Sister Winds

The window is open and a morningsweet breeze rouses me to waking. Single, separate breaths of wind. As different and similar as sisters. Oblivious to my eyes, about their Sunday way.
Seductive, she rolls into the curtain, offering scintillating shapes beneath the diaphanous fabric. Among her arches and valleys spring satisfaction and forgetting. I yearn to trail my fingertips along her taunting suppleness. Perhaps dare to press into her sweet softness.
But, she has tumbled teasingly out of the window, leaving me panting to re-create her from desire and memory.
I blink. My feet itch. I want to go get her.
Then, another shoulders through. Pressing headstrong into lace, she shakes fierce. Strong, quick hands a warning/guard from fate in her palms. At least she is frank.
Yet still, as she does her trembledance my blood tingles to spill and perchance rouge her hidden skin.
Yet, as my urge arises, she is gone. As though she had read or written our evitable future.
The lace hangs languidly. I am angered at such dainty dullness.
Then a light fluttering of eyelashes or heartskips? quickens me to stillness. And I wait.

Not a stirring.
Perhaps it was only hope.

Then again. This time undoubtedly an eyelash. Above a delicate dewy breathing through parted lips, lips so tender they must be untouched. And untouched, surely pure.
I rush to slow down and breathe with her. With my will and very own wind I try to catch and become she, who I was once, upon a time, long ago.
She sighs listlessly. Or longingly?
And I wait.
But she has gone.
I race to the window and throw open those torturous curtains.
Though nothing is there but a lily shrugging in the wind.

reLOCAtion

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Grace (A June Poem)

3 brown daughters
wiry brown spirals
waving around
round faces
holding hands
down a country road
after a spring
storm

Home Again and Gone (July 7, 2009)

It is so good to be back in Madisonville. The ride down was calm, quiet, and got downright pleasant after the sun settled down and a full, ripe, golden moon came from behind the hills. I finally accepted a clove cigarette and relaxed into my own mind. Then the conversation opened. B wanted to know what I was thinking.
About the moon of course.
How as a little girl I was always so fascinated by it. Especially while riding in a car. I always thought the moon was following me. I’d stare from the backseat. Looking up, knowing it would always be there. He asked how that made me feel.
Safe. A certainty I could not help but question. But safe nonetheless.
And I thought: some things suffice to simply be known. And I smoked the sweet clove and just knew.
I decided then that it is my calling to express and record the tiny narrator who lives in my head and whispers.

The night is black like him. Except where the moonshimmer glows around the pools of blackest and glints in his eyes.

I was watching him, his crisp, blackest profile as he drove while the moon kissed his lips. (…back to those things only meant for knowing. My love for him. His for me. Shall they ever be reconciled? Some things are meant for knowing…or not…)
Anyhow, we finally made it back home. Da’Kari was up and eating Pringles. Meme and Aunt Tonya were watching the Michael Jackson memorial. Again.
And it was good to be home.
I made a simple bed for B on the couch in the living room and got into bed with Meme where I tossed and turned for an hour or so until finally drifting off. The next time I opened my eyes it was raining heavily. Thunder rolled low. I knew B had left his window cracked, but the rain let me know that his seat was already good and soaked, so I went on back to sleep. Til I heard him in the living room. I woke and went to the font door. From the glass I watched him walking in a drizzle.
Somehow we both ended back up on the couch rubbing one anothers feet until we woke up again when the house phone rang. He got up and went for a smoke. I could tell he didn’t want to leave and I didn’t want him to, but we were trying to be friends and not in love.
It’s so difficult when he looks so beautiful in the morning.
We swallowed our unsaid things and got into the car for a slow, moist morning drive to my house. There we scrounged for food in a pantry no one’s really used in months. He showered and lied down. I showered and began to put together a couple of cds for him to enjoy on his ride back. A ride I hoped he would not make so soon. But sure enough he was up and ironing his clothes, ready to head out. I didn’t know what else to do, so I made him feel bad for leaving without seeing Yang Yang. He pretended impatience while I slipped on my sandals and we headed to the Park again.
Yang came to the door in a purpleful shirt of lavender and grape and lilac pants. Awfully pretty! I told her and her grin was brighter the sun. B and I sat on the swing and she in her rocker as usual. And we laughed. Taking care of one another with the small talk that matters. And there I never wanted to leave. I took his hat and refused to give it back. That fancyish brown plaid hat he always pulls over his locs as though it really were meant for such a rebel head of hair.
Yang intervened because she could feel us struggling with our heartgrasp on one another.
“You all have to understand one another. Now, he’s got to leave. He said so. Even though he don’t want to.”
I understood. How deeply I did. The need and want to go is as much a part of me as breath. I just want to know that he will come back.
His mouth said Maybe. His eyes, I hope so. His jaw, Please don’t do this to me, K.
Maybe’s better’n no I gave in, handing him his hat. He stood and told Yang he would see her soon. And I gave Yang the kiss I wanted to give him.
We rode down the street to say goodbye to Meme. Aunt Becky and Camden and Logan were there. Meme was getting Da’Kari ready to splash in the small blue pool she bought for him. She stopped to hug Brandon. Da’Kari laid his head bashfully on Meme’s shoulder.
I walked with B outside and stalled some more with the door and keys and finally a full hug.
I pulled myself up onto a low branch of the magnolia tree that was trimmed while I was away and waved and watched him drive off. Magnolias smelled faintly above my head.

