Thursday, April 23, 2009
Sunday Afternoon on Chocolate City
It is Sunday afternoon in Chocolate City.
I only came to visit,
but I drank of a bittersweet brown elixir
and came down with an allergic reaction to leaving
My endorphins got all swollen
with the spiritual notion
of Black Love
It is Sunday afternoon in Chocolate City
My lover is on bended knee beside me
We had been fighting over nothing in particular,
Perhaps just because the thing between us is so strong
We barely have room for our own selves.
So we pray.
Pray for love
Pray for strength
Each for someone else
Then for one another
Together we Pray
for the anger to go away
Ask for understanding of a love so strong it chokes
and we can only breath together
we share the air between us
always, out of breath
always, needing more
Just like that,
reaching for a tissue,
an accidental brush
we are twisted limbs of amber and mahogany
backsliding into one another
sweaty in humidity
our wetness caramelizing on the floor
It is Sunday afternoon in Chocolate City
And we forgot to say "Amen"
by Ghetto Girl Blue/Jessica Holter
I only came to visit,
but I drank of a bittersweet brown elixir
and came down with an allergic reaction to leaving
My endorphins got all swollen
with the spiritual notion
of Black Love
It is Sunday afternoon in Chocolate City
My lover is on bended knee beside me
We had been fighting over nothing in particular,
Perhaps just because the thing between us is so strong
We barely have room for our own selves.
So we pray.
Pray for love
Pray for strength
Each for someone else
Then for one another
Together we Pray
for the anger to go away
Ask for understanding of a love so strong it chokes
and we can only breath together
we share the air between us
always, out of breath
always, needing more
Just like that,
reaching for a tissue,
an accidental brush
we are twisted limbs of amber and mahogany
backsliding into one another
sweaty in humidity
our wetness caramelizing on the floor
It is Sunday afternoon in Chocolate City
And we forgot to say "Amen"
by Ghetto Girl Blue/Jessica Holter
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Ghost of Temptation
The devil’s hold is strong on me, mixing with my flesh
Temptation is what he calls himself, desire on me he press.
With beautiful faces & hard handsome bod’s
He moves & teases me, makes droop slip from my jaw.
Surely, pure white spirits turn away frightened
when soft untamed muscles tighten.
The pulse quickens and the body is shaken
by this unseen demon;
The Ghost of temptation.
by Dorlette Pierre-Louis
Temptation is what he calls himself, desire on me he press.
With beautiful faces & hard handsome bod’s
He moves & teases me, makes droop slip from my jaw.
Surely, pure white spirits turn away frightened
when soft untamed muscles tighten.
The pulse quickens and the body is shaken
by this unseen demon;
The Ghost of temptation.
by Dorlette Pierre-Louis
Could I Be Your Black
Let me ask you something,If I smiled at you, would you take a chance and consider me?
If I flashed my pearly whites at you, could you ever accept me?
I’m probably twenty shades darker than you,
and knowing this, tell me: What would you do?
Would you, white man, offer to be the milk in my coffee?
Would you put aside your white chocolate and have some of my toffee?
Or would you simply blow me off without even a thought?
Could I be the woman to change your life? Stir your pot?
What would you do if I licked my lips real soft, real slow?
Could I sit as brown sugar next to your Sweet-n-Low?
C’mon baby, I promise not to be offended, just let me know.
Would you let me be the pepper next to your salt,
or would you do me like they do malt?
Steeped, germinated, and dried.
C’mon, be honest with me. I see no need to lie.
Could you love me with my weave or my short and nappy curls?
With my rough feet and tough hands, could you refer to me as your girl?
Could you come to care for me with my two inch nails
and the color of my flesh - which isn’t too pale?
Would you take notice if I sashayed my hips when my existence passed yours?
Tell me, if I did like Michael(J.) would you like me more?
Could I be your cookie and you my cream?
Or is all this more likely to occur in a dream?
