Wednesday, December 30, 2009

LotusPapillon: Minnesota Mornings

LotusPapillon: Minnesota Mornings

Friday, December 25, 2009

Minnesota Mornings

Minnesota Mornings
By Ieisha McIntyre

In the sweet soft quiet of the morning, I set my feet, hesitant onto virgin snow.

Full fresh scent of crisp crowds my nostrils and lends itself to the clearing of my mind’s fog. I am new. Made clear. The shock blue of sky bounces white and glistening off the tops of snow and water.

And the crunch-squeak as my boots make their careful way.

With each step, I have ruined someone’s morning view.
They will not have the privilege of a clear and uninfluenced path. My grief is not short, just swept aside. Instead, I enjoy the hush of morning, and the wisp-shush of wind as it pushes loose snow over icy drifts.

Crows land with a soft tap.
Even the lightest foot,
even a wing assisted foot cannot go unnoticed. Even a feather sounds as the whiskers of an old man’s untended beard.

Coffee warm, and grasped against my chest-
Lips, tucked behind my scarf-
Hair hidden under wool, and fingers growing cold for the want of better mittens- I travel briskly.

Breath is labored, the cold cutting sharply into wet lungs. More than two city blocks to travel through fresh snow; how strange the shift cold makes. Now, the curse and impediment to progress, the glare of white, strains the eyes.


Two slips, a loss of coffee – now tepid. Exhaustion, and not even halfway to my destination, I stop. Take a moment. And, survey.

The crows have followed, and are in want of the remnants of my peanut buttered bagel, stuffed halfway in my pocket. A lure. Somehow, I feel myself, bate. Non-angelic wings, full ominous with blackness. There is an unsettling keenness in their eyes. I am certain they know my name. I scurry on and abandon my bagel.

Stone steps before me and the lure of warmth. I am not in need of seduction. Ready to betray the morning and the light for the comfort of indoors and berber carpet. A tug of a heavy door.

Pretending—not to watch for her,
Pretending—not to need the sight of her smile,
Pretending—not to feel the sickness in the gut of me,

Pretend—not to need love.
Pretend—just friends.

Deprive my spirit of what she freely gives.

I slide into the cold seat of my chair, let my bag drop to the floor, take my pen to paper and begin.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

Saturday, December 19, 2009

LotusPapillon: #5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

LotusPapillon: #5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

LotusPapillon: #5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

LotusPapillon: #5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Military Brat

Military Brat

Daddy used his love like the M16 he carried back from Vietnam.

Every hug smelled of gun powder and old spice, with a note of agent orange. this was the smell of a soldier/father.

Family man was last on his MOS,
last of all the things on the list of man.
Forever disappearing into a night filled with warming MAC flights, jeeps, or base buddies' cars. Nights scented with exhaust fumes and stiff starched uniforms in tightly stacked duffle bags.

(to be continued)

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Mother and Child

We all need just a little help
to remember
that the compassion of our mothers
does not have to be restricted
to that moment of intimacy
before the world came between
her breast and our need.

Saturday, November 07, 2009

Nothing Black

Nothing Black
By Ieisha McIntyre

There is nothing Black about sitting under a McIntosh tree
waiting for hours to have an apple,
Drop –
On its own,
Out of respect for gravity.

But, in my childhood, legs too short to pick apples from their resting place,
I was grateful for the sacrifice and ate even the core.
As a child,
I waited,
just so.

And stand here, an adult and black.
Surprised at the shock of others
when they find I have a love of apples.

I rely on the patience of my childhood.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

Sunday, November 01, 2009


By Ieisha McIntyre

I only pull away
When you touch me because --
I want to pull you apart.

Climb in your skin,
feast on your heart
– take in
All that your smile promises
and bring to an art
this cannibalistic form
of lovemaking.
This loving in parts.

Loving bits and forgetting the whole –
you know?
Loving the sinner- hating the sin,
When it’s the sin that made us and keeps us in
Circled in dances around each other
afraid of the whole –

I only pull away when you touch me
because my love hungers.
like a wild dog – your skin is of little concern to me.
I want the flesh and bones of you.
To suck – ravenous!

but my predator eyes know willing prey – so I pull away.

