Impromptu Poetry: Let’s Connect

A voice, eye-contact, a touch and a smile says so much more.
The intention in inflection is heard and clearly understood. No need to scroll back, analyze and then assume.
Touch me and I feel you.
No emojis necessary. No responses out of order.
1/3, 3/3, 2/3.
No room for misunderstanding when looking you directly in the eye.
No jumping to ill-informed conclusions based on too much insecurity and too few facts.
Pleasant pauses in person mean letting the conversation breathe and the intimacy build, while a pause during a text can mean he’s on to the next…
The ultimate mic drop is a kiss.
Let’s mutually decide to power down and unplug.
End this digital conversation and start another offline…
This is how we communicate better.
Let’s connect.

Untitled Love Poem #325

The purest kinds of love are the ones that most don’t understand but spend lifetimes trying to figure out and define.
Love has to be figured out.
I say no.
Love has to be lived.
Love has to have some tears shed on it’s behalf.
Love has to be fought for.
Love can be felt. Love must be felt.
But love also has to be maintained and nurtured.
Love is discovery.
Love is compromise when compromise looks like it is the least desirable option.
Love is allowing one’s self to see with new eyes and to keep growing.
Love allows room to grow. After all love is patient.
Love is realizing how far you’ve come and the celebration of the strength it took to get there. Together.
Love is an agreement spoken and unspoken to stay, to support, to give, to listen, to laugh, to not judge, but if by chance you do judge, you will forgive and be forgiven. After all love is kind and keeps no record of wrong.
Love can be staying up all night talking about absolutely nothing.
Or standing still together not saying a word.
It’s a hand to hold at a time you needed it most but was too ashamed to ask but you hoped that they just knew you needed them. And they did.
It’s words of truth.
It’s a soul’s light that reflects off of you that illuminates an entire room, twice as bright.
It’s sacred secrets shared.
It’s feeling like you are at home and you are safe.
It’s a glimpse of Heaven on Earth manifested in man.
It’s a powerful force that humbles you.
Love will order your steps.
Real love does not have to be loud and boastful but its presence will not be ignored.
You will respect love.

If you love without fear, you will feel divinity.
I don’t need anyone to tell me how to love and especially how to love you, I know how to do that myself. I trust myself. I trust you.
And to love you as deeply as I do, it doesn’t require anyone to understand the particulars of how we love specifically.

It simply requires us two.

Poetry: My Daddy’s Laugh

Calloused hands from years of hard work.

Heavy shoulders on which he carries his wife and children, his hopes and all of their collective, often expensive dreams.

Skin brown and beautiful, but not always appreciated.

He looks suspect.

He is black.

Pull him over.

Question him.

Why is he driving that car?

Why is he in this neighborhood?

Pay him less, but get him to work more.

He is not simply a man.

But he is.

He must prove it to everyone, everyday.

Honest and dutiful.

Sensitive and smart.

He is other.

He can run fast, jump high.

He can dance and sing and make music. He can make us laugh.

But when he is alone, he knows there is pain behind that smile.

Behind a wall of white, clenched teeth there is a seething rage.

Why do they not see me? Why do they not see the real me?

How hard I work? How hard I try? How I have to navigate the world in such a calculated way, to stay alive? To not be mistaken for a criminal?

Why does my intelligence unnerve?

Why is the tenderness with my daughters and wife seen as unusual?

This is the way I live.

So the times I notice when my daddy laughs and laughs so hard, tears gather in the corners of his closed eyes, he gasps for breath, head cocked back, claps his hands and holds his belly…

I feel joy. So much joy.

In that moment, he’s just a man. A happy black man. He’s just my daddy. Not a stereotype. He’s simply laughing at something really, really, really funny.

He’s so free. He’s so handsome.

I wish my daddy could just laugh like that all the time.

But in a world like this, I know he can’t.

Three Poems for One

The Shopaholic’s Prayer

Clothes, shoes and bags.

I find great jo in well-stitched rags.

Cotton, silk, poly blend.

Lycra, spandex you are my friend.

On days I’m bored or looking for peace

I roam the racks and find release.

Some smoke or gamble or even drink

Some ponder in solitude to think and think.

I make my way to the dressing room door

The limit, 8 items?

There’s room for one more!