If I grooved next to you would I be a relevant thought or would you give me no regard, pay me no heed?
If I told you I loved you, would you wave me off or devote your time to me like you would your creed?
Would you hate me if I were the spots on your dalmatian, the stripes on your zebra?
Would you like me better if my name were Ashley or Amanda instead of Shenique or Jemimah?
Could I be the black tie against your white suit
or would you turn me away, kicking me to the curb with your boot?
Does my color offend you? Does my shade scare you?
Does my questioning our being together bother you?
Is it because I question whether you think we could ever be,
or is it because you could simply never see yourself with me?
Could I be the ink against your paper,
The black on your leather?
If I grinned, smiled, let my dimples show
would you smile back and allow emotions for me to grow?
If I permed my hair - maybe relaxed it, curled it some,
Would you nurture me like you nurse your rum?
With all the daintiness, sensitivity, and grace that I may lack
My dear, could I possibly, ever, be your black?
by Dorlette Pierre-Louis
Song For a Dark Girl
Way down South in Dixie
(Break the heart of me)
They hung my dark young lover
In a cross roads tree.
Way down South in Dixie
(Bruised body high in air)
I asked the white Lord Jesus
What was the use of prayer
Way down south in Dixie
(Break the heart of me)
Love is a naked shadow
On a gnarled and naked tree.
by Langston Hughes
(Break the heart of me)
They hung my dark young lover
In a cross roads tree.
Way down South in Dixie
(Bruised body high in air)
I asked the white Lord Jesus
What was the use of prayer
Way down south in Dixie
(Break the heart of me)
Love is a naked shadow
On a gnarled and naked tree.
by Langston Hughes
Frederick Douglass
When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty
this beautiful
and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usuable as the earth; when it belongs at last to our
children,
when it is truly instict, brainmatter, diastole, systole,
reflex action, when it is finally won; when it is more
than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world
where none is lonely, none hunted, alien,
this man, superb in love and logic, this man
shall be remembered - oh, not with statues' rhetoric,
not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone,
but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives
fleshing his dream of the needful beautiful thing.
by Robert Hayden
this beautiful
and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usuable as the earth; when it belongs at last to our
children,
when it is truly instict, brainmatter, diastole, systole,
reflex action, when it is finally won; when it is more
than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world
where none is lonely, none hunted, alien,
this man, superb in love and logic, this man
shall be remembered - oh, not with statues' rhetoric,
not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone,
but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives
fleshing his dream of the needful beautiful thing.
by Robert Hayden
Our Grandmothers
She lay, skin down in the moist dirt,
the canebrake rustling
with the whispers of leaves, and
loud longing of hounds and
the ransack of hunters crackling the near branches.
She muttered, lifting her head a nod toward freedom,
I shall not, I shall not be moved.
She gathered her babies,
their tears slick as oil on black faces,
their young eyes canvassing mornings of madness.
Momma, is Master going to sell you
from us tomorrow?
Yes.
Unless you keep walking more
and talking less.
Yes.
Unless the keeper of our lives
releases me from all commandments.
Yes.
And your lives,
never mine to live,
will be executed upon the killing floor of innocents.
Unless you match my heart and words,
saying with me,
I shall not be moved.
In Virginia tobacco fields,
leaning into the curve
of Steinway
pianos, along Arkansas roads,
in the red hills of Georgia,
into the palms of her chained hands, she
cried against calamity,
You have tried to destroy me
and though I perish daily,
the canebrake rustling
with the whispers of leaves, and
loud longing of hounds and
the ransack of hunters crackling the near branches.
She muttered, lifting her head a nod toward freedom,
I shall not, I shall not be moved.
She gathered her babies,
their tears slick as oil on black faces,
their young eyes canvassing mornings of madness.
Momma, is Master going to sell you
from us tomorrow?
Yes.
Unless you keep walking more
and talking less.
Yes.
Unless the keeper of our lives
releases me from all commandments.
Yes.
