porch swing

I see my mother.
But only in puzzle pieces:
the cotton blue shirt with its threebrown-eyed buttons,
a barrette or stiff loafers worn to softness.
Within this interlude,
she swings alone
offering her weary arms and legs
a rest, liberated from
handicap's titanium
so that she
is now gliding on the breeze
the slow "c are I t c hhh- c are I t c hhhh"
of the glider's squeak
creating a rhythm to her anecdotes
and song.
She created that rhythm two-fold
one for each of us, a soundtrack from adolescence
to adulthood
just as she perfected it
summers and springs before.
With each day that passed we
became the only trophies
she longed to win.
And as I recall her countenance
behind my reverant eyes
and her song fighting for its
freedom in my closed mouth,
she is re-incarnated as
the bulb's annual blossom
or the ceaseless chant of the locust.
I search my face and yours,
for those things misplaced
and forgotten.
Sure as days that passed on the calendar
and as real as the idleness in my cupped hands,
as cumbersome as the basin in my soul,
I know.
There are ten lifetime's ways to live and love within each of us.

sunflower

I coil heavily,
just as a sunflower
bows her head
into the sun.
rising still
to a farther light,
beyond which
my eyes witness-
my roots dive deeply
into the abundant bluegrass below me
seeking my origin
my source
my strength...

even the wildest flowers
need to know from which they blossom...

Walmart

I plot my escape from the million dollar mansions on the hill
Andrea Gibson's spoken words swimming around in my head-
There are no pretentious health food stores for hundreds of miles
I resort to driving to the nearest Walmart
With her words fresh in my mind to keep from feeling depressed
In the economically devastated city,
Its dilapidated buildings crumbling…
Poverty rears it’s head in the parking lot;
Rusty caravans with dings and dents,
Duct-taped garbage bag covered windows,
Thick gray emissions trailing behind…

There are three types of people here:

The Mexicans.
Are you scowling at my generalization?
I used to call them brown-skinned.
Be proud of my growth and we’ll move on.
They crowd the aisles in packs.
Moving slowly like cattle.
The seven year old girl with the belly shirt and dirty, grimy face
Slaps her little sister’s hand as she pulls out greeting cards.
The mother with fully exposed camel toe,
Rolls of heavy flesh spilling over her too tight jeans,
Nipples erect in a barely there shirt and over-conditioned store,
Her subtle peroxide-orange hair pulled back from her round face,
Remains oblivious to her children
As she puts her energy into a decision
Between Mountain Dew and Mountain Lightning.
Dad is barely 5ft with his cowboy hat on
He shifts his weight in bright turquoise pants and matching snakeskin boots
Pearlized bull horns with hints of coral adorn his pleather belt
And work harder to weigh his pants down
Than hold them up.

The White Trash.
Still scowling?
Had I been born a little to the left I’d be poking fun at myself.
These kind don’t need to travel in packs.
Their obese bodies waddling too and fro
Knees brushing against each other awkwardly,
Overburdened by their responsibility.
Just one woman on her scooter wheelchair fills the aisle.
Legs spread to accommodate the expansive mound of flesh that fills her midsection
And brushes against the basket
Greasy potato chips, equate weight-loss shakes and hungry man microwaveable dinners
Fill her cart
Though the hemorrhoid cream and ex-lax are still visible.
Luckily food stamps are accepted regardless of nutritional info.

Us.
We are the others.
The ones who didn’t realize it was the third.
The day the SS checks arrive and the pilgrimage begins.
We try hard to keep our eyes ahead.
We have a goal, just one thing, in and out.
Snubbing our nose at the impulse shoppers,
The overweight, undernourished, illegal
Less-fortunate sons and daughters,
Absentee fathers
And overwhelmed, underpaid mothers
Who were born in the wrong families and went to the wrong schools

WE don’t actually shop here.
We are the self righteous snobs.
The ones who go home to our cushy homes
And write stuff like this.
I take my dollar thirty-seven dollar purchase of vegetables and sunblock,
My contribution to injustice
The generalizations clear in my head...
Listening to Chris Pureka on the drive home
In my gas guzzling Scion box-car, aware of the ironies
Skilled in my justifications, happy in my prowess
Picking and choosing my causes...
Thinking to myself,
we all sell[out] for less.

This window
to your lavendar soul
is not
made of glass.
Your lashes,
though like curtains,
brush away
immaculate tears.

