Wild As I Am

Image Credit: Harper's Bazaar, Model Naomi Campbell
Image Credit: Harper's Bazaar, Model Naomi Campbell

Image Credit: Harper’s Bazaar, Model Naomi Campbell

Gold Dipped

Diamond Dazzled

Jet Eye

Ebony Lash

Black Curled, Coiled, Thick Forested Hair

Sunset Nipple

Moonlit Rib

Twilight Thigh

……………………..Oh..As Wild As I am.

Hyena Laugh

Lioness gait

Butterfly Flirt

Willow Tree Sway

…………………………. Wild As I Am.

Bare Footed, Wide Open, and Spotted Red

Flamingo Dancing Underneath Black Sky.

 

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Let’s Eat Cake

Cake..cake..cake..cake
Image Credit: Iheartnaptime.net

Let us eat cake

No dollars in the bank, No coins in the couch cushions, No pennies in the jar and I’m all out of ideas..

The mortgage is late and the fridge is empty; No meat, cheese, nor bread.
No liquor in the cabinet, No pills in the drawer, and No hidden stashes.

No gas in the car, and even if there were, there’s No money to go anywhere

The silver is tarnished and can’t be polished… and we sold all that we could sell.                   The phones are ringing and the mailman has a job…so (he) won’t quit

The laundry basket is overflowing and there’s No laundry detergent, No dish liquid, and No soap…

SO..there’s No undies, No socks, No shirts, and No pants                                                          Just Bare backs and bare bottoms..

Bare Feet and Bare Breasts,

Bare Faces and Bared of Ego

Bare to the essential..

Naked, unbiased, unprejudiced, simple and free, and honestly choiceless.

But, there’s YOU…

…and ME

and WE can make CAKE.

Let’s eat cake :-) It truly is the sweetest and the most fulfilling part of life.

 

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Strips of Love (To My Birthday Well-Wishers)

The Envelope of Words

I woke up in the in the spirit of my Mothers…of Way-Makers of Ancestral Grace and Peace.

I woke up in the glow of my Sisters…of Women of Conviction and Spice.

I woke up in the love of my Daughters… of Soul Maidens of Courage and Fire.

I woke up in the dance of my Fathers…of Dignified Warriors of Time and Justice.

I woke up in the praises of my Brothers…of Passionate Watchtowers and Heart Healers.

I woke up in the song of my Sons…of Bugle Blowers of Change and Redeemers of Tomorrow.

I woke up (TODAY) on the heels of my Birthday; the mirror of many births…of many beginnings..with a Glow so bright and resurrecting…that it could only be..

Love.

 

Thanks to all that have touched, guided, showed, held, lifted, taught, wished me well, and loved me.

“I am but a mere..powerful reflection”

I love you in many languages

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I Feel Different-Release The Alien (Remix)

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I love highlighting artist that sometimes bypass  mainstream media‘s eye.  This dude is quite interesting.. (In a Great way).  His name is Kamal Imani.

This is a hot Afro House Mix on top of smooth Spoken Word Poetry.  The video is psychedelic too.

“I feel different, too..”

 

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Flute

flute
"Flute"

Image by Lori Lee

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blow
…Blow

through bitten lips. Tight and clung…wisps through teeth. Hollow, curved and turned. Flung around tongue, wrapped around jaws.

Open loose

Blow.
Blow.

Stretched through me. Opened air
breezy
cold

Blow.
Blow.

on top
inside

throughout and round about

Wide, long, and puffed.

…Played

Flute

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The Call

mylife_main

My past has always been my Past and Present (combined). I’ve never been released from it.  I always thought that I dealt with my pain and abuse in a way that kept me comfortable and sane.  I wrote about it.  To me, it was my way of remembering, confronting, and fighting. With disgust and angst I bashed and battered all the wrong doing to a pulp. Apparently, I thought that I could beat the trauma away, even though it never occurred to me that (IT) kept coming back.  My writing seemed to get more and more distressed.  So much so, that I recently was forced to stop. First, I thought it was just “Writers Block” or me just being too busy.  Then, as the days turned to weeks I began to realize that something else was stopping me from writing.

For the past couple of months, something has called out to me. Something has brought my (past) outright and in my face. Lost letters suddenly appearing in-between the pages of a forgotten journal.  The review of an old manuscript that brought up “old” questions. Strange dreams and even stranger phone calls. New meetings, new people, new advice and viewpoints, and new lessons.

Whatever it was that was beckoning me, demanded my attention. For days, I began reading me.  I read through over 10 complete journals. I read my scribble on loose paper tucked away in drawers. I went through my websites, posts and drafts. My one liners, poetry, and short stories. My rambles, photographs, and even artwork.

