
a taste of my embrace
he met me,
my laugh loud
booming
with heart skips
and deep soul dips
and if there was anything
i didn't embody
he wanted to lend me
starting with my body

...so he reached for me
caressed my hand
and tickled my heart
laughed me into a tizzy
and won me clean
the more we made love
and saw each other naked
the more he wanted to cover me
he smudged my lip stain
i was too seductive
he took down my hair
"wear it like this"
the tips of my fingers and toes
he wanted bare
so i did...
my wardrobe loosened
lost color
...and life
yet, when the light left my eyes
he resented me
he was disgusted
and my power over him
turned off...
he tried to make sense
of why my kisses weren't the same
why my hold no longer held
why my face had no frame
and yet it was me who'd gone limp...

he changed me
to tame me
to keep me...he censored me
snuffed the fire inside
by masking the outside
...and he hated me for it

i should've fought the mold
bucked what i was told
instead...
i pacified to satisfy
i was the one who needed love the most
yet still dispensing it like liquid soap
even though,
the more i gave
the more unclean i felt

after him,
no other can change my colors
knock off my crown
or change my gear
from jeans to gowns
my laugh will echo
made of composed rhythms
i will be draped with self worth
and wrapped in dignity
with my all,
i will remain
heated with the passion
of red lips
and a spirit that's free
no one's love
is worth...changing me


© 2013 Kween Kiwi 

revolving doors ~inspired by Perri Forrest

My sis *sister in scribe/sister in spirit* is penning a book to be released soon. "Revolving Doors" is the prequel to her short, "Rendezvous". this poem is inspired by her sweet story.

i tried to forget you

in foreign arms

and scripted kisses

i tried

unsuccessfully,

to 'x' out your impression

with penciled happiness

weakly scribbled over

pen-stained love

i sought comfort

in purpose

and drive

and still my eyes

were not dried

in every move away

i drew closer to closure

closer to the thing

i chased like butterflies

against zephyrs of denial...

i was searching for redemption

and what i found...

was solely searchable

...in you

hidden in muffled breaths

found in limbo

upon your lips

i found you...

in suppressed memories

resurfaced from corked springs

of past summers...

and now,

i am redeemed

as i come full circle

spun through a revolving door

bringing me home

...to you



© 2013 Kween Kiwi 

naked inside out

there’s something so free,
so vulnerable
about being [a woman]
underneath the weight of a man
limbs spread as wide
as her wanting can take them…
so aroused by the hands on her skin, 
his mouth covering hers…breathing for her
as he sucks her tongue
searching her mouth for a flavor too good to label…
creating chilled vibes,
raised and sensitive to touch
…it’s as open as one gets…
the treasure’s chest
unlocked, open and glistening with her value
being plundered over and over
stroking parts unreachable
scratching itches that fingers can’t feel
back arched
naked and nude
receiving and giving
nothing but air, sweat and pheromones between you…

to be open
the door of her sex unhinged…
is the sexiness
freedom
trust and sweet oblivion
that brings delight
to being naked…
inside out.


© 2013 Kween Kiwi 

poem #11: it's like that?

so
you are
just going to
keep it this way?
you're okay with the silence?

you...
don't see
how things could've
at one time...changed
had you just said something?

"I"
have to
ALWAYS speak first
the one to change
apologize, clarify and then justify?

I
am sick
to damn death
of folks creating space
and being angry about it later!

Am
I not
worthy of you...
your love and concern?
your loyalty, remorse, compassion or time?

OR
is this
a show of
your own personal guilt
and reticence to claim accountability?

just
make sure
you tell it
the way it happened
including your own part, too...

DON'T
make me
your scapegoat excuse
and label me bad
because I served zero fucks...

...and yea...it's like that...and that's the way it is.


© 2013 Kween Kiwi 

poems #12-30: i ain't finish

okay, okay
i ain't finish...
i'm sorry
what'chu want?
i told y'all this wasn't going well
hell,
i wrote three or more "po' me's" about it...

don't hold it against me
don't judge my pen...
it ran out of [th]ink
couldn't find anyone
who could sell me a refill

so, i apologize for this month
and every one before it,
where my page's pages
whipped empty in the e-wind
blank,
with no penciled impressions

maybe next year...
maybe not even that far away
just maybe,
some other day
i'll finish

for now...i ain't. :/


© 2013 Kween Kiwi 

poem #10: broken pen

i'm not so sure if i'm blocked
or just building them
my pen is pushed by passion
so am i passion-less?
less of a scribe,
because i can't ride a vibe?
been sitting on a lot
of parked prose
and idle lines
nothing fulfilling
the flame of a furied pen turning to ash
not a thing
to catapult me into the throes
the words...
they used to roll like
big mama's panty line
like papa's stone
like a classic caddy on chrome
like damn...
when will it return?
can it be,
my days as a poet
have waned
and i didn't know it?
did i miss the hint
had i never owned this gift
was it just divinely lent?
do i need to be in love,
have my heart wrung dry
just to scribble out fraught lines?
can't you see?
every poem is one of literal longing
beseeching my pen
or ruing love's end
and i want more...
i want epic
classic
timeless
poetry for posterity
and i can't even write without
writing out
my pen's black out!

pray for my pen


© 2013 Kween Kiwi 

poem #9: always and never

i realized the other night,

that i am still in love with you...