And your lives,
never mine to live,
will be executed upon the killing floor of innocents.
Unless you match my heart and words,
saying with me,
I shall not be moved.
In Virginia tobacco fields,
leaning into the curve
of Steinway
pianos, along Arkansas roads,
in the red hills of Georgia,
into the palms of her chained hands, she
cried against calamity,
You have tried to destroy me
and though I perish daily,
I shall not be moved.
Her universe, often summarized into one black body
falling finally from the tree to her feet,
made her cry each time into a new voice.
All my past hastens to defeat,
and strangers claim the glory of my love,
Iniquity has bound me to his bed.
yet, I must not be moved.
She heard the names,
swirling ribbons in the wind of history:
nigger, nigger bitch, heifer,
mammy, property, creature, ape, baboon,
whore, hot tail, thing, it.
She said, But my description cannot
fit your tongue, for
I have a certain way of being in this world,
and I shall not, I shall not be moved.
No angel stretched protecting wings
above the heads of her children,
fluttering and urging the winds of reason
into the confusions of their lives.
The sprouted like young weeds,
but she could not shield their growth
from the grinding blades of ignorance, nor
shape them into symbolic topiaries.
She sent them away, underground, overland, in coaches and
shoeless.
When you learn, teach.
When you get, give.
As for me,
I shall not be moved.
She stood in midocean, seeking dry land.
She searched God's face.
Assured,
she placed her fire of service
on the altar, and though
clothed in the finery of faith,
when she appeared at the temple door,
no sign welcomed
Black Grandmother, Enter here.
Assured,
she placed her fire of service
on the altar, and though
clothed in the finery of faith,
when she appeared at the temple door,
no sign welcomed
Black Grandmother, Enter here.
Into the crashing sound,
into wickedness, she cried,
No one, no, nor no one million
ones dare deny me God, I go forth
along, and stand as ten thousand.
The Divine upon my right
impels me to pull forever
at the latch on Freedom's gate.
The Holy Spirit upon my left leads my
feet without ceasing into the
camp of the righteous and into the tents of the free.
These momma faces, lemon-yellow, plum-purple,
honey-brown, have grimaced and twisted
down a pyramid for years.
She is Sheba the Sojourner,
Harriet and Zora,
Mary Bethune and Angela,
Annie to Zenobia.
She stands
before the abortion clinic,
confounded by the lack of choices.
In the Welfare line,
reduced to the pity of handouts.
Ordained in the pulpit, shielded
by the mysteries.
In the operating room,
husbanding life.
In the choir loft,
holding God in her throat.
On lonely street corners,
hawking her body.
In the classroom, loving the
children to understanding.
Centered on the world's stage,
she sings to her loves and beloveds,
to her foes and detractors:
However I am perceived and deceived,
however my ignorance and conceits,
lay aside your fears that I will be undone,
for I shall not be moved.
by Maya Angelou
A Moment Please
When I gaze at the sunI walked to the subway booth
for change for a dime
and know that this great earth
Two adolescent girls stood there
alive with eagerness to know
is but a fragment from it thrown
in their new found world
all there was for them to know
in a heat and flame a billion years ago,
they look at me and brightly asked
"Are you Arabian"
that then this world was lifeless
I smiled and cautiously
- for one growns cautious -
shook my head.
as, a billion hence,
"Egyptian?"
it shall again be,
Again I smiled and shook my head
and walked away.
what a moment is it that I am betrayed,
I've gone but seven paces now
oppressed, cast down
and from behind comes swift the sneer
or warm with love or triumph?
"Or Nigger?"
A moment, please
What is it that to fury I am roused?
for still it takes a moment
What meaning for me
and now
in the homeless clan
I'll turn
the dupe of space
and smile
the toy of time?
and nod my head
by Samuel Allen (Paul Vesey)
KA'AB
A closed window looks down
on a dirty courtyard, and black people
call across or scream across or walk across
defying physics in the stream of their will
Our world is full of sound
Our world is more lovely than anyone's
tho we suffer, and kill each other
and sometimes fail to walk the air
We are beautiful people
with african imaginations
full of masks and dances and swelling chants
with african eyes, and noses, and arms,
though we sprawl in gray chains in a place
full of winters, when what we want is sun.