What I saw was painfully heart-breaking and tearful. There was a constant, resounding, wailing cry in my writing. I found out was that (I) was sad, angry,  hurt, and bitter. Yet, convincingly content with my feelings. I realized that I  had protected hate within me. Hate became my friend and confidant. Hate was my defender yet my baby.  I even gave it a name (The Jackal) which will be premiering in short-story form hopefully in a couple of days. I became so crafty with my defensive techniques that I honestly believed that I had to nurture my hate to be a complete and whole person.

I’ve always spoke openly about my duality, my personalities (not clinical), my day and night. It has never been a secret about how my life transitions and slips in-between the good and the bad. Actually, I’ve somewhat embraced the differences because I believed that it made me more of an interesting person. But, most importantly this beloved hate of mine, does something simply intriguing to my writing. My hate has given to what I love the most (my work) an undeniable twist.  Therefore, believe me when I say that I have more than a bit of fear now. I’m petrified about what this fast approaching (change) may do to me and my ability to write. Which could be why I’ve ignored (it) for so long.

But, the CALL. This Call wouldn’t wait any longer. In a sense, the Mirror that I had eyed myself in (my Bipolar Mirror/Bipolar Mirror Skits) suddenly crashed and a new one appeared.  This other mirror had been hidden behind the first mirror.  Imagine me.  Imagine this. I freaked out!  WTH! Here, I thought my dress was already hiked and panties proudly displayed. Only to find out that there are ruffles, and layers upon ruffles, slips and petticoats, garters and stockings, layers upon layers before you/I can get to the goodies.

I’ve come face to face with the fact that I have been a hypocrite. Pointing fingers at others and their mess or lack of, just to make “My Mess” more acceptable. Holding on to a dreadful past and saying I’m moving forward because I’m confronting it and knowing with all my soul that I’m lying to myself and everyone else who loves me. I haven’t confronted anything. Because if I truly had, there would be no need nor want to hold on to it. It doesn’t make sense and hasn’t for years.  I’ve written about it often and shamelessly.

The Box  “I know that I am fragile, a bit damaged, cunningly beastly…. but you don’t…You can’t see it. You won’t be able to recognize it, even if you did… by chance… have one unspeakable moment to peer into me…It’s too ghastly and lurid for you to comprehend.

You are too perfect, so perfect to ever know evil; even when your holding it in your hands.

So, put me back… in the box….quick.

Continuum  …”Itching.. I scratch holes in my skin..
twisting and restless..I pick through my flesh
Anxiously, I scrape; (to get the bad out)
but the drips they suckle

Instead, of watching them go hungry..I feed them
Lest, they thirst..how will I survive.”

I’ve held on to Hate but claimed I wanted Love.  Hate monopolized so much of me that Love would never be able to fit. My life has been a big contradiction and it’s no wonder why I’ve been so confused.

I talk about the Love Movement so much, and how it is fundamental in anything and everything. Yet, I casually brush it away every time it lands on my shoulder.

“The Call” is LOVE.  Love called out to me..and I listened. Not just physically. My soul listened. I heard and felt the sound, clear. Love for me. Love just for me. Not given to me because it’s meant for me to share. I’ve done that. I’ve always given all the love I could hustle up to everyone else. On the surface, that’s what kept me going for all this time. Constantly passing. Passing it on, from hand to hand, project to project, charity to charity. Passing along and making others happy, kept me happy. Only because I felt that it would be selfish and futile to keep some for myself.  My hate and mess could never be conquered; so why bother. I convinced myself that if I ever kept love for myself that it would be “Thievery”. It’s stealing if you take something that you were never meant to have. Giving it all up was the right thing to do.

This time, The Universe,  called out to me. For me to hold on to, for me to keep, for me to heal away the hate; the hate that I thought kept me safe.  LOVE gently and tenderly shooed hate away.  Now, I understand that Love is all I need.  Love without acceptance. I don’t have to welcome the bad as apart of me, because it was bad that was inflicted on to me. I have never been forced to commit. I chose to commit to my hate out of fear. Now, I release it out of love. True love. Love for what brought me here (at this place) and in this state of mind.  Love for the Woman that I am TODAY. But, also love for my past and the girl who was left behind.  Love will tell my story and only with the hopes of retrieving more love…will be my motivation to write it.

Besides, I’ve tried Hate for so long, wouldn’t it be just as sensible to try Love?

