Tag: poetry

Mama Put a Curse on Me, by Stella May

StellaMay

Mama put a curse on me

When she gave me that name

Attaching history to my skin

When she knew it had stains on it

Though her eyes were green

She acted like her skin was brown

And teleported her daughter back to slavery

What kind of name is Stella anyway?

It don’t hardly go with my skin

And mama’s either.

But she tryna be something she ain’t

And I’m just tryna be something I am

You see, there’s a stigma that comes

With the color of history

Being white

And yet being colored

Race wars always concerned these two groups of people

and there ain’t seemed to be much room for a mulatto

So you see

Mama put a curse on me

When she named me Stella

After my great-grandmother

A slave on Paul Saddlers plantation

And his daughter too

So as to escape slavery

I think I’ll just opt out this race

And considers myself white

Maybe even change my name

And pitch my tent somewhere

Beyond the Colored Line

 

Stella Book #2: Beyond The Colored Line. Now Avail.

Those Who Love

It’s their presence alone that
lifts the floor and
commands the clouds to unclench their fist
cause
love wraps its garment around
their bodies
like insane prisoners to compassion
confined and restricted
to the affection that binds them
stitched and knitted
like a fresh garment,
like fresh skin
to the beautiful body of genuine
call them
the mentally insane cause
they got to be crazy
to be binding themselves like this

Her Song

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Her fingers girdle themselves
around the microphone
like blessings wrapped in silk
prepared to sing poetic melodies
in front an audience too deaf to hear the angels
playing on the strings of her vocal cords
to witness the flapping of wings against their skin
too blind to see the messages dancing on her collar bone
but she sings still
and smells too much like happiness to be broken

Write Me a Picture

A blank faced lyric
how dull is the stare of a ball point pen
bleeding empty
This collection of words all myth in mouth
colorful descriptions
that cannot pierce the skin
or cut the bone and tendons of image
What lay beyond the composition of a word undefined
What triviality is a tasteless meal
What kind of food is this
What scarlet
What fine silk
What significance are thoughts under ball pointed pens
that have no pixel
And cannot paint
That cannot walk across the bottomless ocean of sing
Cannot sing this gut
What rebellious tongue
What confusing blood from bleeding pens
Something strange these destinations duplicate
Copied vision
No fire
No engines and bare fist
No fight beyond the pretty
No pretty beyond the picture
twisted mouths
no open minds
Do you mind?
writing me a picture
viewable beyond my eyes
write me something I can see
with my gut
and feel underneath my skin
no just sound good
no just feel euphoria
but write me a picture
beyond ball pointed pens
and pixels

Courage

Close up portrait of a young african american woman looking out window when working on laptop

I know that it is never easy

to wear scarlet letters on your skin

to take history

and C-section her calendars

for the stories

that didn’t make it

until you find the authenticity

of truth

like consciousness

beautiful

but delicate

see through

and cutting

like shattering glass

piercing the spirit

and slicing through flesh and bone

so no one looks at the news the same

but for those of you

who have cherished her summers

kissed her springs

embraced the coldest winters ever

and dared to wear her degradation

on your lips

for your courage to find the other pieces

of her

the parts society is too fearful

of hearing

she bathes in your smile

because you loved her, truth

saw her delicate

and fragile

torn between the additions

and subtractions

that multiplied her sorrows

until her parts were divided

ripping her reality from the pages of scripture

like confused tongues

and babblings

snatching her away

from the breast of wisdom

like coal painted faces

minstrel shows

whitewashed genesis

cream-colored pharaohs

but she is not interested

that you feel sorry for her

history

she needs not of your pride

not of your bonafie hustlers

in prophet suits

not of your street corners

not of your liquor stores

not even of your religion

for her stone coated roses are too heavy

to place upon your caskets

for even in death

you have honored yourself

above her

truth

needs not of your chocolate bars

for history is tired of eating

she is sick

to the brim

with prophecies

and worries

and concerns

and birth pains

over those who wear her burden

like the colors of their skins

but she is thankful

that they have chosen to rather be humiliated

than to deny her

and this poem

is for all

their bravery.

Rest

rest-day

I wanna turn off my brain. Not completely, just enough to gather my breath and lay it at the head of the bed….a temporary moment to which renewal finds itself back to my pillow; to which I may die, and in the same second be reborn. I want my eyes to bow in submission to my bones, and my soul to fall slowly to the contours of this mattress….and for a second pretend that the world has crumbled around me. For a second, for just a moment, let me lay my body at the foot of sleep’s doorstep, pretend to swim with the clouds, and in the same moment…. taste of rejuvenation’s delicacies.