I’ve grown an extra set of eyes just to catch the shadow in her walk. Micro-managed every detail of her smile, every light in her footsteps, and every scar in her heart. I stalk her intentions and pick out pieces of glass that may have found themselves in her thoughts when the levees poured over when the skies darkened and there was no light; when the glass broke. I scan her body with the intrigue of a man caught lusting for the first time. You see I need to make sure that her back is not bent, that her shoulders are sharp, and her head held high. I am intrigued with tasting her words before they exit her mouth, and I refuse to release my stare from the interior of her mind. I understand that my ways can be likened to that of a stalker but tell me, is it too much to zoom into her soul every morning to make sure that she smiles? Is it too much to hover over her sleeping eyes and find my way into her dreams? You see I have to make sure that she’s not distracted by destruction. I can never stop watching this woman’s ways and monitoring her heart. If I am to be of assistance to anyone it starts with her because she is me.
Tag: creative writing
Sky
Who can regret the wind’s chill and the smell of the air in the spring when the sun sets? I love it when the heavens bleed crimson with splashes of leftover daylight prophesying hints of yellow like screaming oracles; burnt orange clouds cementing inside the belly of the sky. I love the way birds defy the darkness to find refuge in the path of light, soaring on the backs of colors like they were some tangible thing and how beige highlights swing low like sweet chariots. Even the wind rejoices in the sunlight’s shadows bouncing off the concrete. It hopes to capture as much of its essence as possible before it retires into its chamber. Whether you’re driving home from work or sitting on the front porch mesmerized by the brisk wind, the silence of nightfall, and the sky, it’s the little things that bring calm. Let it fill your empty. Turn your distress into dancing, solemn into singing. Good night.
Don’t Box Me In
I come from a place where twitching mouths and search for the white stuff on the floor is protocol. A place where the White Gods ruled, food stamps sacrificed to glass pipes and crack is the answer to every question and yet, I don’t plan to leave any of them behind. Not the government cheese, hand-me-down clothing or the streets chalked with junkies. I ain’t nobody special so if I can be healed they can too, if they choose. I won’t miss a trip to Egypt or beautiful Germany (I almost went one time..bummer that it didn’t work out). I can be found quoting the likes of Whitman, Dickinson, or Frost and I think Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet is beautiful (even though his eyes look weird to me.) I’m a sucker for deep conversation, red wine, and education. I love to learn, pray, and study scripture. After all, what’s a beautiful woman whose mind is weak? I don’t mind walking into your fancy dinners either just as long as you’re paying for the plate. I hate the spotlight, true (though I will stand by my word). Shy most definitely. You can have the credit. I’ll wait and speak when the time is right because I’m kind but not weak and humble but not timid. Don’t box me in. My overcoming is a bridge for all people, not a closed door. Two Xs and no spaces except the one I found outside the box. No boxes please.
The Heart of Dreams
Pay attention to your dreams, for they say the subconscious never sleeps. That eyelids bow the soul’s curtsy, a closed curtain for the eyeballs that awaken when the body shuts down. Bodies that die so that the mind may live. Your eyes move freely in the darkness. The random eye movement of fluttering skin in the heart of dreams. The spirit waits for the exhaustion of the soul so that it may move about amid visions we tell when we wake up. The subconscious self that stutters while we sleep, taking notes and collecting memories from the storage space of the mind. Peeling back the deception of the beautifully crafted language we birth when the spirit’s not present. Showing them for the nightmares they are when masks fall, and demons manifest our truths in the depths of our minds and in the visions that awaken when eyelids bow in the heart of dreams.
The Brotherhood
He is the invisible man. His strength a hushed whisper overshadowed by feminism or the piercing pain in her song. Scattered notes torn in half with thoughts unspoken and slavery chords not so easily broken. The patent leather image of mama and the broken-down brotherhood of papa. I know only because it’s painted on the palms of his hands where oppression carved her words of degradation in his face. This invisible man. This King without a throne. This sovereign without a scepter. This hero without a robe. This waiting beacon of royalty with nothing to rule, waiting in the wings of Eagles. I can see it in his eyes, the invisible tears. They say men aren’t supposed to cry so he is bottled fury. I can smell rage in the language of his captivity, the walk in his stride, and the hustle in his teeth when he smiles but dear King, today is your day. This morning, over cups of coffee and spoken words I will sing for you. You are important today. You are acknowledged today. Today the brotherhood reigns; I give you the permission to rule from my pen.
Endurance
Endurance, the prominence, comes like a splashing dose of faith. Like scars praising the scarlet letters on my skin. As if strength poured forth from the sky and left its prophecies etched on the calcium of my bones. It’s courage far braver than purple hearts or bleeding pens on the white paper of a soldier’s goodbye. Like a car accident that knocks me off my feet but does not kill me, I get it. Nineteen years later the irony of life and death finds itself a home in this house of poetry.
Voice for Radio
They said she had a voice for radio. That her voice had been blessed. And that angels played on the strings of her vocal chords. That her mind had the ability to cough up words from other dimensions that she, danced on the streets of clouds. Somewhere in the storage rooms they said she danced somewhere beyond where beyond is. Maybe, they guessed, maybe the source of her strength is where the secret of the wind is. Maybe it’s where forever is. They said she had a voice for radio. What they didn’t know was that similes were first scattered to the four corners of the earth. Racing to the back room to see who would get to the bed first, or the floor, hardwood, chair, you see life for her ain’t been no crystal stair. Plastic bags with all her stuff they stared cause, she didn’t know what a home was. She had to tell them that though beautiful, this voice was first pregnant and had to go through labor pains before it gave birth.
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