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the shrink

                                    for arisa who showed me how

 

how many feet do i need

after i'm all grown up

and collecting since before?

how many feet do i need

when ads did their jobs well?

will these chairs hold hips

in pairs and table settings

feed multi-mouths?

if i count shoes, how many

pairs can any pair wear?

how many hats cover a head?

with books lined up from surface

to surface, side to side,

and art covering all other ends,

making painted backgrounds

forget their color.

how many feet do i need

for clothes that stretch

and define decades?

how large is 3600 square feet?

how small is 420 squared feet?

when i make naked walls,

and strip all cases,

can a foot shrink and

be small again?

when i hide my bed upright,

can a foot shrink and be small

again?  when i give away my books,

my art, and recycle my clothes,

use only my needs during

the course of one year?

can a foot shrink and

be small again?

how many feet can

i shrink before i am

just six feet under all?

 

By esther louise

 

_ _ _

 

 

2 AM

It was 2 AM

and she was

caught up in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions

wondering if he

was one she should give herself away to

haunted by the ghosts of relationships past

never forgetting the ones who had passed through

her walls

leaving their images imbedded there

at all hours

and now it was

2 AM

and she found herself

tired of repeating the same story over and over

looking for love

and finding none

exchanging sex for meaningless words

never to be heard from again

at 2 AM

and her clock was ticking

time was winding down

funny what desperation will drive a woman to do

when she’s done it all

read every book on how to think

how to act

and how to attract

the right man

hair done

nails filled

everything in place

but at 2 AM

she always finds herself in the same space

looking for love

that always escapes

her grasp

by Wynne Y. Henry

 _ _ _

 

Trust

From Walking in New Shoes

Trust is a choice

A necessity to any entity

Foundational for building

The art of establishing

 

Trust

It is a choice

In it, lies indescribable power

Without it the possibilities remain ambiguous

 Like building a fortress on sinking sand

The root is unstable

It’s like a city with boundaries

Trust is a choice

Earned through actions

Yet lost in the gust of raging winds

Misunderstandings

And false perceptions

 

Guard it with discernment

Speak to it in wisdom

Search for it beneath the residue of your past

Understand its’ profundity

Intentionally

 

Trust is consciousness

Waiting to be

Attained

Maintained

And at time regained

 

Trust is always a choice

It’s multi-dimensional

Whether we decide to trust

or we decide to be trustworthy

 

 

It is still a choice

By Téa M. Harmony

_ _ _

Authentically Me 

Heartfelt


words that know joy


live in shattered windows

open to fresh air in the woods,


breathing



Mama


I write for me.


You keep saying life hurts


but I love my words to dance jazz.


It's me



Copyright © 2013 Patricia Philippe

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Witness

From above the hill

way, way out by the gully

gusting through coconut-palms

igniting the sweet scent of bay-leaf trees

rattling on paling fences

lending music to the songs of whistling frogs

the wild wind blew into my yard

chilled my naked body

taking a bath

my bath a wash-pan of water

       — outside in the night

black night, windy night

silent night, starlit night…

I looked towards the stars

pondering, quivering – doting…

the beautiful blackness

the quiet sublime

the fragrant leaves 

my body, sluicing wet in a sea of air

tickled vigorously by the wind…that bears

witness to my clean black naked body.

By Patsie Ifill

- - - - - - - -

WOMAN WITHIN

Her scent entered

Before she and

Roses stood erect to

Take in the aroma. 

She was fragranced with

New birth. 

Crashing planets

Suckling stars for

Nourishment. 

Earth grew to

Walk her path. 

Eyes of crystal, orbed

Speak of futures I pray

Include me. 

Wishing to grow needs from

Wants that include

Her. 

Blossoms of aspirations 

planted

By a single glance. 

exceedingly beautiful

By human definition but

Gods bow at her heart's

Glamour. 

Clamor for front seat views. 

I wish simply to

Know her beyond

The fake smiles

She put on for those

Enamored with physical

Beauty. 

Caring little about

The woman within.

