Extroverted to a Fault

She possesses
an insatiable want
to be surrounded
by a populace
drunk with life
doused with energy
besieged by auras
the thought of

isolation

cripples her
like a crow bar to both knees.

Run Away With Me

My life
once a canvas
stained gray
now splashed with color
forever changed
when he uttered
four words:
run away with me.

Crabs in a Barrel

It’s dark.
The air is thick.
It reeks of musk and envy.
Every once in awhile,
the faint smell of rotten flesh
tells me another has given up.
Cynicism breeds rapidly
and it’s time to get out.
But each night is the same.
I muster up the strength,
prepare for the climb.
As I draw closer to the top
one latches on,
parasite-like, and then another
and another.
I’m a fighter.
I’m strong.
Pessimistic and defeatist thoughts
I dismiss.
But the sheer weight
defeats my vigor.
Some laugh,
consider me foolhardy
for trying.
“Foolish dreamer,” they say.
But, I can see the moon.
And when I try
really hard,
I can smell the salt water.
Elevation is in my reach.
So, I will never give up.
Even it means gnawing off
each limb.
I won’t be held back.

Why do you wear such dark glasses?

A single strip, two-inch wide,
buttery-golden highlight
radiates from her blue black
curly tresses
curly tresses that behave
in the humidity
and bounce
when she laughs
I bet
when she’s not laughing
she’s smiling
her lips marmalade
red -- candy apple -- not blood red
tinted glasses
cover her ebony eyes
not the trendy kind
but, the concealing kind
I did see her eyes – once
ebony, not nefarious,
melancholy, after asking,
“Why do you wear such dark glasses?
To mask the pain?
Disguise your sadness?”
“Perhaps...if I wanted to keep eye readers at bay,”
she spoke softly
the voice of angel
she reached for her glasses
and then hesitated
as if she changed her mind
she tilted her head
and peered at me
over her glasses:
“I refuse to look death in the eye.
And when death comes a knocking,
I won’t answer.”

Mermaids are Real

As a child I loved when it rained…
a fascination with water,
(albeit I can’t swim).
On nights that it rained,
I would race downstairs
and peer out the screen door.
I waited for her.
Mermaids can’t talk, but we
communicated telepathically.
She would tell me epic things,
like the sun sets at the same time,
at least three times during the year.
And when the rain stopped,
the puddles disappeared and so did she,
but her spirit walked the earth.
The word lonely,
a word that once plagued my being,
soon became nonexistent.
“There’s a mermaid in our backyard,”
I told my mother, smiling
while eating a strawberry ice pop.
Her back was to me.
I couldn’t tell if she was in a mood
to talk or in a mood to sulk.
“Mermaids are mystical creatures in the North Atlantic.
They lure ship captains to rocks,” she explained.
I crouched down, listening intently,
and allowed my rapidly melting ice pop
to drip into a puddle. The same puddle
that was once home to my mermaid friend last night.
“Why would they lure ship captains to rocks?” I asked.
“To crash their ships and kill the captains,
sometimes accidentally, sometimes on purpose.”
I asked no more questions for fear of what I…
what she would hear next.
The sun was radiant, the air not too humid.
I knew her spirit was walking the earth.
I favored the rain over the sun.

Capturing Images

I held it steady
to focus, for clarity
marked by precision
dancing with the light
watching it bounce
manipulating the shadows
later amazed by its beauty
soft simplicity
not cotton candy soft
but a muted palette
capturing images
fresh like spring rain
emotions forever detained
telling a story
words could never adequately
illustrate.

In one more minute, it will be your birthday

And so the story goes:
“I’m pregnant,” she says flatly.
“Kill it, ” her mother urges.
“I won’t,” she speaks most defiantly.
“Your life’s over,” her mother declares.
“It’s just begun,” she insists.
And here I am.
May 30. It’s almost midnight.
Long nights with the husband.
“In one more minute, it will be your birthday,”
he reminds me.
He’s smiling, holding my hands.
No, it’s not a narcissistic practice
where we stay up late, the eve of my birthday
watching the clock
searching for a way to slow down the time
as both hands rendezvous at the 12 slot
not thinking about where I’ve been
and where I’m going
but suppressing the I-should-leave-my-mark feeling
realizing that each year passes
more quickly than the last
thanking my mother
she didn’t abort
holding no grudges against my grandmother
for suggesting it
secretly loving the fuss that’s made over me.

