My holy day

Of the days of the year I love the most, I think the last day of the year going into the next day/year is my favorite. It's a time of reflection, projection, visioning, imaging and breathing. Yes, breathing. Taking in the lessons I learned throughout the year, positivity, love, peace, all that I want for the next year, in. Pain, bruises, mistakes, bad memories, the past I don't choose to carry into the future, out.

Right now I am thankful for life, my health, my family and friends, especially my son. I am thankful for the powerful bond and love that exists with us. I am thankful I can kiss his cheeks while he sleeps. Thankful for the morning walks we share. I am thankful that he is someone I would want to know even if we weren't related.

New Year's Eve is not a time I usually spend at a party or celebrate with alcohol and loud noises. I love to spend this time quietly with the people I love. Even when I can't physically be with those I love the most I have them in my thoughts and prayers. I spend this time in positive thought, prayer, laughter, poetry, art, forgiveness. I spend this time thanking God for the blessing of life. I spend this time loving me.

Coming soon... Me with Spener Allen

Been trying to set up a time to have a conversation with fellow poet, Spencer Allen for this blog. The holidays, oh the holidays. The busy, the busy, the changing, the scheduling and rescheduling. It's all good though because Spencer has been way cool about it.

We were gonna meet last night after a Kwanzaa show I performed in. "I talked to the host to see if I could go up early. She said it was cool so I'll meet you at the bakery in about an hour or so." My text to him. An hour later he left the bakery around the corner and met me in Leimert Park where I was scheduled to perform. Three hours later, the host called me up.

"Let's get together tomorrow evening for an hour, Spencer."

"Cool."

Today I was with my son and others and in the run around of today so we rescheduled until after the new year rolls on through. But for real yall, Mewith Spencer, coming soon.

My two cents

Last night someone said to me "If you want your grandchildren to know you, write a book." My thought in response to that was, create a blog. That was the purpose of this blog. I've said it before, I wanted a way to reach out to my family long after I am gone. I want cousins and grandchildren and of course my son to know the quirks and poems, stories and musings I care to present.

After my grandmother passed away in 1997 I got her journal. It's one of my favorite possessions. It's not really a journal so much as notes she took on certain days. Nothing too emotionally revealing. On one day she wrote something about my mom bringing me over to her house and I kept crying. She jotted down meetings and things like that. So, not really the Dear Diary type stuff, but it's enough for me to be honored holding her thoughts. Holding her perfect cursive.

I also have my Uncle Bubba's writings. My Uncle Therman had the great insight to type his words and send copies to the family. I posted some of his pages on this blog. If you haven't already, please read. They are called "From my Uncle Bubba's journal" or something like that.

Why is it important? Well, to me leaving our words for future generations is a way that they can connect with us. A way even that they can learn more about themselves. I have a way that I operate under stress that I may have inherited from a great great grandmother or someone. Or medical issues we have that could date back farther than even our grandparents are aware of. We also carry fears that we have inherited. Fears and concerns that are not ours, but that have been passed down for generations. Fears that may not even be valid in our times but we hold onto them like we own them. Like we created them.

I'm laughing now to myself of course, because I couldn't even go into the next paragraph because I kept looking up and noticing the dirt on my rug. The lent that was driving me crazy! So I had to stop. Pick up each annoying piece before I could continue. It's funny (not in a good way funny, but weird funny) how my room in disorder affects me. I get itchy, incredibly sad, lose energy. Now, it doesn't stop me because I'm aware of this about me and I just get into action about getting it in order. It would be interesting to know if there were others in my family who had this same...thing. You know, what's also weird about this is that it's only my own space in disarray that drives me crazy. I can function comfortably in someone else's home, office, space in whatever way it is. Somehow, in my analyzing, their inner space isn't connected to my mental well being, but mine is. When my home is a mess, so are my thoughts.

Ok, this blog wasn't meant to turn into an episode on my self diagnosed ocd, but it makes me wonder about great aunts, great great grandmothers, grandfathers. Now, does this answer why keeping journal or blog or writing a book is important? No, but it answers it enough for me. These are my thoughts for the world but most importantly for my son. For his children. For future artists who will ride the roller coaster I have ridden and fallen off of and gotten back on and bruised myself and have succeeded and have had good and bad and good times. This is for me.

Hustle U!

It's been exactly one month since my last post. I don't like to take breaks that long between posts but, it happens sometimes. I hope that you all had a happy holiday and are treating yourselves well today.

I woke up this morning listening to Brother Hotep who is the C.E.O. of Hustle University. Please visit his website, www.hustleuniversity.org. I'm loving it. He talks about how to hustle you! (yourself). I won't go into too much detail but again, please visit the site.

It's raining again in Los Angeles. We have been experiences a great cleaning the past two weeks. I'm loving that too.

Enjoy you today

Colors

I let it go. Wrote, stayed up, slept too late, prayed, ate, didn't eat, prayed, created art, wrote bad poetry (and not bad meaning good, the for real bad). Went through the stages of grief, and then...I let the anger go. No wonder my favorite color for the moment is sky blue and not the red is was before.

Back from Utah

I thank God I had a safe journey from Utah to California. I am preparing to go for my morning walk now. Such beautiful sun shine. The snow was great but this is well...home.

From Zora Neale Hurston's HOW IT FEELS TO BE COLORED ME

"But I am not tragically colored. There is not great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all hurt about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more or less. No, I do not weep at the world - I am too busy shaprening my oyster knife."

Reading

Just finished reading Amy Tan's SAVING FISH FROM DROWNING. Amy is my Chinese homegirl. She doesn't know it. But she is.

That's what reading is. That's what books do. They expose us to world's and lives we would not know except through those pages. It is our blessing to give back, I think, our own stories. Our own well written stories.

Leaving Utah

I had a wonderful time in Salt Lake City, Utah. I spent Thanksgiving last night with many talented folks at the home of Dr. Samuels. We ate, drank, shared and laughed.

I'm leaving tonight to go back to Los Angeles. Much work to do. Looking forward to coming back next year to Utah.

Dear Uraeus, Happy Thanksgiving

I am thankful for my life and the people and things in it. Thankful for my family and friends. Thankful for my home, for food, shelter, thankful for peace. Uraeus, I am thankful for you. My favorite person.

Mom

Their nobody's business love

He sold drugs
People bought and used them
He loved her
She loved him too
He cheated
She cheated

She sold sex
People bought it
She wanted him
He wanted her

Two bedroom apartment in the city
One room for their stuff
One room for their love

He sold drugs
She sold sex
Together

Later
It got to be
More complicated
Than that

Dear Venus

I have soooooo been loving your photos on your website and on your Facebook page. Thank you for sharing your awesome gift with the world!

To anyone else reading this: For a good time visit www.venusbernardo.com

Love you,

Jaha

Utah

In Salt Lake City, Utah. Snow is covering everything. It's 16 degrees here. Yes, cold. Yes, beautiful. I was called to do an impromptu class yesterday in another professor's class because the response to my poetry and presentations has been positive but they closed the university until Monday because of the weather. So my last class has ended and I'm here enjoying the view from the front room window.

Today I'm creating a poetry board for John. They are having an exhibit at his church and he was asked to present some of his poetry on a board for them to hang. Me being here provided him to perfect opportunity for him not to do it but to pass the assignment on to me. The exhibit is not until February but I'm only here until Friday and we will be out most of the day for Thanksgiving tomorrow so that pretty much leaves today. All good. I have my materials and some good ideas and I'll get started about two hours, three hours, at least four hours from now.

Enjoy your day today.

To order my book THE CORNERS OF MY SHAPING

You may paypal jahazainabuphotography@yahoo.com and please include the messaage THE CORNERS OF MY SHAPING. $15.00. Thank you.

Dear Samora (Univ of Utah)

I had such a good time in your class today. Meeting you was very special to me. You were the first student to greet me last week and you did so with such great energy. Your smile, your charm. Thank you for welcoming me to your class. Thank you for being one of the bright faces in the audience I could look out see. You smile and energy is contagious.

I trust that you will continue to do well in your studies and I look forward to communicating with you further.

Jaha Zainabu

New spaces

Being away from home I have taken the time and created for myself the space to breathe. I have allowed myself time to meditate and write. I really enjoyed performing at the university. Working there I got the opportunity to engage in new conversations and be creating new stories at the same time. Something about being away.

I feel my shoulders falling. Let go of anger. Connected myself to myself. Connected myself to God. I am no one's victim. No one is the bad guy in my stories. Not even me.

Space for forgiveness. Space for good health. Space for peace. Space for a happy me.

Happy birthday, Mom

Today is my mother's birthday and I am so honored to call her mother. She truly deserves all of the well wishes and birthday greetings, all the love and honor she has been given today.

I'm looking forward to seeing her when I return to California soon but until then, Happy Birthday, Mom!

Still in Utah

My Uncle John and I got up and went to church this morning. Calvary Baptist in Salt Lake City. We went to both services because he had duties during the first service and a friend of ours was on program during the second. Both services were very moving. It was youth day today so they sang, spoke, danced, received awards...youth day.

Sitting there I was so present to being thankful for the blessing of poetry. I've seen much of this country and most of the traveling I've done in my life has been because of poetry. Some theatre, church, school, jail... sends a ticket and pays my fee and hotel stay and I'm there. But I consider it more than a job. It has been an incredible opportunity. Opportunity to meet other people, experience norms and folkways not like mine, enjoy and not enjoy conversations, food...the list goes on a long time. But I was in church thinking that if it wasn't for this gift I don't know that I could have been the places I've been. Even the reason I'm here now is to perform at the university and inside of that I get to spend time with my uncle and other friends, see this awesome snow, have time and space to write and create new art.

