Untitled: Natural Hair Poem 8/23/2012

if it is for me to create,

i want to create something as natural as my hair.

 

push the boundaries of my mind

as new growth buds from the pores of my scalp.

 

i want to

create twists

& curls

& coils

& kinks

 

in every story

like my hair does naturally.

 

i want to create because it is

for me to create…

 

&

compose beautiful verses of song

stanzas of poetry

stories of love.

 

i want to create in nature

like my hair has been crafted

&  molded

just for me.

 

&

my creation will be perfect in my mind

all the time

naturally…

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Supreme 08/08/2012

i want to start simple

& own a little

peaceful

house—

                                                modest—

&

love

a calm

quiet

man—

                                                simple—

&

plant vegetables along my windowsill

while my soul is nurtured by the energy of the sun.

i want to sing a sweet song in church—

                                                sustaining —

& not worry about

envelopes

crowding my mailbox—

                                                assured —

& plant my naked toes

firmly

among the cool

grass of my own lawn…

my nurtured lawn

in time…

all mine:

                                                modest

                                                & simple…          

                                                                sustaining

                                                                & assured …

supreme.

 

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grandma’s love

the word beauty has always been defined by the love of a grandmother.

it withstands shape and maintains itself through her smile & encouragement….

her hugs and her kisses…

the way she always greets you into her home

and persistently nourishes you with her cooking along with a huge helping of her love…

it is revealed through

the way she tells you that she loves you every time you tell her goodbye

and her excitement when you finally feel her engaging embrace again…

beauty is constantly defined by the love of a grandmother:

effortless

sassy

sturdy

sweet…

it carries itself inside of your soul and vigilantly resides within the corridors of your heart

even after grandmother’s physical beauty

passes

on.

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American in Paris: I Felt Like Josephine Baker III: The Beggar

I couldn’t have picked a better time to see Paris. There was snow all over the ground and everyone that I observed busied all over the streets like ants. It was a beautiful place for December. I never imagined seeing the old of Europe encompassed by white snowflakes falling at my feet. The first night there we took the Metro to somewhere I could never imagine. Of course, Sabri did not divulge exactly where we were going but when I saw it, I fell completely in love. This street was bustling with the ants of Paris and its decorum was one of Christmas. Cars zoomed in all directions, often getting stuck at small intersections and zooming off again when the coast was clear. It seemed like it was a mini carnival lining the Avenue de Champs-Elysees. The scent of Nougat and Café au Lait filled my nostrils as we passed by a couple of vendors on the street. I had to stop to get this beautifully decorated piece of nougat and while I was looking for the Euro to pay the vendor, I turned right and noticed the beauty of the Arc de Trioumph out in the distance. My whole time traveling to Paris, all I could think about was La Tour Eiffel, but now, seeing the Arc in its tremendous beauty, I had to say that I was delighted to encompass such history.

Of course, being Fleur de Curl, I was delighted in seeing all of the shops that lined the street. These were incredible stores that I knew I could only imagine spending Euros in. I was lucky it was late in the evening. One thing I learned about the French is that, they do not work late… My entire time in France, the only business that I remember seeing open late was maybe a restaurant or two and a Casino in Lille. That night, though, we found a beautiful Italian restaurant on the Avenue and ducked into its warm interior from the snow filled night.

Once we walked in, we had to climb a flight of stairs to the actual restaurant. It was gorgeous inside. There was white linen draping the tables and gold candles surrounding us. I had no idea that a pizza restaurant (or one that advertised itself as such) could be so romantic. Once we were seated, I observed a couple on the side of us speaking a language other than French. When I turned to my right, my stare diverted to the window which involved a picturesque scene of snow slowly falling on Parisian grounds and people bustling in all directions of that snow. In the corner of my vision, there was an old beggar with a cup in her hand stopping the runner bys.  Love and begging I mused as Sabri ordered our food in French. I sipped on my cool Coke Light as I felt the polarity of love and begging pull on my heart-strings. It brought me back to where I was in my life. I wanted to love freely—travel around the world and love…stay sedentary and love…love…love…love…in my mind, I kept seeing streets filled with expensive shops and the bustle of a big city that in the world’s eye perpetuated love, but was not really in love. I mused as I watched the beggar duck off into a corner and return with a new cup. Did she really need to beg? Was she begging for someone else too? Was she begging for love? I can only imagine. When we left the restaurant, the beggar approached me in French. I could not communicate with her, but we made eye contact. At that moment, I knew that I was an American begging for the European or maybe world experience that had been stereotyped and misdemonstrated to me my whole life. My love for the world was so deep inside of me, I begged for this experience—not consciously—until it was fulfilled. I walked away from the beggar without a tip for the experience that she provided me…but I am sure that the touch of Euro that I may have left with her, may not have amounted to the amount of reflection that she provided to me.

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you remind me

when you are gone. even if just for a day…

i think of you

& my mind hears

improvised…

syncopated

Jazz.

 

you remind me of Jazz.

with your beautiful mentality…

warm and affectionate heart…

you make my mind hear rhythms of be bop

pop

bop

syncopated

Jazz.