Moving On

Like a balloon
I want to float away,
fly freely. Escape.
But, you, the weight
at the end of my ribbon,
prevent me from drifting away,
keeping me grounded.
Your hand,
gently touches my face.
It’s ice cold,
probably from standing in the rain
waiting with me,
urging me to take a step,
because it’s time to move on.
Out of nervousness,
I bite my lip, so hard it bleeds.
“It’s okay.”
And the tears fall
fast.
Your soothing voice makes
those hard-to-hold-back tears trickle.
We walk, together,
through the rain.

It Never Stops

my laughter
you catch
it lingers
resonates

my legs
I cross
uncross
re-cross

my hair
I flip
graceful fingers
twirl

my movements
fluid
my breaths
exaggerated

innocent
yet calculated
deliberate
impulsive

mutual
expected
anticipated
perfected

years later
I love it
you want it
consciously subliminal...

flirting.

Beautiful

I .
Every day we drive to school
sitting on top of floor buffers
in the back of a big, blue van;
the painting is chipped.
I don't want to go school.
I'm the tallest in my class,
even taller than the boys.
I wish I had Nikes
instead of these no name shoes.
My clothes are so different.
I wish they weren't handmade.
My best friend got angry.
She called me pizza face.
A blonde-haired girl,
with a paisley shirt and matching shorts,
asked me, “Are you from Africa?
Your nose is really big.”
I think I'm ugly.

II.
“Wake up!
It's time to get ready for school!
No time for horse play.
We need to drive you to school
so you don't have to walk
in this blazing heat.
Get dressed. You know I love cats.
I sewed one on your shirt.
Don't you just love it?
Try the shoes with the wedges.
They'll accentuate your height.
You could be a model; you're so beautiful.
You know that?
Now, remember to drink
eight glasses of water.
Water keeps your skin clear.
Hmmmm...I have to smile every time I look at you.
You have your grandfather's nose.”

III.
98 degrees today.
I'm glad I don't have to walk to school.
This van is so dirty.
But at least it has air conditioning.
I'm wearing my shirt with the cat patch again.
And it doesn't even matter that I really hate cats.
Matched with the shoes with the wedges,
I'm probably as tall as my teacher now.
Watch my stride. I'm ready for the catwalk.
I feel bloated . My fifth glass of water. Three more to go.
Nicole laughed and pointed.
She said I have a Bantu nose,
to which I replied:
“Just like my grandfather.
My mother thinks it's beautiful.
I'm beautiful.”

Set Me Free

My eyes
are liquid charcoal
burning with injury
crying no more
my tear ducts
are blocked
with fragments
called pain
empty feelings
stay afloat
fulfillment extracted
never drained
held tightly
between the creases
of clenched fists
like the
hummingbird’s wings
I hum
listen
to the lasting effects
of a rapidly beating heart
anxiously awaiting emancipation:
hmmm,
hmmm,
hmmm…
set me free.

Forgiven

A torrential downpour
of sobering thoughts
flood my mind
tear-filled eyelids
smiling ruefully
a bed of blue roses
cover my entire body
thorny memories
no longer prick
my once-pierced heart
the holes, I patched
in control, I am
and forgiven, you are.

At Odds

I’m scared
scared that
the past three decades
will turn into an eternity
words never spoken
hearts left shattered, broken
too many hurdles
I’m tired of jumping
my legs are dead
my heart still beats
longing for
an antiquated, simple life
enveloped with sincerity
sealed with a kiss
absent of “he said,” “you lied”
written or recorded
at this point it’s pointless
why point fingers?
chipping at the paint
the canvas, never bare
you, me
on opposite sides
wishing
you’d meet me halfway.

He Loves Me

He’s seen me without makeup
and still considers me flawless
plus 50 after pregnancy
he still found me sexy
his caress, his touch
never changed or subsided
always gentle, arousing
deliberate and anticipated
seven years later
he still makes me blush
flirting never dies
groping on the rise
attracted, like magnets
thou shall not repel
he’s from Mars
I’m from Venus
but he understands:
my need for affection, today
my need for space, tomorrow
most days I’m sparkling
on occasion, innocently ferocious
sometimes I blow up
he tenderly deflates me
the man who loves to spoil me
but won’t tolerate my mess
the only man
to effortlessly penetrate
my chest cavity
and cherish my heart
no question, our love is pure.