I am thankful. For my family, for those who love me and those who don't, you have all helped me grow. I'm thankfully still on my journey with lessons to learn. Still putting integrity in the areas of my life where it is not there, still prayerful about misunderstandings in friendships, still holding space in my heart for love and peace.

Still, wouldn't take nothing for my journey now. Still standing. Still loving and honoring myself. And you.

Thanksgiving

It's snowing snowing snowing snowing snowing here in Salt Lake City, Utah. I'm loving it!

'Cause I shake the best

I remember the night my mother announced that she and my father were getting divorced. We were in the house on Cameron St. My sister, Roshann was sitting on the floor below me. I was laying on the couch with my head near hers and my mother was on her knees at the coffee table right in front of us. I remember it was night time.

I wasn't feeling much in those days. Purposely. If I felt tears coming I would fight them off with my contrived, inappropriate joy. Doing cheers was my method of choice. I don't even remember all of my mother's well prepared words.

My name is Robin, yeah. I am a virgo, yeah. Blah blah blah, yeah. Blah blah blah blah blahblah! Hey hey! 'Cause I shake the best, hey hey! "Your dad and I both love..." 'Cause I shake the best, hey hey! "...will always be your father..." My name is Robin and my favorite color is red... "nobody will ever replace..." I'm better than you 'cause you pee in the bed. Hey hey! "...although he won't be livng here..." 'Cause I shake the best, hey hey!

I knew what was going on but I didn't want to hear it or feel it and most of all I didn't want anyone to see me crying about it. So if I had to sit through it, I would not do so without my off beat soundtrack in the background (foreground really). While I don't need that little girl doing cheers during stressful times anymore, I do pull her out every now and then for fun. In traffic. Hey hey! A few times when I was late for work and had to "meet" with the supervisor. 'Cause I shake the best! Hey hey! Sometimes in church when clearly the minister is unprepared (or I just don't want to be there.) My name is Robin... The night I thought I was having a heartattack and had to spend a two days in the hospital. "Hello, Ms. Reed, I'm Dr...." Hey hey! "We're concerned about..." My name is Robin.

Interesting horoscope today

You may be feeling emotionally good, Virgo, but unfortunately the people around you don't seem to share this feeling. Your first instinct may be to sacrifice yourself in order to make the path easier for the next guy. Remember that other people need to learn how to do things on their own. If someone is in a bad mood, let them be in a bad mood. You may be better off spending the day alone.

His rules. Her rules?

While I am in Utah I am staying with my Uncle (mother's brother) John. Last night we visited Dr. Samuels, a professor at the University and friend of John's. When we arrived, Dr. Samuels was there with a mentee, Demarcus. We all laughed, talked, ate, drank, listened to Demarcus share his incredible music and poetry. And his story. Oh his story.

After dinner another friend of Dr. Samuels stopped by to return a computer. He sat with us and joined the conversation. "You look good man. How are things?" Dr. Samuels asked.

"It's cool. It's cool." He responded. I don't remember his name. His name? His name? His name? He had a really beautiful smile though. But his name?

"And how are things going with you and your girlfriend?"

"It's cool."

"You always say that. 'It's cool. It's cool.'"

"Yeah, man, you know. It's cool." He smiled (beautifully). "Just, she gotta follow the rules though or..."

They all laughed. Well, we all laughed because I did too. For different reasons though. "Oh, she has to follow the rules, huh?" Dr. Samuels laughingly repeated. In his laughter I heard the knowing sounds of an older, divorced man on how well his young friends rules were going to play out.

I didn't ask, but I wondered. About her. Did she have rules? Rules he had to follow or...?

Dear Carlene

It's been too long since we caught up. But that's the thing with friends. We always know. The short quick "you ok?" "you good" "love you." But I miss those times. Your couch, my couch, wine, talk. Good woman talk.

I'll be out there soon. No set date yet, but soon. You are always where I am though. I hear your voice. It's my blessing to call you friend.

Love you

Jaha

Play

My mama yo mama hangin’ out some clothes
My mama socked yo mama in the nose
Did it hurt!?!
No!
Did it hurt!?!
No!
(from a girls jump rope song, ‘cause that’s how we had fun)

In 1973 my sunny days began and ended with me sitting impassively on my front steps. My castle. Not like many children today who seem to require expensive electronic gadgets to occupy themselves. I could caper around busying my inquisitive mind for hours on end on my steps counting perfectly the cars that went by. Ford, Ford, Toyota, Pinto. Pretending I was the exquisite Diahann Carroll giving an eloquent speech to my loyal fans, head held high and tilted, looking down beyond my pointed nose, hair curled and poofey and perfect like a high fashioned helmet, or pressed straight and pulled back tight in a bun.

Me, being a queen on my royal grounds where I first loved the smell of water tasting thirsty sidewalk on hot days and California cold nights. Where the smell of grass was my favorite fluffy lounge chair at Starbucks and chamomile tea. Though I did not drink tea in those days. And there was no Starbucks. Where there was my tree, just nine papa steps in front of my porch. Whose leaves and branches reached to God’s house and hung almost to the grass but were not strong enough to hold me. Yet assured me that I was strong enough to brook whatever should come my way. That I was okay. My front steps. I have blocked out, or it has been blocked out for me, some of the details of this story, but that part is clear, those were my steps. There were only three and that was perfect.

My mom, dad and I had recently moved from the green (or was it brown?) apartment building on Walnut in Central Long Beach commonly known as the east side, to the single family dwellings on the west side of town at 1367 Cameron. Right around the corner from both sets of my grandparents who lived on Taper Street across from each other. In the apartment on Walnut, before my sister Roshann was born, we lived on the second floor. The steps were ugly and concrete and cobblestone. There was a peek a boo space between each step and a black iron rod to hold onto as one traversed up and down.

But those steps were not mine. No. They belonged to everyone. And no one claimed them as their own. No one dreamed of having long brown hair and marrying a prince on those steps. Those steps were not my friends. I would not tell my secrets there. One day I was in the living room and the door was left open. I was finally, to the surprise of my parents, tall enough to open the screen door. A screen that barely held out flies. An easy unlock.

My tricycle was parked at the top of the steps and was blue and had white strips of plastic hanging from the handlebars to flitter in the wind as I rocketed by. I opened the door and I was on the top of the steps. I sat there wondering, visualizing myself gliding down on my tricycle. I fancied my plastic strips waving away in the wind. Like fire. A delightful way to spend an uneventful Sunday afternoon. The coast was clear and I went for it.

God is wonderful in what He allows us to forget. I don’t remember tumbling all the way down, but I must have. About five years later I fell and was in the intensive care unit at Memorial Hospital for two weeks with a fractured skull from another fall. Again, I remember falling, but not the hitting the ground part. God is wonderful. From the stairs I do remember landing and crying at the bottom step. I remember being hurt, but safe. Mostly I suppose I was disappointed. That was not what I had envisioned. There were three teenaged boys strolling by who thought without thinking that my tumbling was funny. My father, annoyed by their mocking and buffoonery and suddenly sobered from Schlitz Malt Liquor and Mary Jane, reminded them in his special way, that surely it was not.

My Cameron Street steps were not disappointing like those. They did not call out to me with the intent of temptation when I was momentarily unsupervised. They did not propose excitement on a peaceful Sunday and then produce danger. My new steps did not lie. I was only safe on those steps that were red and three and my own.

Next door on Cameron, west of us, in the green house where I do not recall a mommy or daddy (but there must have been at least a mommy) lived two girls whose names and faces I can never call to mind. I have not outgrown their voices however, raspy and bumptious, heavy for such thin girls as it occurs to me in my hindsight. They had cool sneakers and strong arms, cold fingers and could Double Dutch a full song. Indeed they were real. Though I have had lovers who wished they were not. I remember them to be about fifteen and sixteen. My mother remembers that too.

The oldest lead the ghetto bureaucracy. In short, she was the boss of us. Of her sister, who was taller with shorter hair, quiet with issues of her own brewing with no place to unfold. Of me, lucky and next door. Of what seemed like the neighborhood where each house appeared occupied with private business. After some time it was okay with my parents that I went in their backyard with them that shared the same fence as ours. Whose grass was the same green. That was the same size and also had pomegranate and lemon trees and a garage and no dog. We did not have a dog yet. But theirs was not mine.

They had a white tent behind the garage and a nephew who was a few years older than I and shy. There was also a big boy, a teenager or older in the tent. I do not remember his name. Almost his voice. Barely his hair that was short like big boys wore their hair. Faded blue jeans slightly too big and looked clean but were not. Was callow and slim but had burly black boy sad eyes that had been in trouble before with full lips and a half happy smile poked and held to one side. The oldest was the cagey heavy whisperer of the cabal. Something was up. I saw the fusee signals and heard the cacophony of voices in my head but crossed the line anyway.

I was four and they demanded I stop being a big baby and suck his dick. I remember that it had never been a dick before. Somehow I knew that boys had pee pees, but dicks were new. Perhaps pee pees grew into dicks, I must have thought. But my young Virgo analyzing and attention to the byplay was not going to postpone this. There was a dick in front of me and big girls I thought were my friends begging in their demanding voices to suck. But it was not peppermint or Bit o Honey, more like a Bomb Pop or Big Stick. But not from the ice cream truck with bells and whistles. It was not smooth and orange and sweet and inviting. It was Play-Do left open. Ashy and uncared for.
I wanted my steps. This was my first dick and I wanted my steps that were safe and red and lead to my porch, where there was dust and loose gravel and chipped paint and no dicks. My porch had no dicks. But I was far away from my porch. Far from my lawn never perfectly manicured but mine. Just next door but miles from my father who would beat that dick up if he knew. Far from my mother who would spank their big girl butts if she knew that her daughter, who was sugar and spice and everything nice, was not sucking at all. Was gagging on flesh too big for her mouth, too hard for her jaws, too long for her throat. A dick. Even the name was not nice. If my father knew… If my mother knew… What if I was not everything nice anymore?