I search and wiggle into each outfit

Until I know this one is it!

I strut and I smile a great, big smile.

When I debut this look, I’ll sashay down the aisle.

I don’t spend much, in that regard I mustn’t fail.

Practically every item I buy

Is always on sale.

And when the adrenaline leaves and I’m feeling woozy.

This day is not done yet,

I’ma buy me a smoothie!

A wayward poet’s poem prayer

I did not go to church today.

For that I’m truly sorry.

I could blame my period or turning the clocks ahead.

Being too lazy to get up from my bed.

But can I still give you praise from my humble house?

Can I use my Sunday morning to praise you with my pen?

It’s one of the finest gifts you’ve given me.

It’s my favorite thing within.

When I write I feel closest to you.

It’s like you are speaking through me.

The words flow and flow.

And I write and I write.

You know this is the real me.

Today I did not gather the strength

to sit amongst your beautiful children in a pew.

But Father God, I hope it’s no offense.

You must know I love you.

I fell quite short today.

No fancy dress or elaborate hat.

Just sweats, a pen and paper.

Please accept my poem

in the offering plate today.

Thought I Found a Man

I thought I found a man.

He had all the parts.

Or so I thought.

He had long arms to hold me.

A wide smile to make me melt.

Eyes like pools of light to brighten my world.

Surely I had found a man.

Strong two legs to hold his frame.

A job, his own home.

He had a name.

hands and a chest on which I’d rest.

Surely I found a man.

He said the right things for a while.

And then I noticed that wasn’t a smile.

The light in his eyes were slowly fading.

Who is he?

This is not the man I’m dating.

So I looked at myself.

Surely it was me.

Same eyes, same nose, same hair.

Same breasts, same lips, same but legs and all the rest.

So why has he changed?

No longer like the start?

I thought I found I man.

But I found one with no heart.

Impromptu Poetry: As the Smoke Unfurled

As the smoke unfurled,

I found myself laughing. Smiling.

We talked about love, we talked about sex, we talked art and argued politics. We talked about the things in between.

What was left?

You said I was uptight.

I said you were too unserious, and what a pity. What a mighty man you could be.

All that mattered to you was the moment.

All that mattered to me was the future and being ready to meet it.

As the smoke unfurled you showed me how to slow down.

You slowed me down.

Slow down, just listen to the music.

The smoke surrounding me, you told me to just breathe slow, listen to my heartbeat.

And soon, you couldn’t tell me that sound wasn’t one in the same.

In sync with yours.

You taught me to play poker, the kind for clothes.

I was a quick study.

You were down to your socks and a smile.

I, in a bra and some jeans.

You may have lost on purpose.

You had a tendency to never show me your hand.

Our time was short. Intense.

As the smoke unfurled, we’d sit and let the music play and intertwine with the funky fog. I hated the smell, I liked you and the feeling more.

It was a habit I was never really fond of, but for whatever reason with you it was kind of sexy.

With you, I got to be the bad girl I knew I always was, deep, deep down.

Your lips were rich with my secret.

When the smoke left my lungs, stung them with the burn, I was someone else, yet so familiar.

Exhale.

Free.

Exhale.

Another me.

You saw that other me I refused to show.

You saw that other me I refused to know.

You made me do it.

Nah, I went willingly.

I wanted you to take your art more seriously.

You showed me I didn’t take fun seriously enough.

I miss you now when I hear certain songs play or smell that smell in the air. Sometimes I even get a craving.

I think it’s more you than the smoke and the connection I’ve made between the two.

The sensory memory is insane, like smelling an old sweatshirt or cologne or shampoo, but when I smell the ooh wee, it reminds me of you.

Our paths have diverged.

Fates forever changed.

I went for the sure thing, and that ruined me in the end.

When the morning would come and the smoke would clear, I was back to my old, uptight self.

I was again impatient, you weren’t what I thought you were supposed to be and as usual, you were doing it on your own damn schedule.

We’ll never return to those hot sticky, smoke-filled nights, with scattered playing cards on the floor. Our games left unfinished, but somehow we both managed to win.

I’d like to think I helped you grow. I sure hope you haven’t lost your light.

Because when I see smoke unfurl at night,

I remember I still have mine.