All rights reserved © 2009

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

the contemporary black child @ integration

the contemporary black child @

i have learned beside Them.

taught by the same teachers, seated in the same seats. My intellect and understanding of the possible shaped by the same books and smiles of acknowledgment.

Brown and smooth and full of youth.

Eyes stretched wide from astonished discovery,
My face betrays me.
it smiles bright –
teeth wrapped by ample lips, lips primed to reveal the answer to the questions posed, a comment to the topic discussed.

But, lips never fully part, thought never expressed instead only a sigh as my hand, proudly thrust forward is passed by –
on the basis of affirmative action protest.

The teacher chooses a more appropriate hand.

All rights reserved © 2009


@ integration

Little black girls pray nightly
For transformation
Into Barbie beautiful Pantene and


Prayers – little caged lights- ascend
And, innocence offends the ears of the creator

In little voices,
“Take back my face, Father and make me over into whitebread wonderful!”

Nightly, little lamb’s heads bough and pray.

“If I can’t die before I wake, let me wake free of this skin. I’ll trade you my gravity defying curls and twigs – for your yielding silk.
Take back defiance, and bring me a permanent relaxer.
Don’t let my eyes be so dark that those who look on mine can see the depth of their destruction. But, pry loose my eyes – instead.
Give me eyes like the blue of the sky or green grass.”

Little black girls pray nightly for transformation.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

Sunday, October 18, 2009


New word: Blacksatire(blak-sat-ire) (noun) a form of ethnicly informed satire centered around specific experiences and/or viewpoints of those who identify as belonging to the African diaspora. [blacksatrical](adj.) that which is imparted with blacksatrical characteristics.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

LotusPapillon: african man

LotusPapillon: african man

african man

african man
by Ieisha McIntyre

I love the look in the eyes of a tired african man
- at the end of the day.
That look that says he has worked hard and loves himself and knows that he is loved
The eyes wet and weary but possessing tears that can choose between hope and despair.

I love the look of the tension
in the forehead
- brought up from the strain
in the feet that have stood too long and walked just a bit too far
- for that day.
The feet that are calloused and throbbing, but long to carry the man home
through muscle memory and the desire for the home cooked meal and the Loving and well loved bed.

I love the look if a weary african man.
the eyes gently betraying him through the slow appearance of water around the rim of eyes,
Just near the eyelashes, moment to moment tears clinging to the stray hair or two – and being wiped away and blamed on the fierceness
of the day-end wind.

I love that look of gentle thanks
for the grace of a warm bowl of stew and slice of thick country farm bread-

I love the look of a weary strong-backed african man.
Blessed to see his love and kiss her calloused hands,
Feel her well-rounded warmth, soft nestle just beneath the curvature of his muscle from chest to thigh to foot.
Both worn.
I love the look of a well-loved, weary, strong african man.

All rights reserved © 2009

Sunday, October 04, 2009


Maafa Cycle
He came last night.
To our bed, to our home
After the wedding and the whippin’. . .
And took me.
He took me back from you.

“Don’t think he own you now girl.”

And, just like that I was no longer wife.
No longer purchased – not bought
- But stolen
- Not body stolen, but soul.

“Think you can put some white flowers in your hair, put on some white rags and you married, huh?”

Soul robbed,
In the sweat, and the musk of a man not mine.
Our love was surmounted.
White man on black bed,
Black love defiled - and my man lying weak from beating.

“Watch this here boy! You see this cow you jumped broom wit?”

Watchin’, while . . .
White sweat. Dripping on black soil.
Seeding where my
man has yet to be
My eyes reach out to my man.

Where is the strength that works all day in the high cotton?! Where is that Bull worth the trade of three milk cows?
No lash should take the strength that willed forth our love.
-Writhe free of the pain!
Instead, I am stolen. First his body whipped and then his soul lynched.
- his blood and the lashes, that will scar, heal, seal in the memory of this wife, re-stolen.