I went back to the front of the house as Meme and Camden and Da’Kari were getting ready to entertain and be entertained by Da’Kari. He splashed and twisted and sang in the cool shallow water. Camden put his feet in and so did I. Soon cartoons called Camden inside and Meme followed to check the time. Right after, Da’Kari put his face to the water and let out a squeal of pain, bringing his hand to his mouth. I looked closely and pulled his hand down. There was a little black bug. It must have stung or bitten him. I took it and flipped it into the grass and kissed his quivering lip. In my arms he was close and sweet and soft and all I wanted to do was take away his pain. Oh! what a mother must feel!
Later Tanyata came back from work. Tanyata shyly invited Aunt Becky to her wedding reception on Saturday. She gave me a hug, but did not invite me, for she surely believes I would not go. I had decided already that I would, but she has more previous evidence against that notion than for it. I am so sorry for that. I have an apology and a wedding gift for her. I should not have behaved so. Of course, she expects it now. Meme and Aunt Tonya have all but disowned her with regards to Richard. In any case, she is my cousin and I love her and I want her to be sure of it.
She and Da’Kari left with Richard, with whom they have been living for the past three weeks. But she told me that she will be back to Meme’s when he goes to basic training from July 22 to December. It will be good to have her at the house. Some crucial confidence must be instilled during that time. As she watched her leave from the window, Meme said, “She sure don’t look too happy to be getting’ married so soon.”
No, but we sure haven’t helped.
That is going to change.
The rest of the day was rather uneventful. I began crocheting again, a hat for B's birthday on Sunday. Went to Wal-Mart with Meme. Then came to Yang’s. She’s in bed now. And I’m going myself.
Good night!

It, Family: The Continuum

To begin

Again

To extend millennia of madness to

Innocent souls is terrifying to say the least

The idea is grand,

But oh the ugly fuss of it

The wrenching gut love of it

The re-education—forget what you thought you knew—of it

The droning greys and mean midnight blues of it

The hellish 42’s of it

The lived and loved and now what of it

The can’t learn ‘cause won’t forget of it

The crowded loneliness of it

The roaring rages and torn pages of it

The Empty time and honest lies of it

The pain

Nursed, tempered, totaled

By the gentle heart tug of it

The just because of it

The first terrific tender breaths of it

The redeemed joys of it

The baby girls and baby boys of it

The gathered strength of it

The deep wide long high infinite of it

The comfy, faded, patched, broken in, snug of it

The tearful, drawn out, desperate goodbye hugs of it

The rainy day sunny day pinkpurpleyellowgreengrey love of

It, family

All’s Well That Ends Well

I was going through something like a journal that I kept during my life in Bahia last year. I had totally forgotten about this particular experience and definitely having written about it. But it literally made me laugh out loud. Hope you do too. Clearly it was meant to be shared...

Monday, June 16, 2008

I believe I have a fever but, this being the solitary journey that it has been, there is no one here to verify that. And even though my hands and feet have always been cooler than the rest of my body, thus allowing me to almost accurately assess a fever by touching my forehead, I may just be repeating the hypochondriacal (sp?) tendencies that I’ve always had. But it does not really matter because at least I have stopped regurgitating my insides into the toilet like I did every two hours throughout last night. I have managed to eat a piece of bread today from the mercadinho and some passionfruit juice I made yesterday before the vomit fest began. What is even stranger than the fact that I threw up is the fact that I had to make myself do it. I stuck my finger deep into my throat expecting a torrent of undigested beans and rice to make its way back into daylight. Instead I gave a little gag and spat. Then my stomach began contracting and a few moments later my dinner was back out. I felt a deep sigh of relief at seeing what had been causing the knot of nausea that had been swelling in my middle. The episode was repeated two hours later. Then twice later that night, as I peacefully slept in my bed, I awoke knowing that I could spare myself the finger-in-the-throat fun as I made it to the bathroom just in time, with a bit of painful dry heaving to close the ceremony.
I write all of that to say that vomiting is quite an exhausting enterprise, almost as exhausting, in fact, as it was to make your way through the disgusting details of my experience. But we both made it.

