Saturday, August 3, 2013

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... "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?
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
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
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 

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

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
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
from your lips
with no thing offered
with no thing sacrificed
with no urgency applied?
how could you love me so, 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
but, cannot seem to touch?
...i want to know
how do i fall from this high place
and in love again?

© 2013 Kween Kiwi 

Sunday, July 21, 2013

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
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 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
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 

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

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
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 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 you

© 2013 Kween Kiwi 

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

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
trust and sweet oblivion
that brings delight
to being naked…
inside out.

© 2013 Kween Kiwi 

Saturday, April 27, 2013

poem #11: it's like that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

make me
your scapegoat excuse
and label me bad
because I served zero fucks...

...and'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
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
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 

Sunday, April 21, 2013

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
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...
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 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

Friday, April 19, 2013

poem #8: midnight oil

As midnight creeps in...
tipping lightly around my awareness
I sit in still thought
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
and forgotten...
but, then...
I come to...
not wanting to trade a single
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
and heart's core...

It was all a deliberate process
of loving
lavishing in and about
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
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

Thursday, April 18, 2013

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
you put some stank on it too
my senses were thoroughly
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
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 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...

Monday, April 8, 2013

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
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.

Friday, April 5, 2013

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
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
and hits real hard
out of my mind
out of my body
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
the lonely...
the void...
to travel
through mental states
searching for a place
to live without you
i only pray
that every day
gets me closer
to closure
to understanding
from the frustrating
i beg
for sleep
in the wake of you
i crave
to never yearn
never long
never need
that you're gone
not caring
about me
the 4 o'clock hour
and i'm still here
for time
to fast forward
just so
i can sleep

© 2008Kween Kiwi 

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

poem #3: 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
 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
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
reflecting light
...water rolling off me
a surface unchanged
until bluntly cracked
or under pressure
i remember nothing
of passions engulfing
wild and reckless
just caution,
a flame-less candle danger of growing
no danger of losing control 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... just seems that,
i'm to be abject to this memory loss...
love's memory loss

Monday, April 1, 2013

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
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 fuck what'chu heard

Sunday, February 3, 2013

the house on the bayou: a very very short story

the rain falls 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'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 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.

in the butterfly net...

i ink...i flow...i pen,
my soul, my words, my zen