Month: August 2015


The door swept open,
Autumn had become a tickle in our throats,
And silent prayers from last year
Collected as dust on the floor
– like lint on plush couches.
Our stories we tell by candlelight.
Aware of what it means to be cautious,
I pressed them into myself
Like flowers in old books.
At last,
Autumn took her chances in arriving early.
The door ajar,
I retraced familiar steps of how I walked up to my bed.
I took the steps as if the floor would cave in.
One day it will reveal the past of ourselves and who has tasted the words such as ours,
In a different time.



The trees, now missing their blossoms, enclosed this new home. The women have come from afar, each bestowing their fears and aspirations. I come confused looking at how the past has brought us here. I come to the place where the water-filled buckets I carry are no longer as heavy. Their strain doesn’t pull me back down to the depths. No, now it tests my strength – our upheaval of the doubt that lingers. Whether or not my feet shift side to side, it eyes me curiously. My hands clamp with sweat holding the bucket’s handle. This sensation arrives and departs briefly  as does the cigarette smoke catching in the wind.
The trees berated with summer heat are my home now. Words effortlessly tunnel underneath their roots and take form. I come to think that the women here are real. They are unapologetic if the world cheats them. The world has dog – eared cards and the felt table stands no chance against our fists. Our fists that are not only maternal. Our fists that ball up in our hearts, when we speak with our silence. Our fists that lunge into the oppressor, when our silence is not the tool to challenge the fool.
I come home and place my shoes at the door. Their soiled appearance doesn’t make me frown this time. I have come into battles shaking, with my sword. I have come into entire brawls without my weapon removed from its sheath. I have come to the place that hovers above us like clouds, its presence not as taunting. I come home where the trees plunge through the soil, their roots grab us by our hearts.
We go further than we know.
We go as women who tell stories of how we have been wronged. We go as women who drive something wild – something free.

And whom might call upon us?

After wrestling with my thoughts in the summer heat, I made peace with the arrival of autumn. Here it is, my destination without shaky hands and feet with the full power to hold me back. I come out and walk through the moonlit streets, predicting my heart could possibly be wild. The years go by. They are slipping through the rocks. They are climbing out from under the floorboards and then rocking me to sleep. Here it is! My cradle of fixing myself in positions to bring back the walls of the womb. Here it is! I reach out pulling the puppeteer strings I can see, the part of life that fools everyone that they have control of the future.
Moonlight, I saunter under now entrapped in my thoughts. My feet,  quick, walk hastily – no longer out of fear but that time could once again run past me. The darts, sprints and fleeting run leaves me with no time to catch the baton. No, the arrival of autumn toys with my skin that it is hot and then cold.   If it’s me you are looking for, then find courage to live and you will find me snaggled in the brush.

There’s a bridge to cross

The women who take charge,
On bended knee reciting their prayers
Include many.
The women who take charge,
With their hips swirling,
Rhythmically, do not come from afar.
They are always here.
The women who pray,
Dance too – differently or not ;
Both women excite charge.
In this life,
Flowers, we became labeled
To be picked for consumption.
Then later,
We wade through the muck,
Holding our gowns and hoisting our pants,.
Then later,
We threw our lockets to the sky
Exclaiming that our words must float to heaven and back.
Are we not the dance before intermission?
Are we not the murmur before the cry?

And then later on the muck,
The lily and reeds.
The plethora of gardens now plentiful,
We here,
Hear ourselves be.

Oh, honey

You are what we savor,
Wishing for knowledge
That is gathered at the end of times.
Travel through me,
And search for the sea salt sea.
My tongue waves
As the sea crashes to and fro,
Restless waves battering us in two.
The left side of my brain wants to reason but,
The right side ducks its head
Drowning in my thoughts.
I want to come home.
Leave the porch light on
And the top lock, unlocked.
I’ll be safer this year with myself.
I want time to chase me,
Try to beat me down Main street
And say
I won’t make it back home to you.
I want it to crack my skull in two,
Take the wooden spoon out of the drawer
And work with my gingerbread dough mind.
I am waiting for myself to finally be ready,
For you and for me,
All at once.

Call me classy, the classism

For the royalty is like this,
Some used their words like their fists.
Playing advocate,
That our freedom was illiterate,
As if we…
Don’t tell stories when we do.
And when we do,
Our debts taunt us with what is due.
I sit down on the plush throws,
Hoping I too will grow,
Learning that our lives had meaning,
Perhaps a little seasoning,
To the big pot,
Where the emotionally hungry fought.
This heart of mine is tender,
Eyeing big spenders,
With their jewels and dice,
Forging our lives to make nice.
I come out to seek pride,
Only to be shown where to hide,
To make it to paradise.
For the royalty is like this,
Some packed a punch and called it a kiss.