I did not like her yelling hand with dark brown rough knuckles on the back of my head touching too firmly my barrettes that were red and friendly like my porch. Did not like the bossy one moaning like it felt good to her. Her eyes half closed and head moving passionately in half circle then back again. The slow inhale hiss and ahh. Like I was doing it right. Then from nowhere there was liquid that was warm and salty and not my spit anymore. I ran out of the tent screaming. “He peed in my mouth! He peed in my mouth!” I ran as fast as I could to get past my porch, that was just a porch and not safe, into my bed, my for real castle.

Before I could get to the gate the shorthaired one caught me. I kicked and screamed but she carried me to the t shaped clothesline post that was strong and sturdy. Like maybe this was for more than sun drying skirts and blouses to be worn on Sundays. Maybe for other girls who had pee in their mouths and ran to get away.

She tied thick brown rope around my neck and tied the other end to the top of the post. She picked me up and held my body as it swung. Surely that was a station for girls who did not swallow pee. For girls who could not run faster than a fifteen year old and threatened to tell. This was a four year olds Calvary. She told me that I would not say anything because if I did she would tell my mother that it was all my idea and I was a nasty girl. Me?

My mother could not believe that I was a nasty bad girl. But what if she did? What if I was? She let me go with a shove that said all I needed to know. I was too scared to tell my mother, too scared to tell my father. That night when it was time for bath my mother noticed the rope burn around my neck. I lied to her about how I got it. Told her that I was playing some game and it didn’t even hurt. My mother, being a mother, wasn’t satisfied with the story. I couldn’t go in their backyard anymore. I couldn’t be with the girls at all. Fine with me.

I don’t remember the speech after the bath. Don’t remember what happened to the dick or the nephew. I vaguely recall the girls after that. I do remember that my steps were too close to theirs. They were not my steps anymore. There was a dick.

Memories 6 - Uraeus - Just things

When my son was in the first grade he was in a math competition in his class. Easy rules. Whoever answered the math questions correctly first was the winner. The winner of this fierce competition, that lasted twenty minutes (maybe), would get a package of flexipencils. Twelve of them. I mean, FLEXI-PENCILS! TWELVE OF THEM!

When I picked him up from school that day he got into the car with a solemn look on his face. I knew that he did not win. I felt…sad? because he felt sad. I knew that he knew the answers to the math questions. All of them. I was also aware of what he made the prize mean. Him receiving flexi-pencils from the teacher that day in front of his peers would have meant (to him, and to his classmates) that he was smart, wonderful, special, a great person. The list goes on. Uraeus, my wonderful son, is already awesome, already incredible, already all of it. Flexi-pencils, by the way, are just pencils that bend. And not all the way mind you. But more than regular pencils do. A package of twelve I think are $1.29. The ones with SpongeBob’s face on them are sixty cents more, I think. Anyway, flexi-pencils do not define Uraeus. But of course I understood the desire to win.

I began to think about how often we chase things and people and prizes because someone gave them a special meaning and we dedicated our lives to achieving them without stopping to recognize that these prizes, all of them are flexi-pencils. Understand here that I am not saying that flexi-pencils are meaningless. Instead I am saying that they mean exactly what we make them mean. The prizes in our lives mean what we make them mean. The hardships we go through mean what we make them mean. We shape them with our words, our dreams. What we believe.

Univ Utah

I woke up this morning ready. What an empty and full statement. Like ready for what, right? Ready for the day. Ready, finally to let go some pain I was holding on to. Let go of some doubt, fear. I woke up this morning, open. The more I let go of the more room I have inside of my body for love, laughter, new experiences, remembering old experiences that made me smile.

I spoke at the University of Utah in the English department today. They are covering black literature and I spoke as a "contemporary poet." I loved it. I was here last year also and had a great experience then too. I opened up with a poem called Take Us Back giving honor to "the Negro." It was well recieved and then went on to some work about women (you know me). The class and I had a great discussion. About hip hop, women's issues, black literature in the 60's, black poetry now, what is spoken word? We even talked about hot combs and perms. There is a line in one of my poems where I talk about our hair and you know... there is no conversation about our hair without perms. It was funny, mostly to the four black students when I gave a demonstration of pressing someones hair. "But if you put a comb that close to someone's scalp, won't they get burned?" She asked. "Yes, sweetheart, they will."

I closed the class with a poem about what our people are going through in the congo. My little poem, I know, could never scratch the surface of what they are going though, who am I kidding. But it did open a conversation about it that they may not have had anyway.

After class they all wanted to know if I was going to be performing somewhere this weekend. "I don't plan to, but I'd love to. What's going on?" "Oh, we'll find something, put something together. You do coffee houses? That cool?" "Sure, let me know."

After class I walked with a few of the students (the four black ones. Hey, it just happened like that.) and one of the young ladies opened her backpack and said, "I'm taking a poetry class. I wrote some yesterday." I'm usually nervous about that because if it's bad poetry I'm sitting there with this...smile on my face wondering what to say. I ususally settle for, "Mmmmmmmm?!mmmm. Thank you for sharing that." But this sista was really good. Uga muga, what is her name? How could I forget her name? If you're reading this sis, I'm sory I forgot your name, but I really really did enjoy your poems. I'll see you on Monday. Yes, I'll be back on Monday, but not doing much poetry. I'm sharing short stories Monday. Looking forward to it.

I'm back at the house and will do some more writing. Much more writing before I take a nap. Just wanted to say that I had a good day today and I'm feeling more and more like...like me.

Dream

In my dream last night I was driving a black Ford Escort on the west side of Long Beach near where I grew up. I was in an area that looked like Willow St. just before Pacific. I suddenly stopped my car in the fast lane.

Side bar. I don't know if that's lane four or one. I should know that! My driver's license is expired and I have to take the test when I get back to California in a week. But back to my dream.

I stopped the car in traffic, gently held a beautiful empty crystal champange glass and walked across the street and then up the block a bit. I left the car door open then I noticed a police car coming toward the car. I hurriedly headed to the car and reluctantly threw the crystal glass on the grass.

I remember praying along the way to the car that the police not ask for my license because it is an expired Georgia license. I remember praying that I not go to jail about my license.

Note to self: Hurry up and get license taken care of. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Do not get beans rice and cheese burrito from El Pollo Loco. Go straight to DMV when you get back to Los Angeles.

When I returned to my car (which somehow now was not on Willow St. anymore but on the street I grew up on) the police was gone and I drove off. Only when I drove off I was riding a bicycle. I was so happy the police didn't stop me for my license I don't know if I registered the significance of my riding a bike from where my car was parked.

I know that the setting of a dream is relavent so here it is, as much as I can recall. It was daytime. Probably about 4ish based on the traffic. Sunny.

That's it. Until next dream.

You 5

I had a dream a couple of nights ago that you started drinking again. Yes you, the cannot control your liquor intake guy. You know who you are. In the dream you were opening your second can of a really tall beer. Even now I can hear the click and see the beer fuzz escaping the can.

The bigger part of me hopes that's not true but there is also a part of me that doesn't care if you're drinking or not. For that part I ask forgiveness and compassion.

Memories 5 - Pushy pushy

I remember once when I was in elementary at John Muir in Long Beach, I don't remember exactly what grade, but I believe it was third. Yes, third because I wasn't on the big playground with the tether balls yet. I was in the cafeteria eating my lunch. That day I was eating alone. Why was I was eating alone? I usually ate with my best friend, Tara and a group of other chatty girls practicing cheers too loud. My name is Robin, yeah! I am a virgo, yeah...But that day I was eating alone.

I sat between two older students who were probably in the fifth or sixth grade. I don't remember why, but for some reason, neither of them wanted me to sit next to them. They didn't know me so I was probably the one designated to have the cooties that day. The boy, whoever he was, was very big. He was tv sitcom schoolyard bully big. He had really dark skin and wore his hair in a black fluffy afro. He made some negative remark about me and told his friend, a girl who was also big and dark and wore her hair in short pig tails. Why do I remember short pig tails? Whatever he said to her, she immediately agreed to it and didn't want me to sit next to her either. Children! As it was, I was sitting between them. Duh!

He told me to scoot over. And I did. I was a nervous child. Nervous and smart enough to not get into a fight if I didn't have to. Still, not bold enough to defend my boundaries. So, I scooted as much as I could without touching the girl who seemed to be equally grossed out by me and my apparant cooties. "Ugh! I don't want you sittin' by me either. Scoot over!" So I did. Voice! Oh voice! Where are you? Again I scooted as much as I could. The scoot over game went on until the cafeteria coach walked by and heard them taunting me.

I ate my lunch. Silently. Got up. Threw my trash in the appropriate dumpster and went to the playground.

All these years I held onto that story. I don't think I've ever mentioned it. As an adult I'm triggered by people trying to push me around. Maybe that's where it came from. I don't know, but I don't like it. I don't like it happening to me or to anyone. Thankfully I have grown to use my voice. A voice big and powerful enough to call the foul when I see, feel, hear it.

