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.

my people's music

my people's music,

be jammin

it's sacrilegious in it's form

sin sittin' next to gospel

guitar rocking next to tambourines

humming hymns

on beats of blues

set on strings of jazz

and that piano...well, bang on brotha...

you can hear the porch jive

and liquored lyrics

on high falsettos

and the drums?

well...

go back to Africa

and Brazil

and them islands

pick one

because it's all us

all shades of brown

getting down

with sounds emanating

from a thump off of a circle of souls

dating BC...

"before cd's"

i hit play

and my emotions sway

i weep,

at how deep

music has me

how could it not though?

doesn't it make you wanna lay in it?

bathe in it?

take a deep breath

immerse yourself underneath

the clicks of cymbals

that tick with toe taps

and...

well...

yea...

my people's music

has healing properties

moving through muscles

revving hearts

and purifying minds

a placebo from peabo...

a shot from chaka...

a pill from jill...

a flow from freddie...

and everything is alright.

my people's music...

it's a soul thing.

10 Word Thursday: Perfect Agony

It's 10 Word Thursday again...time for poetry. I decided to do it in the style of a succession of haikus. Just to make it interesting, I suppose. lol

Ms. Bebe gave me these words:


salacious, prototype, fire, bawdy, dandelion, atlas, museum, explosion, tea, petal



a salacious fire
takes up residence in me
the explosion...great

the impetus, him
the fuel, his body perfect
sculpted from dark wood

museum-worthy
far from bawdy and store cheap
...atlas-like and strong

i imagine him
a tasty tea of sweet dreams
dripping onto me

cascading like rain
beading upon my soft petal
me soaking him in

i become spoiled
my prototype paramount
supreme over all

where do i go now?
like a fiend i chase the high
embers of a fire

whisked away like wind
dandelion spores adrift
me...changed forever

10 Word Thursday: The Missing Muse

Back when I was on Multiply.Com, a friend Ms. Bebe used to commission a Ten Word Thursday. She popped up on my wall today on Facebook after months of me not doing this challenge. (Also, timely because though I haven't been writing poetry...I've been wanting to) So here are the 10 words she gave me and the poem I came up with.


10 Words: bemused, judicial, countenance, abyss, adrift, pimpmobile, obedience, enormity, membership, visage

somewhere out on the sea of sonnets

ADRIFT on driftwood

feeling no more good...

my muse,

lies listless

staring up at the stars

wishing for whimsical wisdom

on dying suns

for one...just one line

to buoy out of the ABYSS

its artful assent

rising in OBEDIENCE

aware of how essential

my bard's MEMBERSHIP is.

or maybe,

she lies BEMUSED...

a VISAGE of blankness

that pale COUNTENANCE,

a reflection of the gaping chasm

that's taken resistant residence

all up in my heart...

all through my fingers...

my lips,

a silent dryness

where my golden gift

once dripped with hunger...

i don't know,

perhaps she feels left alone

my time,

meted out between too many loves

or just not enough love for her

and her obstinate stance

is a somewhat JUDICIAL

and heartless eyeing

for allowing her to lie here dying

and leave the both of us crying...

[i'm sorry]

back there...

afar on land

parked ashore

her poetic PIMPMOBILE

sits abandoned,

driven no more...

no music,

no Keys,

no packed bags filled with stanzas and creative acquiesce

just she...

floating in a breeze

in a pool of thought,

i can't seem to seize

somewhere,

too far...for me to write with ease

and though,

i can't swim

i fully intend,

to sing her back to shore

promise to be her whore

if only she'll remember

that i do...love her

temperamental,

neurotic

slightly psychotic

equally hypnotic

dramatic

poetic ass!

finding lines

i gotsta find
some divine lines...
somewhere...
...for somewhere,
deep
deep down
is a reservoir
of dammed lines
squiggly lines
straight lines
jagged lines
wavy lines,
that flow against
my denial
and challenge my idle mind
i know they're there
displaced,
lost in the bustle
raked into the corner
disguised as cinders
but amid the rubble
lie my poetic troubles
and all i wanna do is
gather them up
and splay them neatly...
i gotsta find
some divine lines
silver lines
punch lines
hooks and lines
fine and shined,
gleaming against
my shadowed
self portrait...
distressed and hard
drawn from short pencils
leaving my hands
cramped
and thoughts cluttered...
i gotsta find
some divine lines
amid these here lines
i'm digging
down deep for...
the kinda lines
that climb
and swing
from mind to mind
like zip lines...
i gotsta find
some divine lines
clearly defined...
that leads to a bottom line,
so i can breathe
and recline
... and be blessed that i...
am still able to find
literary gold mines
through rough times
right now...
i'm finding lines.

lost art

i've never felt this helpless
lost to the art
and afar from the center
so estranged from inspiration
...i don't want
every poem to be a non-poem
of poetic pain
a plea to the god of bards
to lift the weight
off of my pen...
i can't tell if it's due
to lack of paramour
or presence of apathy
either way,
i've never been here so long
it just doesn't feel like me

not only are poems stilled
and erotica chilled...
books won't bind
stories won't end
things begin...
and end again against my will
when i see works
of fellow quills
i burn with envy
for my own passions
to be fulfilled
...i can barely read
the scribes of others
while my own muse's heat
is snuffed and smothered

i feel as if this helplessness
can't be helped
...and just when,
i think i've missed it
i shrug with indifference
and nestle comfortably in it
i wallow in silence
i slop in muddled thoughts
an eerie acceptance
of aimlessness and loss

i count the pieces of me
that have broken and been cast away
all of the events remembered
like white noise on repeated play
and i know
that somewhere adrift
are the words
that escaped to be free
traipsing hand in hand
refugees...
overjoyed and over me

maybe they're in Tahiti
on my dream escapade
tanning, swimming and floating
basking in French Polynesian rays
i might be able to locate
a few in the family i never made
or took up with another poet,
spoken words on a stage
it's possible,
they grew wings
and became angels
with "mi abuela"
love
peace
bliss
all fitted with little halos
some stuffed in a box
interlaced around a ring
or maybe they've become lyrics...
waiting for me to sing

i just wish i didn't feel strange
a stranger to it all
i want to find my place again
i want to do it all
i want poetry
and novels
and erotica
and blogs
i want it easy
like it once was
before this overcast of fog
find me...
return to me,
i miss my inner bard
i want words, stanzas and depth again...
i want to find my heart