My body is payment
for the audacity of his black manhood.
A slap on a weak thigh.

“Bitch wore me out.”

This body, birthplace. Origin.

White seed on black soil-
White seed will sprout – will sprout, will
Sprout and mock him, mock me, but avenge.

This hybrid,
nurtured and reared by unwilling, love defiled, overworthy mother in a sea of pissed on love.
Pissed on love.

And this, defiler – corrupted the sanctity of us.
You watch him, eyes too weary to bring tears. You watch him writhing pleased above us both.
Both lashed and leashed—
- My virtue lost.
- Our love ruptured – as your back,
As my womb,
forever the lamb upon which wolves feed.

I curse the absence of manhood.
You curse the presence of my womb.

It will never bring forth the product of our love.
Wombs soaked in shame cannot birth pride.

All Rights Reserved (c) 2009

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Mother's Child #2

#2 of Maafa cycle

Mother’s child

Eyes caked shut
Eyes are met by newborn cries and warmth.
A corpse straddled by a nuzzling babe with a searching mouth,
Lies next to me.
Somewhere between the haze of tormented
Sleep and raucous waking hours, my neighbor gave up her child – laid
It gently on her chest and slipped into death.
Here in the mouth we are slowly chewed
This new young thing exists- now its life
Belongs to no one until his cries are heard
And here I have heard them.
He is mine – I reach my hand
Heavy with iron toward the child
He slips easily from the cold body
He is mine- this fresh skinned cherub.
He is mine – in this mouth we are chewed, prepared for digestion
He is mine – I have no milk
He wails – I am without. 
I can only hold – He wails – I cannot –
I will send him to the waves.

All rights reserved © 2009

Dance #3 of Maafa Cycle

#3 of Maafa cycle


Rocked in this tomb cradle, skin beneath me grows soft and marshy
Muscles tight stone from having been lain out straight and forced
Taught – soaking in human brine.
Eyes have grown used to the darkness – even still when the single cone of damask
Sunlight makes itself known
Light starved senses reach
With every fiber of being – here is hope. The Sun and Moon
Debemos ejercitelos
(we should exercise them)
I know the gods have not abandoned this world.
No han movido en un rato.
(they haven’t moved for a while)
Even though everything has spun loose.
El capitan necesita una cuenta
(the captain needs a count)
The light is still here.
Si nos libramos de algo del peso podemos estar en puerto más pronto.
(if we get rid of some of the weight, we can be in port sooner.)
My body is numb – but I focus my mind and live in the light.

One hand and then another –
White marble fingers split the weak column of light descending toward
The bowels – for a moment certain the
Hands belong to the ghost of my father
- They curl and twist as the hands
- Of a fisherman pulling in a great net
Deftly the lock is twisted –
a thud on the wood braces above
Us – could this be my moment of release? – a powerful spirit can wrest a soul from its body.
Consígalos hacia fuera en cubierta.
(get them out and on deck)
Haremos que bailen - Tienen gusto de bailar.
(we’ll have them dance – they like dancing.)

a tug
And then another
A shock of pain like silver spikes thrust through my thigh
-We are being moved.
Links of metal chain are heard
-they pull after them the living and the dead together
So that the living must bring the putrid remains of their neighbor into the light
My eyes tear from the shock of the light of day
They betray me before the fraud of
The white hands.
They belong to one of the
Thieves who have us purchased here. They are
Laughing, and punching, and yelling at the weaker ones among them.
They rip off the remainder of our clothing and
Two the size of boys run toward us with buckets of water – it is salt ocean water – it burns into rotting wounds on the flesh – and causes us to jump.
Parecen listos ahora para bailar
(they look ready to dance now)
One laughing red face pounds a crude rhythm
Meaningless –
He mimics the tamma – but says nothing.