We have been captured,
brothers. And we labor
to make our getaway, into
the ancient image, into a new
correspondence with ourselves
and our black family. We need magic
now we need t he spells, to raise up
return, destroy, and create. What will be
the sacred words?
by Amiri Baraka
on a dirty courtyard, and black people
call across or scream across or walk across
defying physics in the stream of their will
Our world is full of sound
Our world is more lovely than anyone's
tho we suffer, and kill each other
and sometimes fail to walk the air
We are beautiful people
with african imaginations
full of masks and dances and swelling chants
with african eyes, and noses, and arms,
though we sprawl in gray chains in a place
full of winters, when what we want is sun.
We have been captured,
brothers. And we labor
to make our getaway, into
the ancient image, into a new
correspondence with ourselves
and our black family. We need magic
now we need t he spells, to raise up
return, destroy, and create. What will be
the sacred words?
by Amiri Baraka
Juke Box Love Song
I could take the Harlem night
and wrap around you,
Take the neon lights and make a crown,
Take the Lenox Avenue buses,
Taxis, subways,
And for your love song tone their rumble down.
Take Harlem's heartbeat,
Make it a drumbeat,
Put it on a record, let it whirl,
And while we listen to it play,
Dance with you till day -
Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.
by Langston Hughes
and wrap around you,
Take the neon lights and make a crown,
Take the Lenox Avenue buses,
Taxis, subways,
And for your love song tone their rumble down.
Take Harlem's heartbeat,
Make it a drumbeat,
Put it on a record, let it whirl,
And while we listen to it play,
Dance with you till day -
Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.
by Langston Hughes
now poem. for us.
dont let them die out
all these old/blk/people
don't let them cop out
with their memories
of slavery/survival
it is our
heritage.
u know. part/african
part/negro.
part/slave
sit down with em brothas and sistuhs.
talk to em. listen to their
tales of victories/woes/sorrows.
listen to their blk/
myths.
record them talken their ago talk
for our tomorrows.
ask them bout the songs of
births. the herbs
that cured
their aches.
the crazy/
niggers blowen
some cracker's cool.
by Sonia Sanchez
Bronzeville Man With a Belt in the Back
In such an armor he may rise and raid
the dark cave after midnight, unafraid
And slice the shadows with his able sword
Of good broad nonchalence, hashing them down.
And come out and accept the gasping crowd,
Shake off the praises with an airiness.
And, searching, see love shining in an eye,
But never smile.
In such an armor he cannot be slain.
by Gwendolyn Brooks
the dark cave after midnight, unafraid
And slice the shadows with his able sword
Of good broad nonchalence, hashing them down.
And come out and accept the gasping crowd,
Shake off the praises with an airiness.
And, searching, see love shining in an eye,
But never smile.
In such an armor he cannot be slain.