I wept for you.

climbing

the day is climbing over the fields
swallowing the crayon sunsets
as I sit in this room
trying to capture
a bounding poem
with only
this
pen

Towards the Mission

She is a gazelle,
Graceful limbs that
Unfold in a rosy sunrise
A doe with the mildest eyes.
And I am just an orb,
With no fit
My core shudders as I stumble along
on this crumbling sidewalk.
My legs are conceding
with my stock of self-doubt
and susceptible notions
of a spinning world.
Is there a medley of souls that acknowledge another wayward trekker?
As I lose my way
Bring me back...
Come on in out of the crowd of faces
I am a sphere bumbling around
Inside a square,
Seeking a pocket to hide in
Or a pin to pop me
Flushing me out so I can
Fill the corners and be
Less obvious, flooding the area
Instead of navigating
Through a series of bumps
And bounces.
Knowing I will never
Fit.

stifling feminity

Another Acrostic....
This one is about my students... They prance about in to most revealing clothing, posing for pictures every chance they get, sticking their asses in the air like it's their greatest accomplishment... Bragging about their weekend feats, who was the flipper for east durham crips, who proved they can get down by letting Sur 13 run a train on them....



Scantily clad, they are
Temptresses parading by-
Insinuating sexuality gives them power...
Flaunting, begging,
Lusting for love and affection of daddies they've never met,
Instead of thinking for themselves.
Negating their predecessors, slowly
Grating the framework for

Femininity that took years to build-
Enticed instead by masculine acceptance...
Masturbation's value is once again underrated
Indecent liberties occurring all around us
No longer limited to nocturnal emissions,
It's taking over, this
Nightmare of 24/7 prostitution, the
Innate defects of character of those who insist on
Tempting society to only see tits and ass
Yielding to the domination we've fought to overcome

Tuning In

I try to figure out what these poems mean in my life. Mostly because it's supposedly therapeutic, but also because I know Amy will ask. :)
I know they mean something. Sometimes it feels like they appear out of nowhere. They linger in my mind... my sanity teeters on the edge, lost in the phrases and words that appear. my mind is muddled trying to decipher them. I hear them in a childs voice, not just any child, but the child that was once me. For a long time I was stuck- stuck forgetting my past, but unable to move past it until I could accept it. I would halfheartedly try to accept it, try to move, pretend things were ok. But really, I think I was losing it. Random sights and scents would pull me into memories I longed to escape. I was lost in present past and present future. I think that's where this poem came from- listening to the child, who I had been trying to silence. I was her host, and she longed to escape me, but not until I accepted her and her past, which took ten years. I accepted her by allowing her to take over- I went into autopilot and she worked through her past. That's the beauty of EMDR and a good therapist...If that makes any sense.

Tuning In

Seeking translations otherwise impalpable
The surrogate satellite’s stationary spins
Stop
Cautiously clashing in colors
SplashingMergingMeldingFusing
To the collective
we
I
Autopilot.engaged.
propelling.me.straight.forward
With the flip of a switch...
The empty orbs are gone
Instead, illuminated by articulate tongues reincarnated,
Dedicated to deciphering the disciple,
dead after only a decade-
Transposing thoughts,
Expounding meaning,
Illustrating impurities
Otherwise concealed and suppressed-
rendered useless.
But today, they mutate clearly through the cohorts who never shut up-
I, the minion’s host
(Interpreting the world-
My world
Our world-
Through metaphors, riddles spinning round the satellites-
Seeking
Answers.Control.Identity.Validation...)
Come up static and empty-handed
every.time
But never
Alone.

Raw Materials

another acrostic poem....


Risking themselves time and
Again under patriarchal domination
Women are reduced to raw

Materials, possessions, objects...
All the while we debate gender rules
That limit individuality and choice-
Emphasizing compulsory heterosexuality, when what we
Really need is a resuscitation of sexual freedom
In this land of the free,
America, home of the cunning
Linguists who own their vaginas and declare:
Suck my clit.

Burn Me Again

Another acrostic. This is a more playful style. Words and meaning jumble in my mind, and I tried to let them jumble onthe paper as well....



Brazenly branding the flesh, as you instructed...
Un.able to escape your con.trol- I'm
Rekindling old habits, old wounds
Never flinching at the scintillating singe...

Meticulously searching for the right place to
Evisce.rate the flesh and its me.[mori]es of the past-

Ab.solution is within reach-
Glowing bright.ly, no longer
Announc[sing]ing my flaws; You are
In[sin]erating my fears through seared flesh
Numbing me [finally]

unfinished...

Mama told me I'd be a pearl
soon enough...

I've stayed coiled in my shell,
been washed up on shore
to bask in the sunlight
content
sloshing about
drifting...

until I became the ultimate shell of a woman
submitting to the accepted paradigm-
the kind of woman
who orders everything by catalogue
the kind of woman
people haven't seen face to face in years
all they ever get is my small pale hand
drawing back the curtains-
middle finger to the world
in my little washed up dreams

Where to Now?

For a girl with conviction;
the almost-woman with pockets
full of responsibility.
A heat that’s wanton with
the faintest possibilities for love.
And curious eyes that stare past your
easily perceived impressions.
Another letter;
wisdom in ink
fear in the pages, crinkled, crackled,
hope in the seams.
Pockets of hope.
Envelopes of responsibility weigh her down.
Hats full of sadness.
Heart, like a balloon on a string.
She’s the once-remembered
lost in low-esteem.
She’s the girl with conviction.
She’s the girl...the woman,
with convictions.