¡Muévale los perros negros! ¡Movimiento!
(move you black dogs, move!)

a whip – this whip talks

¡mueva, al diablo negro!(move, black devil!)

big man yells, his face redder than the rest grows redder.
The whip licks the top of a man’s foot and his leg pulls back – jerks up
stumbles and attempts to balance – down, - move right
bumps, neighbor
the rest chained to him fall right.

Esso correcto. Enseñe a su amigo. Usted ennegrece al diablo.
(That’s right. Teach your friend. You black devil!)

The whip lands soundly on the back of a man
Screams rise from all on deck and they begin to shift and shuffle
The ones who fall – are pulled from the line and
Tossed over.

A woman – naked and holding rags – refusing to believe
Her child is a seal -
Kufa! chekundu mashetani! Kufa!)
She screams obscenities at the red faced devils
Ones who know scream as well –
Red faces rip the rags from her arms – across the deck slides the seal body of a once human child. One grabs a bucket and sea water
Chases the seal child to the ocean depths – a scream peals from the women’s soul – catches in the sails of the ship and lurches the boat forward
She follows her child. She takes wing and flings herself over – follows her long dead sealchild.

Perra loca (crazy bitch!)
Danza!Danza!(Dance!, Dance!)

The crude rhythm begins again – we know now, they want us to shuffle. They must keep the cargo alive – and yet they send the weakest among them forward to thin the herd.
As we move – some legs do not anymore
They are too tight
Flesh too split
Too marshy
Flesh too briny
to stay on the bone it peels from beneath
The metal cuffs.
Slowly they are relieved of their chains
The raw flesh and tendon come into view
He is pulled from the line.
She is pulled from the line.
I check my own.
They are scarred over.
Made leather.
And I can move –
I move, move, I move disjointed
And the rhythm and stumbling- but, I move
And the screams of the dying sing to this counter syncopated song.
- We are doing our death dance.

All rights reserved © 2009

Tuesday, September 22, 2009


Hear the peace of water melted against the heat of too warm body lying restful in the sun. And toasted even browner than the earth--surrounding body partially shaded by trees gently swaying overhead. Slowly tilting in reverence, more the wind than the human.
--Soft breezes across skin and the gentle scent of Apricot rises from flesh—covered misty and salt.
Arabesque, arabesque, arabesque – gathered dust swirls mindless indifferent the bird high aloft seeks shade or prey—forlorn –and without mate or nest.
Crystal glass of water, lemon-in with ice, casts fresh prism grown rainbows against newly oiled thighs—shift. Open. Shift. Restless. Hopeless.
Wondering, useless and the sea water gently laps against the shore, nature with clear pace pounds out the true rhythm.
--The body seeks reprieve from the passionate sun—rises toward water slips gently inside sea curling first around feet, legs, thighs, stomach, breasts—welcome tepid.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

To be cont’d . . .

Saturday, September 19, 2009


By Ieisha McIntyre

Husband, who never was.
Sometimes—roll over in bed and nuzzle face in armpit – inhale and sleep deeper, all that heady funk circling nostrils.
Cry – for ‘never was’ –cry for ‘never was’ –
‘never was’—
Remember that morning come to door – eyes wet from nerves and the fear of refusal – and – breathed out proposal with knees buckling from uncertainty of response
And ‘never was’ –unable to speak but took orange roses and pressed hand against warm ‘never was’ cheek and felt the softness of facial hair—
breathed warmth onto quivering lips ‘never was’--a yes – breathed through a kiss separated by warm scent of freshly crushed orange roses.
‘Never was’--sometimes hand just grazing the small of back is the only absolute truth needed –but ‘never was’it is only the chill from the change of seasons.
Eyes search side of the bed, hand reaches for what spirit insists is real and hand then tells the truth ‘never was’-- from the feel of cold sheets.
Seen yesterday on a lunch break—taking a smoke—catching the cross town bus—sipping some overpriced hybrid coffee—and knew ‘never was’ was too good. If ‘never was’ are too good then never is just what will take.
Spirit knows spirit regardless
of--race or breeding or class or place –take nothing ‘never was’—take nothing –honor and mercy—take nothing ‘never was’
but do speak without speech there will be no peace,
no peace, no peace—‘never was’—my husband.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

What I wish momma had said outright and without metaphor

Baby, Breathe!