...subconsciously

no matter whose heart shape i trace

or who manages to nuzzle into mine...

in dream time...

my love is yours

the way we fit

[in my dreams]

is the way we fit, then...

and in spite of the reality

that is my awake state

of not wanting you

or needing you

...in my dreams

you're ever present

and a calm to my chaos

my left finger

is always weighted with your promise

and in my slumber...

i hunger to bear your seeds

and i've even dreamed that

you've saved me...

called my name,

as i lay dying in suspended time,

and i woke right up

heart beating

with memories of your hand in mine

why it is that

in the day's light

i'm immune to you

is beyond conscious reason that

i still manage to traipse through

painted dream scenes

with you and mostly you

i realize,

that maybe i'm just in love with nostalgia

and in my dreams...

you're on constant rewind

in a time

where you were all i knew

and now that my eyes are open

 i can't un-see

the unworthiness of you

the way you'll always do what you do

so, i dream you

in perfect state

far better than the truth

which i shake loose

when i awake and remember,

i can never love you again

© 2011 Kween Kiwi

poem #8: midnight oil

As midnight creeps in...
tipping lightly around my awareness
I sit in still thought
pondering
how it is I could've been a fool
looped tightly around his middle finger
while he fucked over my love...

Regret plays blaring notes
on my heart
convincing me in a moment
of temporary ire
that I shouldn't have ever made his acquaintance
that, his invite
should have been declined
ignored
blocked
and forgotten...
but, then...
I come to...
not wanting to trade a single
word,
minute,
affectation,
dream,
notion,
or hope

Even as I tread forward...
finished with uncertainty
and open-ended breaks,
I see how his place
was invaluable
and classically meaningful...
glad to have undergone
another metamorphosis
causing the rebirth
of the original butterfly's freedom flight...
knowing now,
the depths of my love
patience
and heart's core...

It was all a deliberate process
of loving
learning
lavishing in and about
life...
for a fleeting,
yet eternal time frame...
he brought the biggest of smiles,
heartiest of laughs,
warmest concerns...
and the most guttural
and painful tears...
every nuance of agony
a cracking in my cocoon
giving way to unique
elegantly splashed
brighter,
more expansive
and intensely colored wings

I will always
hold tightly
with the strength of
the biggest arms
and something
that can only be described
as agape love,
for a man
whose hands never grazed my skin
whose breath never heated my lips
whose eyes,
never met with mine...

I'm going to bed now...
my dreams await...


© 2010 Kween Kiwi

poem #7: fisticuffs

you attacked my heart

bluntly and coldly 

with a lie from the past

presented to me in the form of

needing to know

man...

you put some stank on it too

my senses were thoroughly

offended...

unable to breathe from the stench

and the unbearable clench

my heart was the shape of  YOUR fist

because you held it in your hand

and you just manhandled it

and discarded it 

as if it were just shit

had me...

...yes, you had me

but did you earn me?

i put the cart before the horse

the trust 

before the worthy

the do

before the i

and i...i...i cry

i want to scream as loud as 

my box will deliver

to ask how lillied is your liver

to sit in~dig~nance

when you're the perp and traitor

how do "i" end up holding the bag

however empty...

now i see nothing but

ex cues for you to ex-it

stage left

right into a former me and you

starring you and her

while my universe

implodes

i hope the ride in a warped time machine

is worth the sacrifice of the promise

of a classic future with me

i pray that you're released from here

AND fear

and given the dream you chase

so that maybe it was worth it

to lose, the love i gave you

and you don't need to remix

or reprise

another come on

to come home

to a heart that no longer fits

in your fist

© 2008 Kween Kiwi 

what had happened was...

ok...this is the thing,

i supposedly dedicated myself to the month of April because it's Nat'l Poetry Month. i was gung ho and ready to challenge my muse, but she got a case of the idgaf's. BAD.

i haven't been in the mood for people or places or words or serious thought. it's been like this for some time and because i've been in my feelings  about people and things and situations and such...everything poetic has been jumbled up like a clotted vein.