My personal affirmations:

Love is my eyes and ears to ward against Hate.. if Hate should ever try to claim another mirror.

I can see myself clearly and without blemish only through the love-filled eyes of the Universe…(I see me just as I am seen)

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My Mommy’s Birthday Song

moms song

It seems almost ridiculous for me to buy a birthday card for you.  Two main; pertinent reasons why.   First, I’m a writer.  Second; and the most important, there is no card, or letter, or monument  created by anyone other than myself, that would say or express half of what I want and need to say…to you.

As long as I can remember, I have watched you.  I have admired you.  I have questioned you and some of the decisions that you made.  I have loved and even disliked you (at times).

But, the one resounding and consistent truths..is that YOU have always been Free.  You have never hid your ups and downs.  You have been open about your confusion and uncertainty about direction.  You have loved and disliked me; and told me in very clear voice when you did.

You have been FREE.  Free to prance in your own way.  Free to belt out in uneven pitch YOUR OWN SONG.

Free to dance to whatever music you hear for the day.  Free to choose.  Free to build or destroy.

Free to make your own path and dare anyone tread it without your permission.

Despite the past truths…of those or them…or (him).  He who tried to take all from you.  He who wanted to silent and muffle your song.  Who wanted to pluck your feathers..You never yielded.  YOU always fought.  You always stayed and lingered on your own ground. You always claimed what was rightfully yours.  Never giving up!

Never allowing your soul to be taken.

Never to be defined.  Never to be broken.

Undeniably, Unmistakable, Irrefutable..You.

Your day..is and will always be YOUR DAY.  There is no one like you.  No one that can compare or come close.

However, if by chance or opportunity your attributes could be split..they would be divided between your three daughters:

The Crazy.. The Cool..and The Sexy (what you affectionately call us).

You taught me  that I am a woman.  Not, a mere Woman.  Not a meek Woman.  But a Glorious Reflective woman… who is Free!  Free to do whatever she chooses.  Free to float… and laugh when she sinks.

I’ve always been able to take my hands and press them tightly to my ears..spin in circles and hum..hum..”I don’t care…I don’t care…I don’t care”. At times mimicking your screech..”I don’t care..I don’t care..I don’t care”.

Not listening to what anyone else said I should. Maintaining my own voice and sound.

I SING YOUR SONG  TOO, MOMMY!   “I love YOU!  I love YOU!  I love YOU! and I don’t care..I don’t care..I don’t care.”

 

Happy Birthday Mommy.

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Poetry

How-to-Write-Poetry

My Sister says that she doesn’t like poetry.  She said that Poetry is boring and makes her fall asleep.

What?! How can you not like poetry?

Poetry.. (come on now) POETRY?!

It’s a dance…kinda like ballet, one step and two steps, plies, pirouettes..

It’s calculated and intelligent like the game of Chest

It’s A rhythm..

…A flow

… a vision.

It’s a Float on a high pitch or a Swing on a low note

A Groove

A Kiss Up …a Brush Off…talk to the hand turn my back were through; (a Goodbye letter to you)

It’s an inside scoop

How can you not like poetry?  Come on sis? …

it’s a Power Fist…a Karate Kick

a Rebellion.. a Political Secret Society

It’s the beauty of  words…

Speech

Vocabulary

Verbal Illustrations

Prose

A Soliloquy

A Sonata

Adjectives and Expletives

A Story

An Illicit Lyrical Photograph

A Telephone Conversation

A Parable

A Redemption

A Comeback

Poetry?!

It’s An Artist’s Masterpiece

The Actors Script

The Drummers Beat

A Crickets Call

It’s in and out of fashion

Yeah, It’s  cool  for the Cool Cats that are Cool Now

..but

It’s LIFE for the Visionary’s, the Revolutionary’s,  Luminary’s, and Activists of yesterday, today, and forever.

It’s the Uppity Stiffs with the tight ties,  the long flowing ruffled skirts with bare toes peeking beneath, the scarf wearing, laptop toting and Dashiki Dawners.

It’s a tale within a tale

A tale of Phyllis Wheatley being the first published African-American Woman poet

A light up..A Blast..It’s Rap!    It’s “Thinkin’ of a master plan / Ain’t nothing but sweat inside my hand” – Eric B. And Rakim

Gill Scott Heron? The “Godfather of Rap“..His Loud Un- televised  Revolution?

When Dr. Martin Luther king Jr. said “I have been to the Mountaintop.. (his last speech) THAT WAS POETRY!