Beautiful, tremendously

Beautiful, tremendously
Grandma Marcie
I see your face
Gilded upon the smooth sculptured coppered cheekbone
of your eldest grandchild, manchild
Tender Cancer soul, poignant pain of it
Grandmother,
I see your face
In your secondborn, womanchild, I
A love to linger Beyond
Your gentle face settled upon the eyes of your third grand,
Womanchild after your own heart
And she who followed, carrying your name
A true joy, bless of the Earth your fourth
We love you Grandma Marcie.

II
Creating and nurturing Life
He moved from manchild to Man
Moved life and brought forth a great, grand daughter
First extension of himself
Third extension of You
Essence of blessing, adviser in freedom
She has your eyes too

III
We share love of lifetimes
Deep, ever flowing river
Drink calmly, for You are the source.
Grandma Marcie, I see your face
Beautiful, tremendously.

purify

Me. That is whom I have been evading. Finally I caught me and listened to what me had to say.

Forgiveness please. For the fruit, many harvests over, which I have left in fields I cultivated.
Rotting in tender ripeness.
I have been so careless.
Intentions have been my daily bread and I am left starving. Hungry then for affection. Yet at the brink of feasts I've left fields of yields.

My mother. She who connects me to that which has always been and ever will be.
She with whom I was ONE.
She who nourished. Nurtured. Gave. Went. Without. Cried. Regretted. Loved.
Love. The truest birthing pain.
Mommy, thank you. Only the tears washing my face now reveal my gratitude. Water like your womb. I thank you.
Forgive my prolific disregard of you. I've never said all that needs to be.
It is your spirit you've endowed, shared.
It is your libertylove you have bestowed.
It is your music you have played.
It is your womansense of what is.
I am only because you are.
Essence of you rests upon my breath.
So long I shunned, ashamed, unsure of the fire you handed me. Power and flame frightened me. All women I avoided knowing deeply. The cool recesses of Womb I rarely found because I feared the force of the lifeflame. Thank you for giving of yourself. I see my need and the provision in my sisters now. Thank you, mom.

Father, my daddy. Protector. Support. Provision. Focus keeper. Half of who I be. I am so sorry. When I saw the human in you, I could not believe, so I stopped believing at all. I am sorry. I stopped believing you could fly and so you layed down and stopped trying for me. Only these flowing tears can carry to you my truest love. Please forgive my resentful neglect.
Fly again upon the wind of my heartwings?

Self, Occasions do not have to be outwardly momentous or obviously auspicious. You have spent too much time searching for the spelling out of the stars and signs. The miracle of Truth is in each inhale if you will only breath. Tonight an aunt, a woman rather new to you, from whom you have shied and to whom you've opened, shared a Truth that resonated deeply. And you opened and received.
Remember every lesson in that.
And forgive your Self. Love your Self.
Control your Self. Let go.
Flip every stone. Be stonestill.
Five life as it is. And as it should be.
Be life. Be.

Surely, isn't it?

The morning was lovely, but your eyes were better. Catching the early rays from between the blinds, them shimmering between your thick dark lashes. And your skin, smooth, dark, sweet to my fresh imagination. Lips full and framing a priceless smile. Knotted locs, captivating movement. Tall, broad, slim, and swag met in your bones and simmered through your step. I followed you down the hall just to watch you walk to the kitchen.
There was so much held between my heart and those eyes, yet because we have reversed into friendship solely, I simply smiled, choking back that which simply must not be.
It is surely better this way. Surely...

I must say

B picked me up fom the empty house this morning. Kay Lynn was at camp. Debra running errands. Uncle Mo delivering the mail to folks.

We got to B's house and I made jerk portobello mushrooms and bell peppers and onions with brown rice. And garlic mashed mashed potatoes because I hadn't had them in a while. We walked to the park and swang. It was a hot, hot day.

