Black ass poems. Black ass stories. Black ass art. Black ass life. Black ass love. Black ass hate. Black ass parenting. Black ass depression. Black ass mania. And other stuff too.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Finally!
Finished posting the photos from the family reunion. (Falls on pillow, turns up television.)
Times. Stories. Memories.
Sometimes I have this story that plays in my head (and sometimes out loud) about how my family doesn't "get me". And for the most part I do believe that. Then there are times memories pop up. Some recent and some are from forever ago. Memories that make me smile. Like when my mother and I were in Georgia and she bought me this red leather gold trimmed journal. It was my favorite journal ever. And she didn't make a deal out of it. We were in a hotel and she just walked in and handed it to me and said something like "Here. This is for your stories."
Hmmm
Last night I had a dream I broke my glasses. The ones I wear every day. What does that mean in dream world?
And more and more
And yes, I'm still posting photos of my family reunion (check post "Gray Family Reunion"). I have officially posted my record of how many photos I have on one single blog post. It's seriously like...like...a million. But whatever. I'm still adding more. Mostly for the sake of history, our story. When I look back, or my son, or someone in my family (not that my family reads my blog) looks back I want to have as many photos of the characters (and by characters I mean characters) in my family as possible. So. There.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
A poem a day for 2013 - day 183 - Say my name
Wrap a whisper for me
One of your whispers
Soft and bold as lily
Bow and ribbon as birthday
Gift me your breath on my neck
Thick lipped and forgiving
Your eyelashes flutter my chin
Save my life again
My ear on your chest
Tongue taste your skin
Warm my fingers with your thighs
I mouth you my reasons
We can sit here
And never speak
Just think me your love
I have forgotten love
Connected nipples
And night laughter about the nothing
What it is like to hand hold
And bite
And wrestle for cover
In the middle of the morning
Speak softly to me
Remind me the ways
You say my name
Backwards and forth
Remember my knees
Way we sat in the dirt and the imprint of rocks on my legs
Like your fingers
Pulled grass and picked petals
Kiss me again
Way you did before
Except different this time
Suck lies from my teeth
Hold me until you feel like letting go
I will be here
Wading the wave of your timber
Falling for me
Cornelius Eady
I'm A Fool To Love You by Cornelius Eady
Some folks will tell you the blues is a woman,
Some type of supernatural creature.
My mother would tell you, if she could,
About her life with my father,
A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman.
She would tell you about the choices
A young black woman faces.
Is falling in love with some man
A deal with the devil
In blue terms, the tongue we use
When we don't want nuance
To get in the way,
When we need to talk straight.
My mother chooses my father
After choosing a man
Who was, as we sing it,
Of no account.
This man made my father look good,
That's how bad it was.
He made my father seem like an island
In the middle of a stormy sea,
He made my father look like a rock.
And is the blues the moment you realize
You exist in a stacked deck,
You look in a mirror at your young face,
The face my sister carries,
And you know it's the only leverage
You've got.
Does this create a hurt that whispers
How you going to do?
Is the blues the moment
You shrug your shoulders
And agree, a girl without money
Is nothing, dust
To be pushed around by any old breeze.
Compared to this,
My father seems, briefly,
To be a fire escape.
This is the way the blues works
Its sorry wonders,
Makes trouble look like
A feather bed,
Makes the wrong man's kisses
A healing.
Some type of supernatural creature.
My mother would tell you, if she could,
About her life with my father,
A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman.
She would tell you about the choices
A young black woman faces.
Is falling in love with some man
A deal with the devil
In blue terms, the tongue we use
When we don't want nuance
To get in the way,
When we need to talk straight.
My mother chooses my father
After choosing a man
Who was, as we sing it,
Of no account.
This man made my father look good,
That's how bad it was.
He made my father seem like an island
In the middle of a stormy sea,
He made my father look like a rock.
And is the blues the moment you realize
You exist in a stacked deck,
You look in a mirror at your young face,
The face my sister carries,
And you know it's the only leverage
You've got.
Does this create a hurt that whispers
How you going to do?
Is the blues the moment
You shrug your shoulders
And agree, a girl without money
Is nothing, dust
To be pushed around by any old breeze.
Compared to this,
My father seems, briefly,
To be a fire escape.
This is the way the blues works
Its sorry wonders,
Makes trouble look like
A feather bed,
Makes the wrong man's kisses
A healing.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
A poem a day for 2013 - day 182 - Choice
Today I choose gratitude
In the face of voices rife with ridicule
The news
Social media
I choose love
I choose the incense burning in my room
The books staring back at me
The lotion
The cork board
The camera
These are the things
This is the audience to my boldest poetry
About self love
About babies
About touch and sex
About water
About what a woman wants
About pictures of my naked breasts just because
The lamp
The flowers red and purple and yellow
The scarves
The clock
The fan
This is the company
Memories of my father
The first man to hold my hand
My baby feet skipping to catch his church shoed gait
I wish I could talk to him now
I wish I could smell the liquor on his breath
I wish I could pay attention to words I ignored
I wish I could conjure his wisdom from the journals in my file cabinet
These things are alive
These hats
The photos
I remember painting that picture of the little brown girl with the pink dress
She has no face and large hands
She has skinny legs and tiny ears
She is beautiful
She is misunderstood
She is steady
She is difficult
She is moody
She is amazing
She reminds me of myself
The calendar on my wall
The chair
My bag of make up
Lip gloss
Blush
Nail polish
Even the rug is captivated by stories sticky with prayer
And tears
And voice
And fists
The ceiling
The fly on the wall
I am open with forgiveness
I am empty of regrets
I am hopeful for tomorrow
I have fears folded in my genes
I am afraid to let go
All these ancestors breaking through my bones
The Gray family owned my grandmother's father's mother
Her name was Jane
Jane Gray
Jane Gray was a slave who convinced her master to buy Dave
From the Frost family a plantation away
She promised they would make babies
Make babies
And more babies
I am the product of that tree
Of a Jane who made a deal with a white man to get the man she loved
I wonder if she knows me
If she knows that I am the poet she created
As if she spun me fresh from the cotton she picked
I bet they called her crazy
They call me crazy too
I wonder if there were times Jane did not know what to do
Did she ever sit on her bed
Shout poetry in her head
To anything that would listen
Did she pretend that the suitcase was alive
Did she want to fly
Did she choose love
I am choosing love today
Because love is a choice today
Because choice is a choice today
Because there are days I feel slave to the dark
Chained to the bed
Today there is choice
Today I am master
I am owner of my mind
My feelings
My thoughts
I choose easy
I choose slow breathing and mint tea
I choose pink leggings
Pear oil
I choose gratitude and smile
I choose humble
Tree
Air
Kind
I choose reach
Hold
Save
I choose
Me
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