By Shye Sales

- - - - - - - - - - -

CARVED IN PAIN:  WHEN LOVE HURTS IT KILLS

(for Jessica Tanay Andrews (1989-2010), and Marissa Alexander)

Marissa Alexander

a prophetess knew

what happened to Jessica

could happen to her too

so she armed herself with a gun

what else could she have done

 

Jessica, was strangled to death

by her abusive boyfriend

who got mad when

she said they were threw

At first he drew a knife

a man trained to kill

he had the skills to loop

his arm around her throat

until she saw gray spots

and then black spots

until she stopped breathing

But, not before the force

of his blow had knocked

her down on the floor and so

he lifted her up from where

she laid ripping three

braids from her head

all of this while she was

under a protection order

If Jessica had only known

what Marissa knows—

you can’t bring a piece

of paper to a knife

and fist fight—

you have to bring a gun

she might still be alive

Men are physically stronger than women

We need to arm ourselves for the fight

Men are physically stronger than women

If we don’t speak out

raise our voices against

men who beat and kill women

If Marissa isn’t set free

(cuz, she’s locked up unfairly)

women will continue to be raped,

strangled, shot, stalked, tied up,

knocked across the room, foaming

mouth, bitch, run over by a car,

scratches on our legs and face,

a black eye, fainting, locked up in a room,

screaming, stabbed 38 times, a pile of bones,

broken plates, crying, too embarrassed

to let my family know, stitches on the brow,

ambulance, sirens loud, lights flashing,

broken nose, busted lip, clinched fist,

up all night begging to live, shouting,

children watching behind closed doors,

hiding in the closet, peeping through

the keyhole, “I’m sorry baby,

I’ll never hit you again,” broken promises,

straddled and choked, eyes bulging,

teeth missing, sore, just so sore,

got to leave town, secrets, whisper,

dragged across the floor, punching,

until we’re all dead.

By Margie Shaheed

*Jessica Tanay Andrews is Margie’s niece. R.I.P.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Picture Perfect

Your mind is a blank

Coloring book,

And people are

The crayons:

Some crayons are sharp;

Thick outlines of purple,

Definition and precision,

Emphasizing every shape;

Some crayons are dull;

Crooked swirls and

Messy blotches of beige -

Wax smeared like finger paint;

Some crayons are broken,

Rubbing, blending,

Blue and gray,

Outside the lines;

Some crayons are melted,

Distorted and ugly;

Bright red consuming

The whole page like fire;

Some crayons are chipped,

Slashing each page

With jagged black lines,

Destroying the picture;

Choose crayons wisely to fill

Every page of your mind...

Favorite colors make your

Picture perfect.

By Victoria Shockley

--------------------------------

Dads in the Lofts

My son’s friends’ daddies are men who ignore me, men who implore me

 busy artists and businessmen-- heads in deals

 too important or shy

 rich and angry, uneasy or occupied

They coach and they prod and they boast and they nod

They don’t want to know such opinionated women

The puffy ones in jeans

with visions complex, a little mean

These guys don’t try to get to know you

Their wives long-suffering, buffered or revered.

At their parties it’s as if I’m not even there

The men in the corner impress each other

The moms drink bubbly, complain, and laugh.

By Cheryl J. Fish

----------------------------------------

Journey

I am spent now.
Long past the time that I started
Nobody told me about potholes
So, here I sit with broken feet
And one smile I carry in my cheek

I am spent now.

At the long, wide crossroad I listen
Somebody tells me about roads
So, here I stand on crutches
As one smile I carry on my lips.

I am saved now.
In divine fulfillment of purpose
No more will my feet print pain on pitch roads
No more will my hands ink tears on tunnel walls
I am joy that sprinkles blessings amongst the people
And peace is planted and nurtured
Producing flowers of white and gold

Copyright © 2012 Nandi Keyi

                                                                    -----------------------------------------
Family Tree

I take you in little doses –sipping you slow
Adjust to your bitter flavor
As you roll over my tongue
Un-invited

In my daydreams my family tree is vast
I take comfort in the warm embrace of its limbs
Rest against its firm trunk for support
Let leaves kiss my cheeks

We sit at dinner tables
Eyes cold –lips-froze shut
No stories told here
No comforting limbs to snuggle into

Embalmed bodies take up space going through the motions
Polite smiles in company mixed
But otherwise
This is a house of zombies
Winter lives comfortable within these walls
Tearscannotcommittofalling
Icicles form around eyelashes

I long to
Thaw out
Peel naked
Wrap up in branches
Lick sap
Feel bark tearing into skin

But this is your house

And while here, I play
By your rules

Copyright © 2012 Zoe Flowers

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Amnesia

I have never had full amnesia
so every mirror
confirms
a comely mask
but begs a more pressing question:

What is your mission?
This time?

