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| This is the month of my beginning. This time of the year was the time I took my first breath. The beginning of my ending. The birth of my very own herstory. My head choked with thick wavy black hair. My tiny fingers long and fragile opened and closed, waving frantically in the cool delivery room air. I hollered like I was the one being bothered. Of course it was I that was the one being violently pushed and squozed out into the cold. This much I know. How I came into the world on a day near the middle of June. Not knowing who I really am, who I be. What I is. Looking into still water I see a reflection. Looking in the mirror I see a African, an African-American-Woman. Straight from the jungle land. Hot and steamy, lush and green, dry and parched sand, came the fathers and mother of this black woman. |
| Not the frosted still of Decembers air. More like the moon and stars that can't be seen, Yet I know they're still there. Not like icy crystals decending silently until kissing the earth still. More like a drop of dew that creates a radiating dimple in a seamless pool once tranquil. Not the silence in the eye amid the moaning wretched storm. More like the screaming unspoiled clear and true of life just born. Reminisce of glowing embers alone have kept the candle from existing unlit. Thus more the heart ascends, suspended drifting above loves summit. Savoring all of this, somewhat amiss. slowly drifting, post realizing, insanely spiraling, plummeting,transgressing. Divided, undecided; on sinking or flying, living or dying. I think not. More a paradox |
| The slow soft air tickles the leaves and my toes, kisses them as it blows, rocks little baby birds. But not hard enough to make music in the chimes. Though it can make the clouds swift way up high. Not fast enough to make them glide on by. Until night creeps around and the heavens shine. But not bright enough to illuminate my hiding place, my sanctuary, my ritual space. Just when it dies still, seems like creatures waken and sing their songs and tell stories to the little ones. Not a blade of grass can bend in this wind, nor can a fluff of dandylion migrate to its new growing place. I cant feel it anymore, but I can hear the shhhh of the slow soft air that tickles the leaves, and once kissed my toes. |
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| I can't help myself I feel so weak My heart is fluttering My head is spinning I feel as though the wind will blow me away Everything I say I won't I do Just when I think I won't I will Break every bone in me I'm helpless |
| It'a private thing Something that I cannot share with anyone A private pain An ache, a joy, a song That can't be heard by anyone A Longing, gnawing, throbbing, heavy weighted thorn In the pit of my soul that can't be felt by anyone Want and be denied Hurt and cannot cry Fighting enemies that can't be seen by any eyes Wasn't war, but the ritual The place, the time, the chase The touch, the kiss, the rapture Being in a state, that I needed The harmony that I tasted and, so greedily feasted Journeying to a place, where my mind has already been |
| Would you like a strawberry? I probably shouldn't offer them, thery're almost over-ripe. She passed the bowl to him. He plucked one from the dish almost bigger than the wet shiny berry she held between her thumb and her index finger. It was a ripe deep red heart almost as big as a plum. So tight it looked as if it were going to burst. His gaze was locked on her mouth; framed by lighty glazed dusty rose colored lips. With her tongue delicately covering her bottom front teeth, her mouth parted in what seemed like slow motion, while she raised the swollen fruit to her anticipating mouth. As her lips enclosed almost half of of the berry, biting through it. Juice too sweet and red could not help but drip over her bottom lip which caused her by reflex, to attempt to stop it by catching some of it with her stained pink pointed tongue. The juice was too fast. Modestly she smiled as her second reflex was to innocently raise the back of her hand and wipe the sweet tangy wet from her chin before it caused a stain. |
| Anticipate that it will come about, that you do it. You do it because that's exactly what you wan't to be doing. Not because you're really not sure. Buzzing about, playing here, tasting there. Trying to figure out what's the best and most comfortable quality of life you want to experience. Just doing it and, there is no waste, no pain. The righteous true measure of things. Not because you are forced or manipulated into your experiences. Anticipate and, don't worry about the rapture. You will know. It is coming. |
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| Strawberry |
| Coming |
| The Place |
| Breeze |
| Paradox |
| Born |
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