Time out (for now)

I'm taking a break from relationships. That is, intimate relationships where I call him my man, boyfriend, baby, whatever. Taking time for me with me. Me for me. Men, it seems, will be there. They've always been. I noticed that I don't choose them well. I do, to my credit, choose pretty cool right now partners. It's just that right now goes away so fast I can't believe it's over when it is. I have given way too many extensions in my day.

The beginning?

There is no place to begin to tell your story, only a place you choose to start. Because later you find places to begin before that moment and you try to go back. And then it happens again. There are places even before that. I am thankful for those places. Those before and before places that allow me the reasons I need to justify my procrastination.

Too many reasons to hold on to stories. But they are lies. Every voice in my head that tells me that I am not good enough. Every whisper that shouts and threatens to tell the world (what the world already knows) that I am a human being. Perfect in all my imperfections. Beautiful in my ugly.

From Whitney Huston

"No matter what they take from me, they can't take away my dignity... Learning to love yourself, it is the greatest love of all... And if by chance that special place that you've been dreaming of, leads you to a lonely place, find your strength in love."

Old Days

It's a funny thing, me revisiting journals. There is always this urge to edit and pretend that I was always this...wise...woman (lol). I wasn't. Who was? Am I even now?

I am honoring myself for the courage to read my journals from forever ago and love the young, silly girl. Sure, I would love to retype them and when he said...and called me a...I looked at him square in the face and said...! Grabbed my bag and walked out and slammed the door! But I didn't. I cried. Hoped he would stay.

From Left Eye from TLC

"My mishap is that I'm destined to snap."

The Corners of My Shaping

Every writer sets out to write the book that will change the world. Change the world? At this point in my life I just wanna let it out. Finally. Honestly. My own stories. My own life. Breathe in and out with no lingering stories there nagging to get out. And right now, they are nagging. Memories, stories, self-conversations popping up at unsuitable times. But are the times ever unsuitable? They come, I feel, when they are ready to be handled with care, written about, sketched out, set free.

Life is what it is. We are dealt the cards we're dealt and expectantly play the best hand we can play. I have humbly learned that I am not the accretion of my stories. I am not my bank statements or career choices, height or maritial status. Not my gender or shoe size or gynecological appointments, kept or not. I am not completed by the words I have used to describe myself. Woman, lover, mother, daughter, writer, sister, friend, dot dot dot. I am infinite possibilities and have decided to embrace all of who I am, and who I am not. I embrace all of my experiences, understanding that I needed them to form me into who I am today. Wouldn't take nothin' for my journey now. My experiences are, each of them, the pleasant ones and those that still hurt too much to mention, plainly the corners of my shaping.

I, right now, abdicate my position of right and fautless, knowing that it never existed, accepting that it doesn't matter anyway. I also release, right here on this blog, my stories. Ok, some of them. I am now of the understanding that what has happened in my life and my stories about what has happened in my life are separate. The drama has always come with me trying to make them the same. They are not. What happened is what happened. I created my stories from my own background and sensitivities and ran with it. Called enough people to validate my point of view and there you have it. Me, the self appointed victim of my life, choosing to pay more attention to the ebb than the flow.

I accept that as I created that position, I am powerful enough to create a new reality. I heretofore create a space and possibility of a life of me achieving my goals, loving myself fully and accepting others as I love and accept myself. I create right now, a journey of success and lessons learned and love given and received. And so it is.

writing day

it's writing day
my hand is getting cramped
my fingers sore
but i am not finished

there is more inside my head
more memories
more thoughts
more musings
even more songs to share

the music stopped
all of those cds
all of those songs
the music just stopped

and that is ok
because it's writing day
and i wasn't writing to the music anyway

only to the cacaphony
of poems in my head
the dreams while i sleep
the sound the merlot makes
sneaking down my throat
into my stomach
connecting with bread
with cheese

Dear God

i can be stong in You
You are everything i need
You show up as Mother
as Father
as Protector
as Provider

You are friend
and comforter

You breathe life into me
poetry into me
stories and truth
You paint pictures
through me
You love and forgive through me

i am song in You
my simple words can never describe You

You are not man
not woman
not big not small
You are everything i cannot describe

and i get to live in You
i get to call You Sister, Brother, Friend
and You live in me
and create in me a love more grand
than could ever be without You

and i get to live in You
and You live in me

in the moment

reading amy tan's SAVING FISH FROM DROWING
working on material to present this week
at the university of utah
listening to luther's rendition of Lovely Day
hearing the wind blow
hearing the leaves spread over the roof
race across the lawn

open the curtains
sun shine through the house
unpack my clothes
my hats my scarves
my jewelry

send prayers of thanksgiving
for life
for my son
my family

listening again to luther's rendition
of bill withers' Lovely Day

agreeing

new

sunday morning phone call
breakfast at cj's
walk on venice beach
drive down the 405
stories about you
stories about me
back into the city
taking it slow
slow

honoring me

i honor myself for not getting
on that plane with you
going back with you
starting over with you
why this
why these messages
why this release

because i am making room these days
making space these days
honoring me these ways

out

getting it all out is the most good i
can do for myself
all out in bitsy pieces at a time
slowly in the wee hours of dark
one stanza at a time
word by word i release
stories
lies
pains
joys

paragraph by paragraph
i let go
to make room
for love
to make room
for me

my poetry

my poetry is los angeles
traffic jams and cars goin'
too fast over speed bumps
old school chevys and
crenshaw blvd on sunday nights

about poetry houses
the world stage
da poetry lounge
mic and dim lights
my poetry is jazz in leimert park
5th st dicks
chamomile tea, the moon, and microwaved tv dinners

my poetry is red wine and always
so good food at nailah's
and we let it all out

210 bus
pico
venice beach
pawn shops
gangsta rap

sistas talkin loud
say hell naw and mean it too
brothas hustlin on both sides
of the law
and we eatin the best way we can

my poetry is therapy
like in the middle of the night
i know i can say it all in
a stanza
a page
a chapbook

like the old folks say
it's better out than in
and this is how i get mine out

frustrations
fears
fantasies
prayers
desires
dreams

my journals know it all
they know it all

Memories 4 - Uraeus

Thirteen years ago today my water broke and fourteen hours later I saw the most beautiful face I have ever seen.

Dear Uraeus

Happy birthday to the human spirit who has my heart. I love you dearly, Uraeus. Happy thriteenth birthday!

Writer's prayer

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
Somebody please spell check my blog

Amen

memories 3

him: I don't think that what you do will ever be enough to take care of anybody.

me: (thinking) wow.

Dear Uraeus

I have words and letters, journals and stories, musings and monologues. Many of them. More than too many. They all belong to you.

seasons change

Spring
Your lips next to mine
Your stories made me laugh
I let myself cry
Let myself let go
Let you

Winter
With my poetry
With my words
My music
Myself
Again

I like this me
Too
Again

she dance

and dont even care if they watchin
cause she dance just for the groove
just cause
God gave her two shoes

if you knew better
then you would dance too

The thing about writing

Is to sit in the seat
One comfortable for you
I am best at the Lavenderia
On Pico
Just before noon

Something about Los Angeles, Pico, the smell of detergent, noon
That is when my stories come
You find your own
But find them

The thing about writing
Is to tell the truth
Even / especially when it
Doesn’t make you look good
There is no truth about any human being
Without the ugly of it somewhere

The thing about writing is
The story
Spin
Soak
Rinse
Dry

And so what about your looking good anyway
When there is
The story
The tapestry of lines and letters
Words that form
World

Something we can hold on to
Grow from
Re member
Remember
Add soap to and
Wear again

Give me something I can
Connect to
And tell someone else to help her heal
Him heal
What good is your story if it only massages
Your ego / your pocket
So what about yourself

There are others in the world you know
Loving / living / breathing / taking up space on this planet too
You know

Painting, writing, washing
Trying to make ourselves new

I don’t care about your erotic poetry
I don’t want you to make me moan all night
I don’t want to bend in positions
That make me scream for you
Calling your name
So what about your name

I want you to feed me words
Real words I can remember and love
Wrap up in and sop my ugliest tears

Words that don’t wash out

In laundry, on Pico, before noon

from Iyanla Vanzant

“I learned the hard way that you must be disciplined, vigilant, and obedient about the practices that will build your spiritual muscles and put the old you to rest. The truth is that you really are sleeping with the enemy, and the enemy knows that you are doubtful and fearful.”

from James Baldwin

“They hit the streets in Watts not because Negros like to drink or to steal, but because they’ve been in jail too long. Because a new law had been passed making fair housing illegal. Looting went on all right. What was not said was who stole from whom first. It’s a great thing to be in Sacramento devising laws locking people into a ghetto. It’s another thing to be in that ghetto.”

Your judgments

Being a feminist does not mean man hater and a black power fist does not mean white hater.

My mother's words

"One day your work is gonna be so big. So big all over the world."

Dear Mom,
Thank you. For words like these that lift me and remind me to write another story, then another one. The next poem, the next show. Then another story then the next...

Love you,
Robin

What a wonder

You are wonderful
speaking softly to me
in the middle of the night
when i thought i would never sleep
You took away every worry
melted each concern

what wonderful grace
on my journey throughout the day
always a way where i could see no way
i rest and walk assured now
knowing that we are never separated

i applaud You
glorify and magnify
the Is ness of You
only You
always You

You remember to remind me
that i am made of You
my words are not big enough to describe You
not grand enough to sing Your name
I know You
You know me
You breathe Your life in me

I meditate in You
live my life in You

Dear Jaha

If you don't get up right now, you aint goin' nowhere.

Love,
Me

ps I meant that literally but that's so poetic. Really.