We walked to a grocery store and bought lemons and chips and salsa. I beat him in Jeopardy 8-3. :-) Then I made fresh squeezed lemonade with more lemon than anything. And it was good. We sat in chairs in the backyard and Clint ran in happy circles around us.

I was getting restless and needed to move. We drove and smoked cloves. Plenty of shady trees and soft homes. I needed water so we stopped at Wampum Lake. Took the trail all the way around it. 1 mile. He carried me piggy back through the mud. We stopped for a spell on a smooth fallen tree and watched a small steady stream rushing off to its fate in the woods. We washed our faces and drank from a pump near the lake. We pumped for another the clear cool water. So cold and fresh.

And I could not stop loving him and the way he loves me.

We drove around more. Through Thornton and Calumet. We stopped and ate at Ted's. He had fried perch and I, spinach pie. He rubbed my feet beneath the table.

And I could not stop loving him and the way he loves me.

Kaylynn kept calling. I had not seen her all day. Tomorrow I'll be here when she gets home. She loves. And I love her. She's bubbly and spunky and beautiful. Plenty spirit.

After much kissing good nights, I came inside and all was well. Kaylynn was asleep. Uncle Mo and Debra and I talked and watched tv intermittently. They bounce conversation between them and off of me. And we converse.

Time to rest these lids now. A good day I must say.

musings

I miss Madisonville. The green love. Magnolia mornings. Coral and lavender dusks. Steady evening song of katydids. Calm, consistent creek. The quiet of it...

There is beauty in Chicago, of course, but my eye has yet to be fully trained in the capturing of it. The fact is, concrete and steel are sad, sad. Ensnaring and carrying sadness. Crack and sigh beneath the weight of it. And the cars. They roll by with serious faces, driving seriously to places that must be...well, serious. I wonder...

In the week since my arrival there's been the highest temperature of the year, violent storms plus hail, and a tornado. Here's to versatility...

My grandmother's ashes were given to Lake Michigan some years back and I did not know it until today. It was the only place, my uncle says, she could find peace. Perhaps (most definitely) that is of his doing...

Last night I dreamed I stood between the spirit world and this one. I speak with a young woman with toffee skin and a thick, black ponytail. I only see her profile. I give her message to a man I cannot see. There are spaces within yet to be explored. I cross borders in my sleep...

I think I'll go for a walk with Kay Lynn...

Christ Apostolic Church Youth Fashion Show "Sold Out for Christ" June 20, 2009

Nigerian church is still Nigerian. With Nigerian folks and Nigerian ways and
Soul
So there is a fashion show. Running quite fashionably late.
Dark Mothers in bright patterns. Spry children running laughing Being.
Music talking dancing Praying.
Nigerian.
Yoruba. My ears waiting, hoping to comprehend.
No matter. The ear for which it is meant understands and nods.
Pretty Emcee Chiamaka switches between Chicago and "Broken"
Dance. Much dancing. Alive. Living.
Joy. Love. Each appreciated and special.

We pick up with color. Make it Our own. We make Life.
We Life. We Life. We Life.
Dance shake move dip shimmy
We Life. Strut. Step. Swing. Sway.

Give.
Give for the youth.
So we can finish the show.
So we can go home.
Give.
Pastor Owoeye says "Obama.
We are among them. Youth will be. Will go.
Give.
Two more minutes to give."
Balloons hang in a diaphanous hammock from the ceiling and along the walls

Last run Formal Wear
Little tawny boy in white tux escorts coffee girl in yellow and purple dress
Her tiny fingers tucked safely inside her mouth.
Tiara atop her braided hair.
Runway music plays. They move through the aisle between the pews.
Balloons pop. Fan blows. Momma's call out.
Laugh clap yell
Every thing is just what it is
We Life.

cousin's clothes (away again)

there but here like the faint
sweet of smoke caught in her
crumpled satin skirt amongst her
denims and sandals and
space

stars realigned 05.21

yesterday i tipped back on the cusp
and became a Taurus.
Gemini satisfaction was too
fleeting.

living and things

i find that the patience in becoming a good writer is not in the skill itself, but in the living of life from which it flows.
it's in rolling my great-grandmother's soft salt and pepper hair. enduring the ear-piercing screams of my baby cousin until he can mouth words by which i'd prefer he not be tainted anyhow. cooking black-eyed peas all morning. a plate for Yang Yang and Mama Helen. because somehow we've forgotten that where we come from ain't so very far. they live just down the way by themselves. widowed. wearing out porches and last days.
i write because i live. and if i want to do one, i better be good at doing the other.