 

Impromptu Poetry: Lunch-Inspired Mack

Say baby,

I want to be your sweet potato casserole.

See, you don’t have to look no further cuz I can do it all.

I’m sweet, I have flavor and I’ll fill you up.

I’m not sweating the competition because, truth be told, I can be your side dish and your desert.

Look no further. Some nights you can sweeten me up. Adorn me in sugar and cinnamon. Warm me up and you’ll swear you’ve just made love.

Other nights, I know you’ll crave my essence so badly, you’ll have me raw and I’ll still satisfy.

See boy, you don’t even know what to do with me.

The options are endless.

I’m wrapped in mystery. I’m a peel and preparation away from pure delight.

Folks still trying to define me. I kind of laugh. I’m used to it by now.

Am I a vegetable? Am I a starch?

Either way, sugar, you need me in your life.

I’m an anomaly, A complex piece to the pyramid.

I can’t be confined and defined to fit into some group…

Am I a sweet potato or a yam?

It doesn’t matter.

As long as I know what I (y)am.

And I’m yours.

Impromptu Poetry: You Sir Are Dangerous

You sir, are dangerous.

You are the pretty amber glow of a scalding hot stove top begging to be touched.

The desire to swim after eating.

A half-full box of Cracker Jacks, hurled over the fence despite warning signs advising not to feed the animals.

You are the urge to walk under ladders and step on every sidewalk crack on the way home, mother’s back be damned.

You are desert before dinner.

You are a violated curfew worth getting an epic ass whuppin for.

You sir, are dangerous.

Mindtwisting Poetry: The Ascent of the Somebody

Everybody loves somebody.

Everybody wants to be somebody.

Somebody seems to be the body to be.

Everybody often feels like nobody.

However nobody is better than anybody.

Because anybody can be somebody someday.

Everyday, it still looks like somebody is the best body to be.

Somebody knows full and hell well

that somebody else thought they were a nobody.

A nobody who would rather be anybody else.

Until somebody made nobody believe

they were somebody too.

Then somebody else took notice,

spread the word

that nobody was indeed somebody.

Then everybody believed.

Every somebody was a nobody

somebody saw as something more.

Impromptu Poetry

The next time I fall in love, I don’t want to fall madly.

I’ll gladly

trade in the googly-eyed, flying blind, day-dreaming kind

for the steady, unconditional, responsible, loyal,

here today, still here tomorrow and the day after and after–

happily ever and beyond,

ever-lingering in every doorway, picture frame, under the rug and in between the couch cushions, all over this house;

in the eyes, hearts and DNA of our children and the generations that follow,

kind of love.

Come to our home for Thanksgiving and when he cuts that turkey, our guests will even taste our love in the juices that flavor it.

Because like our love, that bird was cooked painstakingly– not too fast and not too slow at the right temperature. Standing watch, we will tend to this love with unfaltering care–

no detail too small.

I don’t want the fantasy, I don’t want the fairy tale anymore, and surprisingly I’m not sad about that.

I rejoice now, because maturity has allowed me to see,

What we imagine love to be has never been rooted in reality.

Us girls dream of our prince, of that first magical kiss.

Not his dirty drawers on our floor, not yet another note on the fridge door, that says, “Baby I’ll be home late. Don’t wait…

up for me tonight.”

Brotha I don’t want to annoy ya, but I’ve got this paranoia, that one day,

you’ll up and walk away.

Kiss my forehead, smile and stroke my hair out of my face.  You don’t even have to say the words, you’ll just simply stay.

Just stay. I’m not perfect.

Just stay. Neither are you.

Just stay, the closest we’ll get to perfection is what we have between us two.

Just stay. Fine, I suck today, but asshole, you suck too.

Stay. No one else can make me laugh the way you do.

Stay. I like the way you kiss me there, and there and especially where,

the sun don’t shine–

except that time

we were on that private beach…

Stay because I know you want to. Stay because I know you want me to want you to.

Stay because there’s nothing else you’d rather do.

Stay because being the dude who stays with me, is just who

you

were meant to be.

Be with me

Because you just couldn’t know how to be anything else, with anyone else.

I don’t want the fairytale.

It’s perfectly fine we fight.

But after the jabs and tough words are thrown,

we’ll use those same lips

to kiss

good night.