Breathe this air.
This is black folks' air, too.

Breathe in and taste it.
Taste it. Before they label and meter it, place it on the tax rolls
And call it public assistance.

All rights reserved (c) 2009

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Dear Hope


Please don't give up on me. I know I lost you and that you aren't the one to blame. But here I am finally. And, shouldn't that count for something? That I'm here, that I've come back. And that I'm knocking on your door. That I'm asking you to give me one more chance to be a more fervent believer. One more chance to let go of cynicism. I know I haven't been the best at commitment. But I beg you to give me a chance to let go of fear and fully embrace a life filled with hope in all things and faith in not only my own heart but also the hearts of others. But mostly my heart. The poor thing is so lost and in great need of you.



Wednesday, April 15, 2009


#12 of Naprowrimo
Easter or re-Matt:28
Early, Sunday morning, while the new day was dawning,
Came Mary Magdalene and the other Mary to the tomb.
-It was the women who believed, even until the end.
-Look at those places in your heart where pieces of your hope has died
Come! See the place where the lord lay.
-Even God, descended into hell. Why should we not? Even still why should we then not be blessed to rise from our hell?
For He has risen as He said!
-Why does it need repeating? Once should have been enough! But, why then, do we seek Jesus only in our hell?
For I know ye seek Jesus who was crucified!
-Just as we look to the suffering of Jesus so that we can know how great a debt he has paid, remember. . .
He is not here!
Why do you look for the living among the dead!
He is not here!
-His glory and know that He also rose that we too would be able to rise from our own deaths.
_Why look to our failures and choose them as the definers of our reality? Our God is a risen God, therefore we too are meant to be a risen people.
_ We are so rarely visited by our joy that catching a glimpse of it, we can cast it off in fear and disbelief- our earth quakes, and in the great noise of our desire we can overlook a miracle in its infancy.
_We must lift up our eyes, our minds, our hearts, we must let go of the security of that hell that we know so that the glory of our truth can be shown to us.
We are meant to – revive ourselves and each other through mercy and faith, forgiveness and understanding, humility and love.
The Word is the life that must be brought unto a world steeped in death.
Why continue to look upon that place where death is meant to take residence?
Why are you looking at darkness, when your eyes should be turned toward the light?
All Rights Reserved © 2009

Sunday, April 12, 2009

#11 Naprowrimo

#11 of Maafa Cycle

My Man

He woke up early this morning
He woke up early this morning like he always does
And he met the morning dew
He greeted me sweetly this morning…
Like he always do. He woke up early and was on his way.
I knew that my man….was on his way.

And as the day was passing to night, I knew that his fee t would touch the porch
Like it always do.
And as the day was passing to night, I knew that my man,
Was on his way.
On his way home to me
On his way .
As sure as the moon rises as night, I knew that my man was on his way.
His feet, would meet the back porch,
Workboots would meet the floor,
His low voice would meet the air,
And My man,
Would find his way.

Dinner was ready,
As it always was.
Kitchen was clean,
As I always was.
Porch light was on, like it always was.
I knew that my man,
Had lost his way.

Moon was high,
In the night sky.
Stars were shining bright and sure.
All the night was quietly panting;
I knew that my man, had lost his way.

I’m bound to find him, and fetch him home.
I’m sure that he is somewhere to be found.
Dusk has fallen, and he not home.
I knew that my man, Had lost his way.

I took a lantern, and his best dog.
I took my shoes, and his warm coat.
I set foot to stone and was one my way.
I knew that my man, had just lost his way.

I waded through tall grass, and walked sure footed on.
I held my light proudly forward.
I looked into the blue-black night,
I knew that my man had just lost his way.

Saw the lights, bouncing on the treeline.
Saw the lights, bouncing in the trees,
I saw the lights shining brightly in the orchard.
I knew that my man had lost his way.
And my feet moved against my judgement.
My feet moved against my judgement.