i could lie and say i'll try, but that's not going to happen...no original poems anyway. so here's what i'm going to do.

i'm going to post some poems that i wrote some time ago and a few of them are actually just now seeing the light of day.

a lot are filled with angst and emotion, because a lot were written while angry or sad.

i will not apologize for those who may come and find themselves in my words.

thanks for the patience and support.

i guess, i'll start posting in reverse...

poem #6: this room

this room

swallows me whole

in the middle of night's yawn

i tumble

inhaled by

the hunger of loneliness

my bed,

lapping me up greedily

pillows,

nuzzling against my temple

warm pseudo lovers

in this room,

i'm servile to its protective purposes

relaxed against

the walls

struggling to stand alone

i can do alone

i'd just rather not

this room,

my painter's brush...

is as much the cramp in my hand

as it is my palette's fancy

in this room,

amid ideas, refuge and vices

i'm in a surreal loop

of many a reason

that convince me

in this room,

is where i belong...
i shouldn't be resigned to this space
and it's not that i even avoid life's face...
it's the way this room holds me
and gives me life,
like my spirit reverberates
off these walls
in a constant rhythm
against my heart
and THAT
makes this room...where i belong.

poem #5: mental storms

my mind scatters like dust to the winds

blowing in tumbles

erratically following careless gales

looking for a place to settle down

a homeless wonder

picking up bits of debris

pieces of the love in me

wicked zephyrs 

whip through the thin layer

i'm barely wearing

this aimless walk through

darkened recesses

proves to be lonely

a savage safari of

tangled emotions and thoughts

attempting to choke me out

yet, i am armed

i carry a sword of words

testimonials of cause and effect

the story of "this"

a train of thought

serving as a path beaten 

one step ahead of mine

to keep me from 

getting tangled in grape vines

on this sojourn

so worn

from being torn

my mind is battered

beaten by the weathered trials

bashed against

tender senses

needing to heal

from sticks that stuck

and stones thrown

with perfect aim

for

intended pain

my mind roams 

to far away places

to deal with where i stand

all i want

is to rest

find a place of calming airs

flattened terrain

just right rays of shine

convenient shade 

a soft place to lie

and a piece of mind

peacefully mine

sheltered from the weathered storms

mental storms

© 2008 Kween Kiwi 

poem #4: no o'clock in the morn

the 3 o'clock hour
strikes
and hits real hard
i
just
cant
sleep
out of my mind
out of my body
experiencing
tears torn in my astral fabric
of repetitive dreams
cycling underwater
backstroking through clouds
ass backwards
feelings so real
that i awake
tears like flowing milk
without my honey
no o'clock
in the morning
eyes wide
seeing nothing
except
the lonely...
except
the void...
except
me...
here
to travel
through mental states
searching for a place
to live without you
i
cant...
i only pray
that every day
gets me closer
to closure
nearer
to understanding
further
from the frustrating
flustering
fucking
pain
i beg
for sleep
in the wake of you
i crave
to never yearn
never long
never need
never...
fucking...
care...
that you're gone
somewhere
not caring
about me
the 4 o'clock hour
hits
and i'm still here
waiting
for time
to fast forward
just so
i can sleep

© 2008Kween Kiwi 

poem #3: subconsciously

subconsciously,

i've begun to crave him

i must want his love

i didn't know i wanted his touch,

his smile,

to open me back up

to daydreams

and reanimate

the long sleeping love for love,

seemingly tucked away

with years

of relationships

and disappointments

then,

 out of a subconscious nowhere

astral dreams

of marriage

and declarations of loving me

until our souls no longer linger...

begin to prod my desires awake

i've begun to search him

in crowds

and aisles

and lots

to see if his eyes

will explain the why

...why is it that these thoughts

have arrived

and from where

did they derive?

i need to grasp

the yen for him

why is it

i want him to profess his love

to declare

with poetic flair...

that the ones before

were throw-aways

from bad catches

because...

wherever he found himself before,

 life was feckless

no depth

and no height

not quite dark,

yet not enough light

...and there in lies his quest

to disrupt my last two night's of rest

holding a torch

of the love i lost

a dream's guide

to find the love inside

an astral hand

to lead me to love

emerging tangible

and fulfilled in his eyes

and the enveloping hug

that has clearly been

the catalyst to my dreams

...good night.