Sonia Sanchez

EE Cummings

HARK the Raven Nevermore, by Edgar Allen Poe

I know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou

and even the signature of David A.N. Jackson…   Always signed “I am sincerely (squiggly mark) David A.N. Jackson”

Come on now!!! Poetry?   It’s one word movements on plain white cardboard signs…  (Change)  C.H.A.N.G.E. Did it not rock the world.  Obama!! Obama!! (Change)

It’s Motivation and Inspiration…  A Smile..A Kiss..A Spanking..A Birth..A death

Poetry.. Poetry?!  How can you not like poetry?

Poetry

(For me it’s the milk in my cereal)..The Commercials of my life..what wakes me up at night..what keeps me sleep and dreaming all day long.

 

 

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The Bell Tolls

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At the nape of your neck.. my pale fingernails linger in thin curls..

softly pressing you into my cheek..

your ear to mine..

around my shoulders you rest..

tender grazing on soft sheets..we wrap each other..

we hold and console

carefully concealing one another..

tightly safeguarding…

At times, I am underneath you.. hiding and retreating, guarded, kept warm and protected

At times, I become your wings..stretching myself wide on top of you..allowing you to float..to relax..to drift

We take turns lifting each other

We take turns breathing for the other

Tender kisses blend with sour tears

pained and silent

………..we make love

While the walls are crashing to the ground

While bombs are blasting and shots are firing

amidst screams..

………..we make love

While fires are burning and corpse lie uncovered in the streets

………..we make love

with shell casings at the foot of the bed and war ravaged photographs on the pillow

………..we make love

with a black-hooded victim huddling in the corner; dawning torn feet and lacerated hands

with orphan children crying underneath the bed

while the floor boards are rattling and the earth is shaking

while the Regime is at the door and the sirens are wailing…

………..we make love

with hundreds of gas-masked covered faces..peering through the windows

………..we make love..

Desperately revolting against the hour

Fighting minutes by seconds to reclaim lost innocence

The ticks tock louder..and then… The Bell tolls…

(Times up)..with angst we face each other

I leap from the bed onto bloody execution stones..

grab the pistol, posters, banners, and bullhorn..

He grabs the vest, machetes, rifle, and phones..

….a blown kiss..and out separate windows we fly.

 

 

(“The Revolution WILL NOT be Televised”..just whispered through the hearts of the TRUE REVOLUTIONARIES.”

 

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He does

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He does..

 

I screamed from the kitchen in my loudest, sweetest voice…”I love you as long as the Sun SHINES…and the Water FLOWS!” with a smile so bright and an inside giggle.

(Footsteps)

Behind me appears…and whispers in my ear “I love you even if the Sun never shined and all I could do was feel you” (while gripping my waist and tugging me close)   “I love you even if there was no water. Your wet kisses are more than enough to keep me hydrated”..

“Funny” I smirk and turn to face him..”Let’s see just how wet my kisses are..”

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I died today

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I died today… my skin darkened, and color changed. Air rushed from my body. I became silent. Softly I closed my eyes, felt my limbs freeze…stiff and still, I left.

I drowned. The water consumed me, covered my head, filled my nose, and flooded my mouth.
My ears popped. My lungs grew heavy..my chest puffed and hardened. It hurt.
I felt unspeakable pain.
Engulfed..I died.

All my sins played before me. All my good turned to tears.

I died a horrible death.
blood dripped from my nose, my teeth gnashed..I snarled at my killer. My pupils turned ruby. My cheeks ashed and lips withered. With crimson skin under my fingernails..I scratched the pavement. I failed to crawl to safety. I screamed. I screamed.
Ripped.. I died

Memories of abuse, pain, and trauma bruised my face. Pleas muttered from my lips. Weak and frail.
I gasped to hold tight the last bit of air. My throat constricted, my heart stopped, and my bladder failed. I quit. I gave up.
Defeated..I died.

……only to be born again..new…clean..fresh..healed..reincarnated and given another chance.

Another try.

Another try at living.

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Broken Promises

Image Credit: Herr Fous

Image Credit: Tenth Amendment Center

I never asked you to love me. But, you insisted..

You promised that you would be different. That you would love me unconditionally and not want anything in return. That your love would be so powerful that I wouldn’t be able to refuse..

For a moment, I actually thought you had me. Gradually, I heated and accepted you slightly. I allowed you to stay longer hours, I saw you more frequently..at times I even missed you.

Your love.. so beautiful but too unrecognizable for me..

I owe you no apologies, honesty never left me.. I have always been truthful with you. I warned you that I would vanish when love grew too complicated. I told you that I couldn’t be trusted to love you back.

I fought your fight too, but evil always prevails in my life.

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