 

i want you to make

Jazz with me…

under the improvisation of love’s rhythm.

 

i want you to make Jazz to me

every night underneath

the dark blanket of the sky.

because you make my mind high…

reminding me of Jazz…

 

slow and mellow.

fast and frantic…

you remind me of Jazz…

 

when we listen to music together

in the car

or

under the covers…

my mind dreams of us making music

together.

making jazz…

 

when you leave me and i am alone…

in the car

or

under the covers…

my mind longs for us to make music

together.

making Jazz.

making Jazz.

you remind my mind…

with your beautiful mind…

warm heart…

&

soft touch.

 

you remind my mind…

with your jazz…

passionate kisses…

&

affectionate love…

 

You remind my mind

of

re bop

pop

bop…

Jazz…

Jazz…

J a z z…

Jazz…

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untitled 6/2012

i want to get a

word

in…

a couple of

words

in…

a discourse on what i feel when i see you.

i know you can go for

days

and weeks

and

months

withouth me….

i can never understand why i miss you the minute that you leave…

so just let me get a

word

in…

a couple of

words

in….

a cry on how i feel

when you leave me…

when you leave me for a long time.

 

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he says he loves me

its like the most soulful of music

i sit there

and tap my feet

and snap my fingers

                                          to his words

when he says that he loves me-miles and miles away from my love

my hips jig to the music

that his words say

and i chime in for the rhyme

one more time

stomp  clap  snap

when he raps that he loves me

from miles away

dip bump slip

to the music that his words say

then his melody grows old

when i realize his song

has grown cold

and always jams there

when i am always dancing here

American in Paris: I felt like Josephine Baker II…Sense of Rejection

The whole time that I stayed at Sylvie’s, my mind and body were drawn to that large set of French windows in the living room of her apartment.  I’d look across the cobblestone street and see a man sitting on his balcony with a cigarette in his hand looking off in a distance.  I could hear a faint sound of music floating around his head, coming from the inside of his apartment.  I’d look across and see people moving around through the windows of their apartments.  They seemed busy and hurried all of the time.  As I looked around, engagingly peering into everyone’s homes, I wondered why the French didn’t invest in curtains.  I surely wasn’t protected behind one and I am sure that as well as I could see them, they would be able to see me. This didn’t scare me of course because I was so intrigued with the lives of Europeans who didn’t speak the same language as me but who engaged in the same daily rituals that I did.   On empty days in Paris, when the people with whom I was staying with slept late, my bare feet would walk across the cold floor to that window and I would stare at the slick ice on the ground and the slow accumulation of snow near each opening on the street.  My body would feel the coolness from the window numbing my nose and my fingertips and as my body longed for warmth, my mind just imagined situations of me being in love in Paris.

I didn’t know who he was, but he was gorgeous to me.  He was a shadow in my imagination, of course, but I loved him dearly.  We stayed in that little one room apartment on a secluded cobble stone street in the 10th arrondissement of Paris.  We didn’t own a car or didn’t have much money, we just knew that we loved the city and we loved each other more.  I was an artist of course, and most of my days were spent in that tiny apartment, writing and creating and peering out of that third story window waiting for this shadow of a man to come home.  At 15:00, everyday, I’d sit on the ledge of those cool French windows and watch my shadow move through the cold rod iron fence that separated our apartments from the street.  He would vigorously walk toward our apartment and looked up to see me waiting for him at the window.  He would flash me a large smile until he was out of distance of my vision and I would run to the door and wait for him to walk up the three flights of stairs into my love.  This is what Paris did to me.  I have no idea why, or what, but as I sat against the cold of Sylvie’s window, I imagined love. 

The few days that I stayed in Paris, when people figured out who I was or where I was from, I was automatically accepted.  I couldn’t successfully communicate with them, but the welcome in their eyes spoke to me for days.  My unique sense of fashion and thinking were not abnormal on the streets of Paris.  In the Metro, I’d see women who were dressed in business suits, women who had on unique garb, traditional dress for different religions and jeans and coats.  My mind raced while at the Roosevelt station of the Metro one evening.  Sitting there in the cold, waiting for the train, I saw couples holding hands and keeping each other warm.  At that point, I didn’t like the place that I was going back to.  I wanted to stay on the streets of Paris with my head in the clouds.  In Paris, I didn’t believe that my love, the person who I gave so much time and energy to, would just leave me without saying goodbye.  In Paris, I’d wait for him on the ledge of my curtain-less large French window until I couldn’t see his shadow anymore.  In Paris, I didn’t have to deal with the man that I loved wanting to have all kinds of other women hidden in back up waiting for me to fall.  I wouldn’t have to worry about him communicating to them undercover and making me believe he wasn’t talking to anyone until I mistakenly found out and my heart shattered under the souls of his feet.  In Paris, he would only love me and smile at me while I watched him floating toward my love through the nakedness of that cold French window.  

I didn’t feel betrayed in Paris.

I wasn’t constantly rejected and called back when the indication of greener grass wasn’t green at all. 

In Paris, I was loved, by everyone, especially my shadow, who shared that tiny apartment with me with the Cold, naked French windows.

 

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