poem #2: love loss

i can't quite remember

the residual heat

from extinguished embers

the smoky reminder

ashen chips

from a once raging fire

instead,

i'm still...cool...glass

reflecting light

transparent

smooth

...water rolling off me

a surface unchanged

unmoved
until bluntly cracked
or under pressure

i remember nothing

of passions engulfing

wild and reckless

just caution,

a flame-less candle
lit...no danger of growing
no danger of losing control
...my heart is absent
of the feeling
that stirs beneath the breast
and gives life to bated breaths
and boils up
like water
touching lava
causing seas unrest...
...i have not selected
not to recollect
i want nothing more
than for my heart to crackle
with erratic blaze
and give spring to my step
balm to my face
and love in my heart...
...it just seems that,
i'm to be abject to this memory loss...
love's memory loss

National Poetry Month: poem #1

so, I just finished a challenge on my Kaleidoscope blog. check out 30 Days of Days and be sure to catch other challenge-takers on the left side under "dem challenge takers".  seeing that it is National Poetry Month, I figured perhaps NOW would be the time to pursue some inspiration.

i've been lacking in this department...not writing poetry...for some time now. it's definitely overdue. so, here's my first poem...a freestyle.

who i am

if ever there was truth

to the assumption of who i am

i'd be lord over many minds

more hearts

and a few hands

i'd be a big deal

a glorious display

a kween without a throne

i'd be a catcher's mitt,

a wide receiver

for all the shade that's been thrown

if i were to manifest

the hateful words

used to describe my vibe

i'd be a everything,

but a child of God

if i bought into the lies

see, 

some have marked me victim

because i dare to respond with "ouch"

some have marked me sneaky

because i don't air my dirty laundry out...

i'm naive (which is funny, since i'm also deceptively evil)

i'm petty (which causes guffaws, since i'm supposed to be too good to people)

i'm everything

and nothing

i'm a liar

hated for the truth

i'm spoken of in whispers

my flaws supposedly proof

if i believed myself

to be deserving of what i'm served

i'd dig the ditch

lie down in the bitch

and cover myself with dirt

but, i know better

i be a kween...so fuck what'chu heard

the house on the bayou: a very very short story

the rain falls thunderously...like a round of clapping angels. the spanish moss...dripping, like freshly washed witch's hair. destined to be wet, the swamps smell of dampened life. the swamp livens with insects chirping, snakes hissing...things moving. water gets disturbed...splashes that leave you wondering what's lurking beneath...

there in the underrated beauty, the marriage of greenery and liquid quiet...lies the easiness of life. the slow rolling of the day...pots brewing, perfuming the air with the smells of gumbo...or perhaps mumbo jumbo. see, every pot isn't boiling over with shrimp etouffee. some pots...cauldrons, even...are where remedies steep. things hand-picked from the very waters that seemingly walk at night in mysterious myth and rooted belief...the watery, translucent form of the mind's fears.

there in the lost paradise of the creole...lies caradean's shanty. painted pretty in mauve with white trim, that's turned gray in the moist air. shutters hang on by rusted nails committed to the facade of a sweet neighborly haven. some would dare to be drawn to the uncharacteristically breath-taking pots of perennials that line the pier leading to caradean's front door screened in by a small sitting area that looks frighteningly normal. they just might regret it, though.

if one were to knock...they'd be greeted by the small framed woman of 53...still youthful in her rounded face and features. the contrast...her whitened hair and a contorted body, bent like the branches that hover over her one story shack. perhaps the reaping of spells cast that marched their way back to her door in the middle of the night after her protective candle had blown itself out.if one were to enter caradean's place...they'd see a world of difference in comparison to the unassuming look of homeyness outside. hanging everywhere are herbs and plants...some dried and others growing and moving. jars of preserved parts. books old with yellowing and rippling
pages...fighting the binds...written things eager to dance off the page and into the spirits of whomever dare to sit at caradean's table.

"what i'm gone do for you, child?" she may ask. be quick to speak, for when a pause is introduced...it's all the moment she needs to read your REAL intentions. your heart's true worries and desires...

"oh, you want a mojo? you want a MAN...you want him bad. hahaha...i got somethin' for you..." she'd say. after rustling through the old and shiny mahogany box beside her...she'd pull out all manners of things. stones, feathers, dried root...even pieces of metal. some thing to give you a spiritual placebo.

see...she's just an herbologist. she's an acupuncturist. she's a spiritually adept and psychically connected creole woman. past that...she's fooled herself into believing her spells work. she's convinced herself that her magic is black with deliberate fingers that prod it's intended. the truth is, she's bent from the loneliness, the life of a pariah, ousted for her beliefs and love of all things supernatural. so when she hands you over the stone that reacts naturally to your clinched fist. or the root that naturally soothes, or that concoction made from focus and less, hocus...she's really just giving you the power. you walk away...into the bog's air with hope and conviction...and your future changes just because of caradean's house. the house on the bayou.