My Eternal

Looking for answers
that once seemed so far away
right in front of me
water falls from the sky
thirsty for something new
released from a prison
guarded by demons
taking your hand
that holds the key
to a wounded heart
that needs healing
the pain dissolves
slowly
you are perfect
my thoughts will one day
mirror yours
walking with you
hardly a sacrifice
forever yours
my soul.

Teenage Woes: Camaraderie

We’ve travelled this path
once before, twice even…maybe three times
Who’s counting?
Never one for mind-numbing streams,
I preferred currents.
Riddled with optimism, dripping with bravery
We didn’t swim.
Across a floating log we crossed, barefoot.
Each time I lost my balance:
I stumbled. She laughed. Into the water I fell.
I stumbled. She pushed. Into the water I fell.
I stumbled. He watched. Into the water I fell.
Same scenario. Different person. Distinct outcome.
Never the one I wanted.
Here I am again,
on this floating log called life, faltering…
Only, this time I’m alone.
Into the water, I fell not.
Across this log, I knew I would cross.
But, I never wanted to do it alone.
Yearning for someone to hold my hand
instead of breaking my heart.

Unwind

57 degrees
still driving with
all the windows down
my tightly-pulled
bun comes undone
but I don’t mind
I welcome it actually
reminiscent of wild coitus
arriving home
rubbing my temples
climbing the stairs
like it’s the green mile
anticipating a hot shower
and washed hair
collapsing on
warm sheets
fresh out the dryer
leaving the windows open
the breeze
is refreshing
cool on my
naked skin
exhale…

Scarlet Heart

The tension is so thick
like a callus
protect me
from the constant pressure
I feel
when we’re within
five feet of each other.
Close enough to touch
but we won’t.
Avoiding eye contact
until the accidental
glance-turned-stare.
Once black pupils
now red flames
caused by a scarlet
heart inflamed
with pain.
Make it stop.
If only I could.
But, you’re pregnant
with anger
refusing to birth that rage,
denying the flow of blood
called
love.

Green Leaves

I, unlock the latches
and open the window
sticking my head out
reaching for the sun.
The leaves,
once green,
turn brown and burnt.
Once infected, now distorted,
wilted, crumpled,
fallen, dead.
But, they still rustle,
dance, and stir
in the day and night,
with each wind that blows,
carrying them away,
emitting fresh air
that permeates
this stifled soul.
A whiff of cedar
wafts by me
almost cosmic.
I need the rush
while I wait
for a warm, wet spring
with green leaves.

Summer of 1995

Who do you love?
Are you for sure?
Who do you love?
Are you for sure?
Who…do you love?
Are…you…for sure?

Hmmm…I love that song
And not just because LL Cool J is the artist
It takes me back
Summer of 1995
Portsmouth Virginia
Old enough to appreciate
the simple things in life
Too young to know that Portsmouth is not
Ports-mouth

17 and carefree
days consisted of sitting on the porch
with my best friend who
just so happened to be my younger sister
(swatting mosquitos
pass me the calamine lotion)
watching her fall in love
with the boy next door
now three’s a crowd
until I met her boyfriend’s friend

and when the novelty of young crushes
wore off
we formed a girl group with our cousin
practicing dance routines until the
wee hours in the morning
only to come in second place
at a community talent show
still convinced: we’re born-to-be-stars

splitting our $15 winnings three ways at the mall
spotting and eventually shadowing Allen Iverson
ducking behind the clothes racks
whenever he turned around
finally mustering up the nerve
to ask him for his autograph

and when night fell
I wanted nothing more than to win a game
of scrabble against my grandmother
reuniting with my her and my grandfather
after nine years
and meeting my eight-year-old brother
for the first time
wow, he looks just like me
momentous

falling asleep in my dead father’s room
finding comfort in the stillness
and the sound of crickets chirping
a summer full of felicity
summer of 1995
one I’ll never forget