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

bring back our girls

bring back our girls

lives that cannot be thrown away

tossed out like garbage

like unripe fruit

picked before its time

flowers that never had a chance to bloom

bring them back

so they can flourish

they need the chance to breathe

and not inhale the foulness of old men’s breath

or feel unclean hands

and hear words not meant for their ears

bring our girls back

they are not just our future

but our present

their presence matters

to somebody

even if not to you

find them

like precious jewels in Nigerian caves of

aquamarine

emerald

amethyst

garnet

tourmaline

topaz  

zircon

and sapphire

search for them

they are wondering

they are waiting

hoping

praying

crying

wailing

for someone to come to their rescue

please

Mornings

On dark mornings

I layer my delicate frame in silk and linen garments

that shield me from the eyes of ravenous wolves

in sheep’s clothing

whose predatory instincts trail the scent of fresh femininity

causing them to commit crimes against womanhood.

With no man to protect me from their heinous ways 

As I walk through empty alleys and streets where they lie in wait for me

I hide in the shadow of the Almighty

becoming invisible

only the light that surrounds me is seen

and I go on my way without fear

knowing that I am safe.

                   

 

I Could

I could bloom here

in this concrete soil

with its steel skyline

and endless waves of people walking the pavement

going underground to get from point A to B to C

sometimes stepping on one another

without saying excuse me

making no eye contact

but connected at the root

I could get used to climbing several flights of old stairs

crossing the street to do laundry

alongside big butt menopausal women with graying locs

people cursing each other

in front of China King

and Ma’s old stoop

watching the cat who sleeps curled up in the barber shop window

in the afternoon sun

I could bloom here

in the cold

like a winter rose without thorns

trusting the universe to protect me

from danger

in this concrete soil

rising

poet

sometimes i go through the motions

numb to the painful devastation

that has become my life

it’s easier to get through the day

without thinking

or feeling

they call it an emotional block

but i call it survival…

in this jungle

where I could easily become the prey

of a predator

i become invisible

speaking only when spoken to

answering when necessary

writing whenever possible

breathing through my ink

watching the world from behind paper

where no one can see me

or run from my pain

they only snap

and ask for more

i give it to them freely

because they don’t understand

that my words

are healing me

so i can live

and move on.

Fall

I love when the season changes
to fall
with all of its colors
and layers...
stripes
plaids
leggings and boots
on running feet
hats and scarves
wrapped around to keep warm
in a cold world
where nobody cares
a coat is my best friend at anytime
it waits for me
holding me close in the rain
at midnight
deep pockets keep secrets
loose change
and a house key
fall with its dried leaves
exposed twigs
and open sky
everything moves faster
but I wish people would slow down
and enjoy the beauty of the daytime
orange to amber to brown
the colors of life
the colors of the earth
the colors of me
in the fall

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.