Trees

The leaves are changing colors
Green red orange yellow brown
I stand at my window
I cannot stop staring

The leaves are not this color
In Los Angeles
Not this color
Not in the jungle
Not on Adams or Crenshaw
Not on Pico or LaBrea

But right here right now
They are red orange yellow
I stand in front of my mirror
I am changing colors

I have become a tree
A Georgia tree
There are spots of gray at my temples
Brown on my teeth
Charcoal under my eyes
Red clay in my toes
Green in my eyes
Breeze on my tongue

I have become a tree
Where birds nest
And fly away
Where dogs piss
And make their mark
Where God whispers
The angels gather

It is raining now
And that is ok
Because I am a tree
We are made to stand tall through rain
Changing colors
Housing squirrels

It is raining now
And that is ok
The sun will shine
And I will still be a tree

A taller tree
Shading lovers
Forgiving the fearful

I was not this color in Los Angeles
Not in the jungle
Not on Adams or Pico
Not on Western or Slauson
And not on Degnan

And I am still the same tree
Taller
Older
Deeper
More colorful tree

Love after time

Sometimes it’s in the I love yous not said
The noises you make that drive me mad
During sex
Over food
While sleeping
It’s the comfortable familiar of a fart
Uncensored
Not apologized for
Because a fart between lovers is
Not nothing
But something
That says
Welcome to the inside
Of who I am
The good the bad
But lovers know that there is no good no bad
Just love that gets closer and bigger
And comes this close to
Swallowing the other in
Bitsy pieces at a time

Sometimes I am uncomfortable and afraid
But then who is not
Sometimes I want to run far away from this
Whatever it is
Because caring about you takes too much time
(this is an old poem)
Too much energy
And it’s too much hard
To not love you
When you fart

Dream?

Last night
I had a dream
I was cleaning out
An apartment
My apartment
An apartment I don’t know

I was busy
I was angry
I was screaming at
An ex lover
Who will remain
Nameless
Until I get over his name
(this is an old poem)

He came to my house
To collect items he had
Given to me
How dare he

But I gave them to him
Because they were his
And not mine
I had me
And that was enough

That was more
I had won

In the dream
A fish appeared
An orange and yellow
Large flying fish
Flying around my apartment
My dream apartment
That I had never known
A home I would not choose
This fish
This flying fish

A fish out of water
Cleaning house
Finding home

Lessons From Jaha's House (An illustrated cartoon by EbonyJanice)

Dear Socks

Last night I finished painting the mural in your and Food's spot, Vibrations. Well, no painting of mine is ever finished, but finished until I do something else to it. I'm glad that you both like it. I like it too. Mostly though, I enjoyed spending time with yall. Talking, sharing, eating, being quiet, being our comfortable selves with no crowd around. No poems to rehearse. No microphones to adjust. No product to sell. No none of that. Just us. Our words. Our time. Thank you for that.

I was honored to be at your surprise party last week. Hearing all of the wonderful things people said about you made me even more proud / honored/ blessed to call you friend, collegue, sister, poet, artist.

I have always loved you. I have always admired the way you carried yourself and that you were such an awesome representative of woman to the sistas on the scene, the brothas too. Thank you. You have always showed so much love to our people in your poetry, your actions, your way of being. Again, thank you.

I wish you much success in your love, your shop, your life. Thank you for all the years of friendship. I'm glad we share the page of this journey right now.

Love you dearly,

Jaha

Dear Uraeus

Just a week away from your birthday!

Love you,
Mom

V. Kali's birthday

we was all sittin around talkin
erwin hotel room 510
venice beach
all us found close free parking
we knew the night was goin somewhere

v, sequoia and s.pearl
was already there when
me and george showed up
catchin up is always easy with sequoia
she hold my face in her hands
i know i aint got to carry
nothin right now
all us just seen For Colored Girls
but s. pearl is a film maker
so didnt nothin slip by her
but even she said it was so good
so good so good
seein all us colored girls up there
on the screen like that
colored girl issues and all
its 2010 and we still runnin
to the backroom and say
mama its some colored folks on tv

pam knock on the door
then portia
the princess
clearly
zuri was there with us
showin up all through portias smile

then come valdez then jean
jean so beautiful
eyes so white
teeth so bright
skin so smooth and ocean
like a marble
like a moon

valdez look through locks fallin to his face
tell us grown man stories
about dating
about art
about strength and being venelas brother
cause who in the room know her better

kamala come in
baby girl of the bunch
she sit in the center
think she got so much to learn
we the ones hangin on her every word

she take us through stories
about livin life on dancers toes
we was there with her
on those toes those toes
like we could really keep up
with those genius toes

dj come through
its been too long
too long since i seen dj
she dont have to say much
with a butter sunshine raspberry
river deep sex voice like that
she sit back and listen
put her two cents five dollars in
where she want to
we all lost in the rhythm of what she say
how she say

there are life lessons spilled
all on the floor the table
carpet couch
all on the walls and mirrors

who gon clean all this gospel
up in the mornin

we laughin all our blues away
keep our drama close enough
fo we dont leave without it
we just hold it different
when we walk
not so close to our titties
carry that drama at arms length
like we takin dirty diaper to trash

we drinkin spillin secrets
we know kept safe
we home now
brothas wanna know why sistas be...
like we got any answers
like we know so well to explain
we wanna know why brothas dont...
like they can tell
like they know
like it matter anyway

we all in different stages
of this dance we do called love
i aint got nothin good to say about it
not yet
not tonight
one day
not yet though

sequoia and pam tell me
baby, soon
let all that hurt go
leave it right there where you left it
love gon be sweet
baby so sweet
so sweet so sweet

i keep thinkin
i dont even know what so sweet so sweet love look like

we drinkin and talkin
laughin and cussin
security knock his chocolate
dimpled six feet self on the door
tell us folks complainin about our noise

our noise?
our so good gospel noise?

we just laughin and talkin
drinkin and cussin
aint no noise here

obama won! i scream to the wall
wonder how long we gon hafta pay for that

we calm down
cause he was cute
and ask us real nice
with them pretty white teeth
them dimples and all

we pour another drink
i keep thinkin
so sweet? so sweet?

and who gon clean up all this
blues spilled on the floor

For Colored Girls

my mom
my sister
me
my nine year old niece
we were there
in line for the 12:50 show
long beach
to see the movie

i saw the play
too long ago
wonder what tyler gon do
what he think he know about
ntozake shange
one of my favorite poets

we walk in and theatre filled
black women
young girls
hip chicks
colored girls

zayikah was there with her daughter kashima
we reach through locks
hug necks and see ourselves
in each others gray temples

i was there up on that screen
i am those issues
those fears
i am that beauty
that fire

that eagerness to love
that rock around my heart

that mouth
that shut up oh please shut up mouth

that silence
that speak up oh say something right now silence

i sat there
no popcorn no soda
closed my eyes
when he dropped the babies

i know that dedication to foolishness
gave him excuses he never deserved
i got them shoulders too
them carry the world shoulders
always gotta mama somebody

got that forgive him
take him back too many times
no good
dont trust myself enough

that was me up there
takin myself back
letting him go
him go
him go
reconnecting myself to myself
myself to myself

we clap during the credits
when we hear nina simone sing
i wear all the colors
as i step into the restroom
hear colored girls confess their issues
black women
long line
we dont mind

all colored girls
we ask each other
how you like the movie
the movie
we dont ask what movie

the movie
we all know

we are those colored girls
reconnecting ourselves to ourselves
ourselves to each other
ourselves to ourselves

This day

I am so thankful for this day. To wake up and see the sun and the beautiful sky. I am thankful for friends and family. For the gifts of poetry, art, photography and laughter. I am thankful for love.

I am on my way to Long Beach this morning to see For Colored Girls with my mom and sister. Our time is special to me. The Reed women. Though none of us use that name anymore it is who I remember us to be.

Dear Uraeus

Tonight I performed at a poetry spot called The Sacred Lounge and before I started my set the host asked me what was sacred to me. You are. You are sacred to me.

Love you,
Mom

Bus stories 4

210 bus south on Crenshaw.

The young woman sitting across from me is wearing short shorts. She looks to be about 19 years old. She looks like she's black and white. Her age and ethnicity are only important because I like to include those facts. Why are her shorts so relevant? Because she is wearing an ankle bracelet. Yes, from the police. Not the jewelry store. I don't think I've ever seen one before that wasn't on TV. I don't want to stare. But I am a writer and am filled with questions.

What did she do? Alcohol? Drugs? Is she on probation? Why? For how long?

None of this is my business but what else is there to do while riding the 210 south on Crenshaw headed to Slauson Ave.?

Bus stories 3

210 bus south on Crenshaw. Two black men in their early 20s talking.

man 1: No, Tanisha just a side bitch I'm fuckin'. I really want a white girl.

man 2: You trippin'.

man 1: Sheeeeiit.

man 2: Where you on yo way to?

man 1: This bitch house.

man 2: You need to be lookin' for a job, muthafucka.

man 1: Shit, maybe in a coupla months when I get offa probation.

man 2: Aight then.

man 1: Aight.

This blog

is like a box of chocolate...

Bus stories 2

210 bus south on Crenshaw

old man: How you doin', pretty lady?

me: I'm fine.

old man: (smiling) I was fine too till I lost my teeth. I caint find 'em nowhere.