I reached the treeline, and my fingers met the bark.
The scent of plum blossoms met my nose.
I heard the yells of deamon glee.
I knew that my man,
Had lost his way.
And my feet moved.
Against my judgement.

I heard the whip, CRACK
And land on flesh,
I heard the screams that would curdle blood, and in the red-orange glow
Of crucifix aflame,
I knew that my man, had lost his way.
My foot, moved
Against my judgement.

I saw the knife, slice at his manhood.
I saw the blood, urine raise down his leg,
Heard his soul writh free of his body.
So, my feet moved against my judgement.

There were men, standing round, with the faces of devils, there were
Men all around but lost to God,
There were men all around, screaming against his favor,
I knew my man, had gone way.
But, feet moved, against my judgement.

Slowly the rope, slid around his neck.
And when the horse moved,
His neck did stretch. And when the breath stopped,
His feet did kick, and when the feet stopped, his body twitched.
And when his eyes bulged, the heart did lurch.
And my feet moved.
I knew that my man, had lost his way.

There wasn’t time to cry,
There wasn’t time to think,
There wasn’t space to believe, there was a God to see.
All of the years that passed, he had come home to me.
I knew that my God, would bring my man home to me.
And my feet moved - Against my judgement.
At first,
I believed they had thought twice.
At first I believe it was water to douse the flame.

At first,
I believed they had remembered God.

At first,
I thought they had remembered shame.

Then, the smell of gasoline, and the smell of hair a flame.
Who knew that skin would melt like wax? Who knew that wouldn’t quell the pain?
But I knew.
I had found my man.

I knew. I had found my way.
I knew. I had found my home.
My feet, climbed to him.
My arms clasped tight to his body.
Laughter met my tears,
And I knew, I had found my way.

Our skin, met as one.
The flame smelled sweet.
Our hearts beat and stopped as one.
And I knew, I had found my way.

And early, that morning, carrying the blackness of night.
Our joined skin, was met by the dew.

Silence crossed the orchard.
Silence crossed the field.
Hound dog howling breaks the silence.
And the truth of love revealed.
I and my man,
Had found a way.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

Friday, April 10, 2009

#10 of Naprowrimo (Maafa Cycle

#10 of Maafa Cycle


Here is this flesh
Wrapped around wood
Hands lashed together
Heart pounding
Mind clasped tight around fear
Waiting for breath, while breathing
Waiting for the promised beating
The beating promised to my too dark flesh upon birth.
Waiting for the twisted hide of an animal to launch through the air and past
The speed of sound
Wildly through the air, land as deftly across the flesh of my back
Split like overripe cherries in summer heat
Breath stops, eyes bulge, arms arch against unheard of pain, every muscle contracts
Before breath can be found
New split skin and tears stream down my face, never mind that I am a woman, never mind that I have borne children who work this land,
Never mind that I have given my body to pleasure the man who sold away my love
Never mind
The blood and sweat rolling down my back, never mind
The fire in my lungs
Never mind that my lips can’t even shape the question my mind screams
Never mind.

All rights reserved © 2009
#9 of Maafa Cycle

Did you here that?

Did you hear that? Did you hear that?
Sounded like a link in a chain falling.
Did you hear that? Sounded like the first time – Nigger came flying from 4 year old pale white face pink lips.
Did you hear that? I Swear I heard something when I first learned the direction the Nile flowed, and found Kilimanjaro on the map.

