Rock

A rock that has no beauty
still serves a purpose.
It holds down the corner of my beach blanket
while I sit and think.

Heart of a Woman (For Maya Angelou)

On Friday
for only $1
she called to me through her book
sitting on the shelf  alive waiting to be heard
what a price for such wisdom
On Monday
I heard her message
through the pages of her story
amazed and intrigued
leaving the book resting on a red pillow
not knowing that on Wednesday
she would be gone
and although we never met
I’m glad she spoke to me all the way to page 106
and I listened

elegy

to my unfinished poems

that take up empty pages of my life

with lines running through my head

conflicting like two ice cream trucks on the same street

playing the same tune on different corners

 passing one another without speaking

kids jaywalking to catch up with the one who passes first

like no justice for Trayvon

while a murderer walks

and tempers burn in the streets

on vacant stores

soon to be demolished

making the way for the blueprints to gentrify

like Brooklyn

Los Angeles

New Orleans

and

Harlem

and by that time

my unfinished poems

will finish themselves

and find greener pastures

where they can bloom

freely.

For Robert

 

I felt the vibrations of your ink

your pen shook earth

shaking volumes of words

from off the shelf

I saw the pages falling

with letters scattering randomly like dandelion seeds

tapping the fertile soil

of my creative womb

and re-birthing poetically

into new cipher

moving gracefully

to an uncertain end

the muses from Langston’s porch

were pleased

they enjoyed the vibe

the pickled okra

and impromptu walks

the sweltering ride on the A train from

Lennox and 125th

to Nostrand avenue

the surprise mango tea

and baby red velvet

Brooklyn’s finest keeping vigilant watch

on surreptitious corner activities

where everybody is somebody

even the nobodies

even me

walking

looking

searching

finally finding peace

when we sat on Langston’s stoop

and played

like children

running after verbs and adjectives

down the sidewalk

duck duck goose

you’re it

no more chalk lines

only pens to paper

writing our letters carefully

and sending  prayers up

to the universe

we climbed up Langston’s steps

playing hopscotch

with words that dreamed

of what tomorrow would bring

hoping for better

leaning on the patina rails

looking up into the heavens

as the grime from the sidewalk

settled on our shoelaces

and we remembered that day

on sacred ground.

rain...palindrome

water

pouring skies

drifting along

torrential weather

umbrellas open

yellow coats

black galoshes

spashing children laughing running

dancing puddles

today

puddles dancing

running laughing children splashing

galoshes black

coats yellow

open umbrellas

weather torrential

along drifting

skies pouring

water

moon dancing

let’s go dancing on the moon

all by ourselves

moving and grooving to the vibration of the stars

catching stardust between our toes

let’s jump from galaxy to galaxy

sky trip above the clouds

and take a lunar expedition

let’s see if there are really any other people out there

in the universe who believe in being free

dancing on the moon with no gravity to hold us down

seeing earth at a distance

from God’s view

let’s go dancing on the moon

all by ourselves

moving and grooving

to the vibration

of

the

stars…

I Wish...

Day #16

I wish that I could dance across the page

like my words do…

with no thought beforehand or reasoning why

floating effortlessly line upon line

just living and breathing life from ink

from beginning to end

enveloping grace and speaking truth

at anytime

freely…

#23

i’m #23 on the list
sitting in a room filled with a curious vibe…
an eclectic group consisting of the types of men that normal women run away from
it’s a creepy crowd of various hues
awaiting the stage
among this malevolent bunch
some of them smell real bad
but everyone has something to say
their words are fire
their songs are heaven
and i’m #23 on the list
at this open mic…
where only the hour hand on the clock
moves

can I be your muse?

can I be your muse...

invisibly overlooking your shoulder and watching you create

inspiring your thoughts and words out of nowhere

changing and challenging you to dig deeper into the realms of

     your   subconscious

and write from your heart?

can I be your muse...

~ from "Hairstory"