(we laugh)

Memories 2 - the bus stop

when i was 18 i looked about 15
i was sitting on the bus stop in the valley
a white man who was probably 40 but looked 50
parked his car in front of me
got out and sat on the bench with me

i didnt want to show him i was afraid
so i sat there
i should have run
but i didnt

he unzipped his pants
jerked his penis
asked me if i learned about masterbation in school

i looked at him
rolled my eyes and said
thats nothin

he zipped his pants and left

Bus stories

210 bus on Monday night. 7:30. South on Crenshaw. Crowded bus. Starting point Crenshaw and Pico. Black man in his late 40s in wheelchair enters bus and tries to make his way to wheelchair post. There is a 70 yr old frail woman standing in front of him.

man: Move, lady! You see I'm tryina get to the post over here. You see I'm in a wheelchair! Get out my way!

woman: Sorry. Sorry. I trying. No room.

man: You standing there like I got all damn day!

black woman in her early 40s: What the fuck you expect her to do? You see she tryina move.

man: This aint even yo bizniz so won't you juss stay out the kool aid?!

black woman: you just stressin' this old lady 'cause you know she aint gon say nothin' back to you. Won't you scream on somebody thata fight back?!

man: Won't you juss stay out of it. I aint even talkin' to you. I'm talkin' to these damn Mexicans on the bus all in my way.

black woman: What all the Mexicans got to do with anything? Why you still talkin'? The lady out yo way now. You juss mad 'cause you in a wheelchair.
You need ta juss accept yo condition!

man: Hell yeah I'm mad.

black woman: Well you don't need to be tryina run over this old lady. You don't know if she got diabetes or if her bones are brittle or what. Juss go somewhere witcho fuckin' chair.

man: You better shut the fuck up before I ram you and her.

black woman: You aint gon do shit. (turns to lady) Don't worry, Ma'am. He aint gon do shit. He juss mad 'cause he in a wheelchair. (turns to man) Accept yo condition and shut up! (back to woman) That's what's wrong wit em. He mad 'cause he in a wheelchair and he younger than you and you all old and shit walkin' around. Don't pay him no attention and don't be scared of him. I got yo back. Don't nobody give a fuck that he in a fuckin' wheelchair. I'll fuck him up. Ma'am, don't trip. You ok. I got you.

Freedom - haiku

my name is Jaha
Zainabu and I was
sleeping with evil

Memories - Sophia

i was in high school when sophia shot herself
herself
shot
her
self

beautiful sophia
who left us too soon
too young
high school graduation
real world
then dead

i sang with sophia
in the church choir
then she was gone
laughed at her jokes
admired her beauty
listened to her big girl stories
and then she was gone

sophia
only three years older than i
sophia who was beautiful
then gone

none of us knew how to handle
her death
we couldnt wrap our church girl brains
around suicide
bold lines arond sin
became blurry

we didnt know what to do with
her death
death

neither did they
the big people who knew
everything
and everyones silence served
no one

Street life

I. I am sitting outside on the benches on a campus in Culver City. Waiting. I am early for a meeting and I perfer waiting outside. Outside. Where real life is going on. Squirrels chasing each other. Women wearing too much make up walking by. Men rushing off to lunch. The brotha just came out of the office like it was the last day of school and the final bell just rang. "Where you going fa lunch?" The sista yells. "El Pollo!" He yells back. He means El Pollo Loco. I like that spot too. "Dang, thas yo favorite place." "Shol is." He responds. I laughed to myself because he pronounced El Pollo, El Po-lo.

II. An hour before my meeting. Two white men who look like doctors, maybe teachers, yeah teachers since I am on a college campus walk by. I only hear part of their conversation as they wisk by me. The part where the short one says "Yeah, generally they are not attractive people." I wonder who he's talking about.

III. Where is El Pollo Loco around here?

IV. Why are there so many soldiers walking around in uniform?

V. I am not ready for this meeting because I am waiting outside. Outside where real life is going on. Women wearing high high too high heels walk by. Hurting feet walk by. Cats looking for mice dashing by. Students getting out of class and men carry books by authors I don't know walk by. Walking by. Everyone walking by. With all of these places to sit and all this life to see everyone is walking by.

My bad - haiku

remember when i
said i would always love you
i dont anymore

Dear Toni Morrison

Thank you for TAR BABY.

Love,
Jaha Zainabu (you don't know me)

Still - haiku

something about the
quiet late night that reminds
me to always remember

Dear Jaha

Seriously, don't post anything else on this blog tonight. Really, edit the photos you need to edit and go to sleep.

Love (usually)
me

My perfect place

When I am stressed, which lately has been more often then I'm comfortable with, I go to a place in my head that calms me down. I have many places. My favorite place, my perfect place, I call it, is my son and I going for a long drive. Sometimes I am driving and he is on a computer in the passengers seat and sometimes he is driving. Though he cannot drive yet. But it's my perfect place where whatever I want is possible. Whatever I want.

We are in a Ford Expedition. Blue. I don't have a Ford Expedition but that's where we always are. There is always music. Daylight. Clear sky. Light traffic. He doesn't want to listen to music anymore but the comedy station instead. He finds the station. We laugh all the way down the road. He turns the radio down and says, "Mom, guess what..."

Daddy

when the phone rang early like that
i already knew
it was mama and she was cryin
then i knew for sure

"hes...hes..."
he dead huh
cause why put her through
sayin all the words

"you ok?"

yeah im ok

but my daddy was dead
and ask me
i wasnt finished needin a daddy yet
grown as i am and all, but still...
wasnt finished needin some man to say
he was always gon love me and
mean it for real

i called him to tell him
my daddy was dead
and first thing he ax was
did i want him to come over
course i want him to come over
and i said so too
but the quiet lasted too long
so i said no

no you stay there
im ok by myself

i hoped he would know i was lyin
since i had known so many of his

but knowin a lie only matter
if you feel like doin somethin about it

i flew back home
and went straight to his room
called tascha fore i even got on the plane

dont let nobody take his gun
i want that gun
thats my gun

i went straight to the room headin for the closet
but stopped at the bed

next to the bed was a picture of me
taped to the wall
wasnt till right then i knew
it would never be the same again
all grown up or not

i walked to the store and stood in line
and why was the store open anyway
didnt they know my daddy was dead
why the world was planes in the air
and kids at the park
wasnt nothin on the news
about him bein dead

wasnt nobody gon never have my picture
taped next to they side of the bed
my only sister got a husband
so how would she know what that feel like
aquiah got a daddy
so how do she know
she dont
they dont

maybe it aint just me
but right now it is
and thats what matter

tammy say dont be feelin so sorry
for myself
i tell her
this is my space to find
love and peace and the freedom i need to be
and anybody dont
give me room to feel how i wanna feel
in my own space should just go

they should just go
and take they jackets with em

Release

there are easier friends to have than i
i suppose
more comfortable women to be around
i guess
there is always a younger booty
flatter stomach
more money
better job out there
i reckon

but hearts like mine come few
i know

i will not take on your load of fear and blame
i will find the freedom i need to make peace
with whats so right now

there is too much talk about
what i dont have
cant do
the ecomony and who will be president next

scarcity is a big lie you know
and so i will let you and the others in your ear
live it by yourselves

i was tired anyway
of juggling ponies
and swallowing fireswords
only to your side eyeing
and teetering of your hand
to suggest my missing the mark again

it would be too uncomplicated
for me to play your victim now
i am older than that
i am bigger than you

i was broken when we met
running from some yesterday
and needed a soft place to land
for a time i thought you were that place

and you pretended to be

but the wind from all that running
left me deaf
to red flags waving
and sirens shreeking

i told Spirit i was grown
and i saw what i wanted to see

and She let me

and you did too

so here i am
declaring myself
the source of my own problem
not just you
the yesterdays i ran from
before

i am every liar, cheater, abuser, thief
who has ever sat at my table
drank water from my cup
kissed me between my thighs

and i delete myself
from my molecular structure
and when i forget
the delete button
will be there
again

Dear Uraeus

Write it out. Write it all out. Everything that makes you laugh, hurt, cry, happy, write it out. Write it all out.

Mom

Dear Uraeus

Only call people friends who love, respect, honor, celebrate, cherish you. ALL OTHERS are just people you know.

Mom

RED STORIES

Thank you all for coming out to my one woman show, RED STORIES last night. I had a wonderful time sharing with all of you. Thank you Lucy Florence for letting us be in the space. I'm looking forward to coming back next month. I'll keep you all posted on the dates. Also, please check out my website at www.jahazainabu.com. You can check out the events page to view upcoming shows. See you all soon!

Me with me part 4

* Morning again.

J* Yeah, early morning.

* What are you doing?

J* I put a dvd in my computer and I'm working on my show for Saturday.

* No you're not you're typing this blog.

(We laugh.)

J* True. But before that I was working on the show.

* What's there to add?

J* Not really add, just kinda put together. The show is still a puzzle and each piece works but I keep changing where I want what where. A part of me feels like this will go on until I'm actually on stage.

* Do you usually go through all this before a show?

J* Umm, I have my process but no, it doesn't look like this always.

* So why the change for this show?

J* I think because it's going to be a more personal show. A lot of me. Me. I tell a lot of stories about other folks and...

* Really, other folks?

J* Well, ok, sometimes I just say they are about other folks but really they are me. But this time there is a lot of me. Admittedly me.

* That's not that new though. You've done that before.

J* Yeah.

* So what else is new?

J* There will be a lot of people who have never seen me perform before. Either have never seen me or haven't seen me in a long time. I'm a little nervous about that. I don't know why. But I am a bit.

* You know how I feel about the phrase I don't know.

J* I do hide behind "I don't know" a lot. You're right. It's my way of being lazy. "I don't know" is a good way for me to not do the work in my head and work through whatever I'm saying I don't know about.

* So do the work.

J* I'm nervous because the show comes at a time when I'm doing a lot of work on myself. No matter how much I try to hide behind a character, the really sore spots of me will show through.