by Gwendolyn Brooks
Nikki-Rose
Childhood remembrances are always a drag
if you're Black
You always remember things like lving in Woodlawn
with no inside toilet
And if you become famous of something
they never talk about how happy you were to have your mother
all to yourself and
how good the water felt when you got your bath from one of those
big tubs that folk in Chicago barbeque in
and somehow when you talk about home
it never gets across how much you
understood their feelings
as the whole family attended meetings about Hollydale
and even though you remember
your biographers never understand
your father's pain as he sells his stock
and another dream goes
and though they fought a lot
it isn't your father's drinking that makes any difference
but only that everybody is together and you
and your sister have happy birthdays and very good Christmasses
and I really hope no white person ever has cause to write about me
because they never understand Black love is Black wealth and they'll
probably talk about my hard childhood and never understand that
all the while I was quite happy
By Nikki Giovanni
if you're Black
You always remember things like lving in Woodlawn
with no inside toilet
And if you become famous of something
they never talk about how happy you were to have your mother
all to yourself and
how good the water felt when you got your bath from one of those
big tubs that folk in Chicago barbeque in
and somehow when you talk about home
it never gets across how much you
understood their feelings
as the whole family attended meetings about Hollydale
and even though you remember
your biographers never understand
your father's pain as he sells his stock
and another dream goes
and though they fought a lot
it isn't your father's drinking that makes any difference
but only that everybody is together and you
and your sister have happy birthdays and very good Christmasses
and I really hope no white person ever has cause to write about me
because they never understand Black love is Black wealth and they'll
probably talk about my hard childhood and never understand that
all the while I was quite happy
By Nikki Giovanni
Me and the Mule
My old mule,
He's got a grin on his face.
He's been a mule for so long
He's forgot about his race.
I'm like that old mule -
Black - and don't give a damn!
You got to take me
Like I am.
by Langston Hughes
He's got a grin on his face.
He's been a mule for so long
He's forgot about his race.
I'm like that old mule -
Black - and don't give a damn!
You got to take me
Like I am.
by Langston Hughes
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Touched By An Angel
We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight to liberate us into life.
Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.
We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.
By Maya Angelou
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight to liberate us into life.
Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.
We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.
By Maya Angelou
Dreams
Hold fast to dreamsFor if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
by: Langston Hughes
We Real Cool
The pool players. Seven at the golden shovel.
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
by Gwendolyn Brooks
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
by Gwendolyn Brooks
Monday, April 13, 2009
Epilogue: The Wife of Noble Character
Serenity by Laurie CooperA wife of noble character who can find?
She is worth far more than rubies.
Her husband has full confidence in her
and lacks nothing of value.
She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life.
She selects wool and flax
and works with eager hands
She is like the merchant ships, bringing her food from afar.
She gets up while it is still dark;
she provides food for her family
and portions for her servant girls.
She considers a field and buys it;
out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.
She sets about her work vigorously;
her arms are strong for her tasks.
She sees that her trading is profitable,
and her lamp does not go out at night.
In her hand she holds the distaff
and grasps the spindle with her fingers.
She opens her arms to the poor
and extends her hands to the needy.
When it snows, she has no fear for her household;
for all of them are clothed in scarlet.
She makes covering for her bed;
she is clothed in fine linen and purple.
Her husband is respected at the city gate,
where he take his seat among the elders of the land.
She makes linen garments and sells them,
and supplies the merchants with sashes.
She is clothed with strength and dignity;
she can laugh at the days to come.
She speaks with wisdom,
and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
She watches over the affairs of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children arise and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praises her:
"Many women do noble things,
but you surpass them all."
Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.
Give her the reward she has earned,
and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.
She is worth far more than rubies.
Her husband has full confidence in her
and lacks nothing of value.
She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life.
She selects wool and flax
and works with eager hands
She is like the merchant ships, bringing her food from afar.
She gets up while it is still dark;
she provides food for her family
and portions for her servant girls.
She considers a field and buys it;
out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.
She sets about her work vigorously;
her arms are strong for her tasks.
She sees that her trading is profitable,
and her lamp does not go out at night.
In her hand she holds the distaff
and grasps the spindle with her fingers.
She opens her arms to the poor
and extends her hands to the needy.
When it snows, she has no fear for her household;
for all of them are clothed in scarlet.
She makes covering for her bed;
she is clothed in fine linen and purple.
Her husband is respected at the city gate,
where he take his seat among the elders of the land.
She makes linen garments and sells them,
and supplies the merchants with sashes.
She is clothed with strength and dignity;
she can laugh at the days to come.
She speaks with wisdom,
and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
She watches over the affairs of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children arise and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praises her:
"Many women do noble things,
but you surpass them all."
Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.
Give her the reward she has earned,
and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.