Because a solder's stride
has always propelled my thoughts
led my eyes
to the disquieted ether
to the young woman
pumping her old veins
with a lie
underneath a bridge
near train tracks

Why is that?

Or why each dancing molecule
is hobbled at the hips
of sun kissed women
shepherded into cathedrals
of stone and glass
made to sit through
classes in compliance

The whys fill up my focus
just like the
the statements dressed up as
questions
that buzz around their projections—
the ones who have no mirror at all—

"Did you really do that?"

The gall
of their thought experiments
always dissonance
pretending to be
something else

I look straight through
what I see
feel the ripples in the self
I can't forget
but can't fully name
a witness and
humble translator
of stolen voices
echoes leaping from the
Atlantic
whispers buried
in every someplace
named after
every somebody
turned speculator of
this body

My mouth
must remain a drum
pounding memory
into the senses
of all who fall
into this puppet show
and believe they pull
their own strings
entangle their knowing
with the acquisition of
things
sleep walk into
high rise coffins
for a husk of a life

We must become the knife
that slices 
the gormandizer open
from the inside
recalls the language
of light           
whispered into our bones
by the everything
that breathes through us
and never again
forget what we
walk through dreams
trying so desperately
to remember

By Keisha-Gaye Anderson

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A Prayer

In memory, Whitney Houston

Sleeping
in the coffin
of the bed
she has slept in
for forty-nine years,

grief
the anvil
pushes her deeper
into the hard mattress
that once was soft,
when she nursed
her baby girl
sang her lullabies
that cradled the infant’s sighs
to sleep,

and later song.
Baby girl Houston
sang the sparrows of sleep
that grew into eagles
whose wings
spread like prayer:

“my days are like a shadow that delinethand I am withered like grass,
by the reason of the voice of my groaning,
my bones cleave to my flesh….”

Mama
tries to rest
will never sleep
only hear
“the voice of her groaning
her drink mingled with weeping.”

*PSALM 102

By Pamela L. Laskin

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Three Daughters

Once there was an old man
who had three daughters.
One married heaven, the second—fortune,
and the third—time.

On the right of his garden grew kindness,
the left knowledge,
and through the middle
a row of evil sprouted.

He built a fence around the plot,
leaving a place for love to break through.
It surprised him with fruit
that he never tasted before.

Once there was an old man
who wanted to be young
so he drank from the night
and forgot his name.

He went fishing
and caught a carp
with two green eyes
and a violin between her fins.

Once there was an old man
who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
He asked the world to be quiet
and there was silence.

He knocked on my door
and asked for light.
I gave him a cup
and he turned away.

By Sarah Stern

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TOUCH

my ear craves the sound

of my mother's voice

I recite my poems fluent

like her three names

I miss her touch

her suede cloak of skin

the turn of her shoulders

at sixty-one I'm still my mama's girl

how many years

can I go without her scent

her voice calling daughter

By Cheryl Boyce-Taylor

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blackness

i love the
blackness of her hair

i love the
fullness of her cheeks

i love her eyes
i love her eyes

i love the
blackness of her skin

i love the
fullness of her thighs

i love her eyes
is she a valley
or a mountaintop
is she an ocean
or a riverstream
i am a path
coursing through
her...i rest at each
dip, and breathe
her in...

i can hear
my heart breaking
even as i focus
on her pleasure
even as i delight in
her smile...

i’ve decided its
time to dream her up
more regularly so we
can travel the length of
our bodies together, and so
we can traverse our tongues and
see where all these proverbs
come from, and then of
course i’d like to discover
new places with her in hand,
that way we can grow silent
with laughter together. so,
i purse my lips and squint,
searching for her frame. there
she is, galloping ahead of me.
book in hand, i rush after her,
i really love your hair...

By Nzingha Tyhemba