* They always do.

J* Yeah, but this time on purpose. Artists are weird.

* I was going to say that.

J* We put ourselves in positions to show our weaknesses.

* Why?

J* To get stronger. To help other people get stronger. One time I asked V. Kali why artists go through so much...stuff. She said to me "because you'll tell it."

* You tell that story a lot.

J* When I need to hear it.

(Pause.)

* You there.

J* I'm here.

* What are you doin' now?

J* I think I'm gonna check my facebook again and go to sleep.

* Already?

J* Yeah, I'm getting a headache and I have to get up early.

* Why?

J* The headache or get up early?

* Both.

J* The headache probably because I had such a cold the last couple of days and I drank some whisky to dry out the mucus. It worked and I had a good nap but...

And I'm getting up early because I need to catch the train to Long Beach to meet my mother in the morning and then I have a lot to do at the theatre.

* Get some rest. Love you.

J* Love you too.

New rules

I'm only dealing with people who love, celebrate and hold me dear. Jokes are real. Jokes are not funny when they hurt, make me uncomfortable, put me down. Thanks Venus.

J

Dear Uraeus #24

I love you. I thank God for you. I am always next to you. God is always next to you.

Mom

Getting ready for tonight

It's been a long day. 6:47 and I need to be leaving for the show tonight. While I would love a long nap, more prep time, a hot hot did I say hot bath, a glass of red wine and a chicken salad before the show most of those things aren't going to happen. The shower will happen. The nap will not.

Dear God, please bless this show tonight. I don't know who will be there but You do. Use me, Father to say what You would have me to say. Bless me, Mother with wisdom and grace. Thank You Awesome God for being everything I need.

Dear Mom

There are no words for the blessing you are to me. The blessing you are to the world. Thank you for sharing you so generously. For your wisdom, for your love. For everything.

Robin

Thank You God

for life
my son
my family
this moment
my friends
music
poetry
bills
my home
lessons
blessings
books
food
wine
laughter
fun
tears
all of my senses
my mother
justin beiber (because my niece loves him so much and I'm just glad to see her happy)
beauty
health
happiness
freedom
You

Performance tonight

I'm the featured poet tonight at the 27th St. Bakery at 4308 Crenshaw Blvd. at 7p. Come out! And while you're there get your ticket from me for my show on Saturday night RED STORIES. The event tonight is FREE.

Knowing

God is always in control.

Dear Uraeus #23

A friend of mine told me last night not to be around people that didn't celebrate me. By celebrate, meaning honor, respect, value. This life can throw enough punches that we begin to believe that the blows are normal. We almost get used to it. They are not normal.

You are a growing young man and are beginning to see your own path. On your journey remember, be honored, be respected, be valued, or be out.

Mom

Because

You assume that I am weak because I have been more than kind to you. More than generous. You assumed wrong.

You are afraid. Very afraid. You are envious and jealous. I am sad for you. But this is not about you. You won't use your voice because you lost it somewhere. Somewhere way back there. So far back I don't even remember it. Do you? The universe knows everything.

Dear Uraeus #22

There is a time to be quiet and a time to speak out. Wisdom is knowing the difference. When it is time to be quiet it takes strength to keep your mouth closed. When it is time to speak out it takes courage. You have them all.

Mom

Dear God

You shol know how to work it out!

Thank You God

for the answers that come in the quiet.
for friends and family to laugh and share with.
for blessing me with love all around.
for protecting me from every weapon meant to harm me.
for revealing Yourself all around and through me.
for being everywhere I am.
for living within me.
for Your hand of love, guidance and protection on my son.
for love.

RED STORIES

RED STORIES is my new one woman show and it starts Saturday, October 30 at Lucy Florence Coffee House in Leimert Park. There is a photography slide show at 6 and the show begins at 7. The tickets are $20 and that includes a copy of my book THE CORNERS OF MY SHAPING.

Now, what is RED STORIES? This show features me performing poetry, comedy, drama and sharing thoughts focused on healing and finding ways to let go of old stories that keep us bound. RED STORIES focuses on going through the process of it. It? Yeah, the its that land in our laps. The its we think are too big for us to hold. Often it seems we either get swallowed in drama of it or we skip straight to "It's all good" and sweep the stress we don't know how to deal with right back into the deep parts of ourselves. RED STORIES focuses on us using our voices. Calling the foul. Giving praise. Loving ourselves.

How can you get tickets? Well, you can paypal me at jahazainabuphotography@yahoo.com, go to Lucy Florence in Leimert Park and pick them up, or you can get tickets the evening of the show. Let me tell you though, the theatre only seats 52 and some tickets have already been sold.

I do hope I see you next Saturday. Until then, love you.

Recap:

Who: JAHA ZAINABU

What: RED STORIES a one woman show

When: Saturday, October 30, 2010

What time: photography slide show at 6, show at 7

How much: $20 includes copy of THE CORNERS OF MY SHAPING

Where: LUCY FLORENCE COFFEE HOUSE 3351 W. 43rd St., Los Angeles, CA 90008

Why: Because isn't it time?

Dear God

You got this, right?

Thank you

because I am laughing again
drinking wine again
for the fun again

because woman talk is easy with you
remembering is easy with you

thank you for stories and cheese
and olives and yesterday slide shows
made clearer
set free

thank you for
conversations created over
braids being set free
let loose
let go

for connections and
the truth
finally
the truth

Dear Whoever you are

You are respectfully named Whoever you are because I don't remember your name. Your name doesn't even matter to me. You don't know me. That sentences is key. I am an artist. I am a storyteller. One of the tools I use to tell stories with is my camera.

Yesterday I posted some pictures on facebook. The pictures are a story of my short time in Memphis where I worked, praised, talked, shared, cried with a group of women ministers. I posted what I think are beautiful pictures. And what I think matters because it is afterall, my facebook page, my story, not yours. There were two pictures in particular that I especially liked. One was of a woman who is very dear to me, Valerie Bridgeman, in the pulpit at a church in Mississippi. My focus was not on her though, it was on the father and son in the pew in front of me. Rev. Bridgeman is fuzzy in the photo but the backs of the father and son are clear. How they were listening to her. How that young man was in church on a Saturday night with his father, listening. I loved that moment. I love the story I made up about that moment. I don't honestly know if they are father and son. Perhaps uncle and nephew, neighbor and friend, cousins, could even have been brothers. I don't know. But they were there and I caught that moment.

Another photo, of the 89 I posted is of a woman, Abigail, who was dancing during one of the services in Memphis. She was so graceful. Clad in her dancing gear, long flowing skirt and the rest. Beautiful. I took many pictures of her, as you saw. One of the ones that I loved is the picture I caught of her as she wizzed by me. In the photo she looked as if she is wizzing. Blurry but you can still make out who she is and what she is doing.

Why this post? Why this letter to you? Why are you Whoever you are? Well, because you chose to send me a message telling me not to post blurry pictures because potential clients want to see my best work. Are you one of my potential clients? Have you ever purchased a photo from me? Have you ever booked a photo session from me? Have you ever bought one of my books, been to any of my shows? Better, have you ever said "nice job" to me on a photo? I don't think so.

Let me express my art and tell my story how I want to. I am pretty sure that I am not the only woman whose art you try to direct and maybe they don't want to tell you, but I will. Back off. I don't know you. Tell your own story. Post your own clear pictures.

I guess you are saying, "wow, all of this from one simple message?" Well, yeah. Yes and no because I am not just responding to you. I am responding to ex friends, ex lovers, ex passserbyers who found it necessary to put their two cents in where it wasn't asked for or welcomed. So, for all of the times I didn't use my voice before, I say again... POST YOUR OWN CLEAR PICTURES.

Dear Uraeus #21

Use your voice. I don't care if you are right or wrong. I don't really know what that is anyway. I care that you have an opinion that is yours and that you will say it. Words matter. Use your powers for good.

Mom

Dear Rev. Dr. Renita Weems

I will begin this letter to you first by mentioning how I first came to experience you. It was at the WomanPreach Academy this month in Memphis. You were on skype and a group of women sat and listened to and asked questions of you. Even when the technology failed us, we gathererd ourselves and sat around the telephone and continued the conversation on speaker phone. You touched my life. I am posting this letter to you on my blog and will not recapture the conversation or give your bio to those reading this who may not know you. I will say here though, that reading your blog at somethingwithin.com is a good way to get to know what you are about.

Now, thank you for being a woman who speaks up and encourages women to use our voices. Thank you for using yours so powerfully. And by powerfully, and this is to the readers of my blog, I don't mean that you need to shout. I thank you for speaking clearly about where you stand. Often I find women afraid to make statements that may not be popular in our society. Our society of women, of church, of black folk.

Before I heard you in Memphis I heard of you from Rev. Dr. Valerie Bridgeman who does not often should me or others on anything but when she said you SHOULD hear her and know who she is, well, let's just say I'm no fool. Valerie Bridgeman (again for the readers) is also a very powerful woman. A woman who uses her voice and does not shake when she does. A woman who stands for justice and the empowerment of women. As you do Mrs. Weems.

The intent of this... letter is to express how great an impact you had on me in the hour or so we spent on the phone. Yes, I said we, because that's what it was for me. Though you didn't hear my voice or even know me, I was there with you. Also the intent of this is to introduce to some who may frequent my blog and may not know of you (and Valerie Bridgeman).

Thank you again and I am enjoying your blog. I read it almost every night. Please keep posting, writing, sharing yourself with the world.