-Proverbs 31 vs. 10-31
This Belly Rumbles
He reaches out and places his arm around her back, holds her shoulder. Whispering sweet some-things into her ear, she smiles, giggles, laughs. His lips brush her forehead in a kiss doubled over. Her face reveals the security she feels within his arms; soft smiles – a sort of peace.
My belly rumbles in hunger.
Sitting together, they make great effort to test each other's warmth. Arm kissing arm, leg brushing leg, they long to feel. Her fingers reach to point, he grabs them, holds on. Fingering the edge of her palm until she slowly open her hand and lets him in. In caution, fingers gently grace each other - not wanting to set off any unneeded emotions in such a public place. In understanding, her head leans onto his shoulder. In satisfaction, his head leans over her head.
Peace. Peace. Peace.
My belly rumbles in hunger.
So I sit.
And I watch...
them being them, them loving them, me feeling them…wanting them to be me.
No, not completely understanding what it is I see but needing to be in that mix.
My lips flip
upwards in a smile for them. Wondering when I'll find myself comfortably positioned between the lap of a man so sweetly kissing my cheek, wrapping his arms around me. Me loving him, he loving me...
This belly rumbles in hunger.
So I sit.
And I watch
patiently
Spaghetti. He feeds her. She feeds him. Giggle. Giggle. Giggle. You hear that? Yes. You hear that. Small talk. They make small talk that un-doubt-ably will force beautiful imprints on her mind – and they'll last forever. She'll lay in bed one evening far from now and think of this irrelevant moment. Through her heartache, through her pain, through her hate and confusion, she'll close her eyes…and smile.
You remember
This belly rumbles in hunger.
Eyes watch them. Eyes analyze. Eyes try to make it work, try to make it match, try to understand. Eyes watch. What they have…the potency of it - whatever it may be - makes them careless and unaware of the world around them, of the eyes that surround them. No. It's just them. See. It's just them. Their world – who else belongs? No one.
They won't let me in – and I just want a taste. Be it bitter or sweet…just a taste.
So I watch, and
My belly rumbles in hunger.
You hear it, don't you.
You hear it.
Cause my belly…this belly…it's yours too.
Our belly.
Mmmm.
Yes, it rumbles in hunger.
By: Dorlette Pierre-Louis
My belly rumbles in hunger.
Sitting together, they make great effort to test each other's warmth. Arm kissing arm, leg brushing leg, they long to feel. Her fingers reach to point, he grabs them, holds on. Fingering the edge of her palm until she slowly open her hand and lets him in. In caution, fingers gently grace each other - not wanting to set off any unneeded emotions in such a public place. In understanding, her head leans onto his shoulder. In satisfaction, his head leans over her head.
Peace. Peace. Peace.
My belly rumbles in hunger.
So I sit.
And I watch...
them being them, them loving them, me feeling them…wanting them to be me.
No, not completely understanding what it is I see but needing to be in that mix.
My lips flip
upwards in a smile for them. Wondering when I'll find myself comfortably positioned between the lap of a man so sweetly kissing my cheek, wrapping his arms around me. Me loving him, he loving me...
This belly rumbles in hunger.
So I sit.
And I watch
patiently
Spaghetti. He feeds her. She feeds him. Giggle. Giggle. Giggle. You hear that? Yes. You hear that. Small talk. They make small talk that un-doubt-ably will force beautiful imprints on her mind – and they'll last forever. She'll lay in bed one evening far from now and think of this irrelevant moment. Through her heartache, through her pain, through her hate and confusion, she'll close her eyes…and smile.
You remember
This belly rumbles in hunger.
Eyes watch them. Eyes analyze. Eyes try to make it work, try to make it match, try to understand. Eyes watch. What they have…the potency of it - whatever it may be - makes them careless and unaware of the world around them, of the eyes that surround them. No. It's just them. See. It's just them. Their world – who else belongs? No one.
They won't let me in – and I just want a taste. Be it bitter or sweet…just a taste.
So I watch, and
My belly rumbles in hunger.
You hear it, don't you.
You hear it.
Cause my belly…this belly…it's yours too.
Our belly.
Mmmm.
Yes, it rumbles in hunger.
By: Dorlette Pierre-Louis
When It Was Just Yesterday...
Do you remember yesterday?
Yesterday when the world thought you were beautiful? When the world looked into your eyes and found himself lost; smiled a smile of confusion but remained because nothing could amount to the moment of right then.
Do you remember yesterday?
Yesterday, when the moon approached you while you slept and asked you to wake. When the moon wanted to know you; perused your character, your attitude, your you and claimed to have fallen into your pool – your love.
Do you remember yesterday?
Of course you do. Yesterday you were beautiful. Yesterday you were the sun’s aphrodisiac. Yesterday. Yesterday. Yesterday, every aspect of the universe turned and watched you as you walked by. Yesterday stars decorated your ears, your fingers, your wrists. Your hair swung wonderfully and shined in the light of your moon, your sun, your world. Yes. Yesterday you were crowned.
Yesterday. Yesterday.
Today.
Last night, thoughts of the moon – not yet yours – kept you from sleep. So today, today your eyes are decorated with the nights darkness, your lips peels from constant talk of wishes…false promises. Those stars flee from your arms and wish to adorn that of another. So. So you dress yourself in rags hoping that yesterday’s universe will embrace you in all your natural essence today.
But today.
Today, Today, Neptune’s orbit is still outside of Pluto’s, Saturn shares his rings only with himself, and Mars promises life to no one. Today, the world works as it usually should, not as it wonderfully had. Today your eyes draw who in? Your beauty entrances what amazement? Your character intrigues…no one.
Yes,
Today you’re just you
and nobody’s interested.
by: Dorlette Pierre-Louis
Reflections of a Queen - Monica Stewart
Yesterday when the world thought you were beautiful? When the world looked into your eyes and found himself lost; smiled a smile of confusion but remained because nothing could amount to the moment of right then.
Do you remember yesterday?
Yesterday, when the moon approached you while you slept and asked you to wake. When the moon wanted to know you; perused your character, your attitude, your you and claimed to have fallen into your pool – your love.
Do you remember yesterday?
Of course you do. Yesterday you were beautiful. Yesterday you were the sun’s aphrodisiac. Yesterday. Yesterday. Yesterday, every aspect of the universe turned and watched you as you walked by. Yesterday stars decorated your ears, your fingers, your wrists. Your hair swung wonderfully and shined in the light of your moon, your sun, your world. Yes. Yesterday you were crowned.
Yesterday. Yesterday.
Today.
Last night, thoughts of the moon – not yet yours – kept you from sleep. So today, today your eyes are decorated with the nights darkness, your lips peels from constant talk of wishes…false promises. Those stars flee from your arms and wish to adorn that of another. So. So you dress yourself in rags hoping that yesterday’s universe will embrace you in all your natural essence today.
But today.
Today, Today, Neptune’s orbit is still outside of Pluto’s, Saturn shares his rings only with himself, and Mars promises life to no one. Today, the world works as it usually should, not as it wonderfully had. Today your eyes draw who in? Your beauty entrances what amazement? Your character intrigues…no one.
Yes,
Today you’re just you
and nobody’s interested.
by: Dorlette Pierre-Louis
Reflections of a Queen - Monica Stewart
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
We Wear the Mask
WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
By: Paul Laurence Dunbar
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
By: Paul Laurence Dunbar
a portion of Nelson Mandela's Inaugural speech
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, "Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous"
Actually,
who are you not to be?
You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are meant to shine, as children do.
We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
Its not just in some of us, it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fears our presence automatically liberates others.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, "Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous"
Actually,
who are you not to be?
You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are meant to shine, as children do.
We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
Its not just in some of us, it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fears our presence automatically liberates others.
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