Jaha Zainabu

Happy Friday

Good morning beautiful people. I am up early as usual enjoying the quiet of the day, the quiet of my mind, the peace of this moment. I am thankful to God for love all around me, for friends, family, art. I am preparing myself to unfold into this day, to walk, to paint, to take pictures and then to work. Be love today. Love who you are, appreciate the moment, cherish the love around you. Be thankful for the sky above you and for each breath. Enjoy you.

Dear Uraeus #20

Be still and know.
Breathe.
Be.

Mom

She

She is walking around with more anger than she knows how to carry. She is too used to this weight. She smiles and she dances and she sings. Because that's what good girls do.

psy chic 101

i was on the bus stop on
crenshaw and wilshire
when a young woman pulled
in front of me and stopped
at the red light

she told me that she would
give me a free reading because
i had some strong energy

i told her
baby you dont even
have enough time

Before session one

parked across the street
in the mall parking on
a rainy day in front of
sephora

because i am two hours
early for session one
and am tempted to spend
this money on make up

and sephora is always
having some kind of sale
and it is a problem that
i am weighing my health
against a tube of
lipstick and face powder

and isnt it ironic that i
am tempted with make up

as if i need another covering
to pretend that all of this
is ok

Dear rain

Take off your shoes and spend some time.

Uraeus

your deep voice
your beautiful dark skin
wonderful you
proud of you
good grades
tall and strong
kind and loving
so intelligent
so giving
respectful
creative
deep thinker
free spirit
gifted
poetic
artistic
talented
young
growing
black
man

100 of what / who brings me peace

001. a clean home
002. rain
003. a good book
004. prayer
005. my son
006. hugging my son
007. going to see good comedy
008. spending time with my family
009. watching a movie with my mother
010. spending time with my friends
011. long drives
012. going to the movies
013. painting
014. writing
015. blogging
016. watching law and order late nights
017. sushi
018. dancing
019. herbal tea
020. nick @ nite
021. good conversations
022. performing poetry
023. reading my stories
024. reading j. california coopers work
025. reading toni morrisons work
026. laughing with charisse tucker
027. watching criminal minds on lauras couch
028. merlot
029. art shows
030. going to plays
031. getting dressed up
032. putting on makeup
033. playing with zolah
034. holding za'yn
035. organizing my home
036. making lists
037. paying my bills
038. skating
039. watching in the heat of the night
040. going for long walks
041. listening to thunder
042. taking pictures
043. long bus rides
044. spending time in oakland
045. sight seeing
046. spending time with deja
047. spending time with reuben
048. sex
049. writing in my journal
050. a good massage
051. swimming
052. listening to a good sermon
053. going to st. pauls in philadelphia
054. going to the beach
055. cheese
056. eggs
057. bread
058. the color red
059. talking to valerie bridgeman
060. listening to good music
061. seeing my friends succeed
062. watching my friends perform
063. listening to nailahs beautiful anyway
064. going to festivals in leimert park
065. depositing money in my account
066. going to home depot
067. buying plants
068. buying flowers
069. buying paint
070. painting murals
071. going to thrift stores
072. going to book stores
073. going to libraries
074. seeing rainbows
075. love
075. traveling
076. sunny days
077. listening to good poetry
078. organizing photos
079. watching children play
080. hearing old people laugh
081. looking at photos by gordon parks
082. looking at photos by annie leibvoitz
083. looking at the photos on venus bernardos website
084. hot baths with bath salts
085. styling my hair
086. getting pedicures
087. laughing
088. walking around the mall
089. sitting quietly
090. reading Bible stories
091. going to concerts
092. listening to india arie
093. wearing platform shoes
094. watching court / law / police dramas
095. being happy
096. working on my website
097. talking to alisha
098. chillin with aquiah
099. being still
100. learning more about photography

questions

what will it matter
a hundred years from now
if women poets, writers, preachers
are not talking about
what matters to women
what matters to the world

what will be the difference
in the way the world relates to women
the difference in what we feel
our bodies, our spirit
in how we treat our children
our teachers, our political and spiritual leaders

will our voices have made a difference

will our kindness have mattered
will our silence have proven to be best choice
will what we didn't say be the death of us

what will our great strengths have been
what are we saying with our words, our actions
what are we saying and agreeing to
about ourselves

what are our boundaries
who are we allowing to cross them
and why
how are we spending our
time, money, energy

what will our last words be
and to whom

what kinds of lives are we living
what questions are we asking
and to whom

what are our hobbies, our outlets
what does the body of our work say
about us

Dear Uraeus #19

All ways loving you.

Mom

freestyle poem on creating spaces for today

finding balance between
words for my journal and words for the world
why the balance
why not all words for the world
protecting myself
from myself
from my anger
from rage

against you
not all of you
but you
you know who you are
the psychopath reading this right now
living more lives / lies than you can keep up

you

finding space today for loving myself
finding space for art
thank You Mother/Father God that there is always space for art
thank You that there is always space for Spirit
thank You for mornings like this
waking up to Your whisper in my ear
its all going to be fine
everythings all right
feel all of it
write about it all

I hear you Mother

the dance of quiet space

there are women in my head
bold church hat wearing soldiers
connected to Source
and all Her creations
connected by promise

women who are clear
that beauty is more than looking good
deeper than smelling like roses and jasmine
more tedious than press n curls and pedicures

these women
these earth warriors
make life look easy
these seeing women
with word from the Lord
these big boned women
bumped from the pulpit
excused from his counsels
made small in the gospel

these big footed women
more dangerous than their fears
using their voices
as weapon as sheild as balm

these straight talkin' women
chocolate of every hue
change the tapes in my head
when i replay the sore spots of my past
longer than the lesson

they lead me, these humming women
to new language
new perspective
other stories

they dress me in their reds, their blues
sing me in their arethas
their big mama thortons
their Jesus keep me near Thy cross
scarves from their grandmothers
prayers from their closets

i am ready

i hear these women of God
whispering in my blood flow
see them translucent on the streets
behind the babies
comforting the homeless
between their breasts

i dance with them
when i am weak
they stand my legs
stregthen my tongue
still my spirit
quicken my gait
steady my breath
remind me
to listen

Quotes from Rev. Dr. Renita Weems

1. I never wanted to be a small living, small loving, small thinking woman.
2. Religion has a way of making you small.
3. Religion becomes our way to escape the world, not engage the world.
4. I chose the route to be unconventional and ask unconventional questions.
5. Your preaching will only be as strong as your life.

The please God bargain (short story by Jaha Zainabu)

The trip to Ocho Rios was business and had been planned for three months. I didn't say anything to Gina until a month ago because she always gets so nervous when I leave her for more than a day. Gina is my older sister by two years and even when we were little girls I always had to take care of her in some way or another.

Daddy died and we didn't have much family so we stayed with Uncle Bennie until I went away to college. What I do that for? She told me that if I left and went all the way to Louisiana it would kill her. I left and stayed gone for a year and it didn't kill her, but it got bad. Nobody could control Gina. The sex, drugs, drinking. But mostly it was the drugs. I went to meetings with her, saved up and put her in rehab and did everything I could to support her. Secretly though, I was angry that her problems have always controlled my life. Angry at God, my dad for dying, Uncle Bennie, myself. Angry at everyone. For the last five years though, it's been ok. Well, predictable. She's even been attending meetings by herself. But when I leave for more than a day, we all get nervous.

We talked about it last week and she said she would be ok. Four nights ago though, the night before I left, she called me at work and asked me to go to a meeting with her. I had to work and couldn't go. She didn't come home till eleven and I could tell she had been crying, but she wasn't high.

The next morning she was standing above my bed, then started jumping and screaming and telling me that if I really loved her I would stay.

I snapped! I got up in her face and screamed on her like I aint never before. Then left. What I do that for?

God, let her be ok. Please let her be ok. I promise I'll go to meetings with her every day. I haven't heard from her since I left. I keep calling, but nothing. Uncle Bennie hasn't seen her, nobody we know has. Whatever You need me to do, God, I'll do. Just let her be ok. I'm on my way back home now and sitting in this airport is driving me crazy. God, please.

Take us back

it was the moaning mostly
the whispered gutteral base
escaped pursed lips and sunday pink lipstick
that groan from underneath belly
granted go ahead to
say it sistah!
preach pastah!

hallelujah shouts from peppermint breath
knocked cracked leather black pumps
holding swollen ankles on wooden floors
with tight fist grabbing air
closed eyes and tears falling slow

bread of heaven, bread of heaven
feed me till i want no more

i remember you, grandmama
we honor you, auntie

negro women not hooked on simple words
like fair, justice, right
negro women who could out walk a lie on broken toes
courageous women who got a prayer through breathing a breath
deeper than the last

we came from these women
spread noses, wide feet
carry the world shoulders like theirs
lest we forget and think we carried ourselves

those are our mothers
with backwoods grammar and perfect memory
we have come into new names
they called themselves negro

we need you now, grandmama
our fine homes are poison
without your wrinkled fingers
folded over breakfast prayer

there was something about
your Jesus, your John Kennedy, your Martin King
glued to dusty wood mantle
over stale candy and crystal glass bowl

your God who had the whole world in His hands in His hands
was too big to argue love, death, resurrection

big mama, we call on you now
forgive us please our education
our money
our everything we think we know
too good for your pork chop, your hymn book, your hot comb

put your feet in our laps, great warrior
let us massage your boiled blood
and blistered backs
we are listening, queen
all the time we heard your songs
but not really

let witch hazel leak between your fingers
rub our temples
sing your songs again
we are wiser now
those spirituals we ignored
sing them to us again
see mother? see?
our arms are not smooth like before
we have our own battle wounds now
we can hear you now
sing with you now

take us back
take us back
fo we can be baptized
again