Did you hear that?
Martin and Malcolm talked, and called their wives at night. And, read and learned and became definers.
So defined that they are studied and made studies. Did you hear that?
Not even the bullets blasts have taken them from us. No it has not been the bullets blasts but it has been our absence and our willingness to media, to mainstream, to celebrity our memory. We lost them before we found ourselves.
Before we found ourselves we ran to white picket fence streets and forgot our own. Before we took care, to take care, it was taken.
And when we cried foul, we found that it was not a new trick but an old.
The same tool of colony had taken us again. But then instead of losing country and language, history and family, faith and healing, we lost all those who survived the chains.
Big Momma and Old Uncle, Grandpa and Auntie, we lost knowing just how much God has done, we lost witness, and cried foul but it was too late,
new chains had already been prepared.
But this too was not new, these chains were the same chains as used on the first Americans. Chemical chains, wrapped up nice,
yellow diamonds in a dealers pocket.
The dealers,
Worshippers of the money God. They filled the necessary criteria. They volunteered to be the scapegoat who made the people the lamb.
the chain was not complete until the last link was added.
The children.
Once the children were raising children,
and once the children would not read, once the children were given to those who refuse to know and who swallow stoneguilt down throats of glass, then the last link was formed.
Here, American.
You piece of Diasporic Afrika.
Here - we are still dancing, still bobbing and weaving,
still shufflehussle
still adrift
with dulldrum minds in critical mass, we are chained.
Did you hear that?

All rights reserved © 2009

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

Embrace - #8/30 for Naprowrimo

#8/30 not Maafa


Fingers against fingers. My fingers, someone’s hand.
Fingers touch wrist and I roll to the side. Face against face and
I smile.
Hands in hair and fingers twist gently ‘round hibiscus locs, nose nuzzles ear.
I’m kissed.
Lips touch lips. Softly, gently, gracefully dance. Nose breaths in sandalwood and cedar on warm skin.
He is treasure.
All rights reserved © 2009

Man - #7/30 of Maafa Cycle

#7/30 of the Maafa cycle
Man for sale.
Man for sale.
One man, black man.
One good negro man.
For Sale.
Never run away, talks good, strong back.
Clean back.
Good teeth.
One negro
For sale. One negro buck. Four strong
Boys, good negros too. All good pickninnies, work hard
500 dollars will buy you this negro. One strong rice negro.
Work all day and never talk back. Work all
Day, no doubt. Buy this Negro, never look back.
Negro for sale.
Negro for sale.

All Rights Reserved ©2009

Sunday, April 05, 2009

#5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

#5 of Maafa Cycle


Here is this skin – this black skin.
Here is this body – covered by this black skin.
Here is this soul - full of light and promise.
Here is this world – that looks upon this black skin and calls it secondary.
Here is this earth – the blackest soil reaps the most abundant crop-
Here is the sun- that waits upon this skin.
Here is the world – that buys, sells, rapes, kills this flesh
Here is this soul – made stronger or broken.
Here is this world – that calls this flesh an abomination.
Here is the blood- spilled for gold, sugar, tea, coffee, cotton.
Here is the foot – with steps cut short for trying.
Here are the hands – chapped and bleeding from reaching.
Here is the womb – soured by anger.
Here is this god – who gives his son a copper hue.
Here is this body – that bends so as not to break.
Here is this soul - eternal and connected.
Here is this world – willing to lie to steal the soul from the skin.
Here is the body – Atone.
All Rights Reserved © 2009


Friday, April 03, 2009

18" 1/30 of Maafa Cycle

#1 of Maafa Cycle

18 inches in which to sleep, eat, drink,
Give birth, relieve myself
18 inches – but then the boat shifts and
There is 12 and then none
Between the next person and myself
And the wood upon which my back
First rested attacks my skin and fed up with it -
Feeds upon it. Sucking in my flesh
My Flesh becomes and melts into the wood. Is this
My burial slat?
And the smell – the smell
Once human, now is animal.
There were children on this vessel but
They are gone – gone tossed over, over, over,
The edge of the boat – most went the first
Chance their mothers had to set them free.
And the little ones – once they found rest
In the ocean buoyed up by the salt for a short time- before they sank – after the
Terror left their little eyes- before they were swallowed by forever – after their arms and legs stopped trying – before the waves
Succeeded and pulled them under – after eyes and skin resembled more that of a seal’s than a human child –
--The Sharks
---The sharks growing fat off of the sick and small,
-----The sharks that nipped at each other and swallowed men whole…
The sharks that lived off the flesh of the dying and desolate and lived in the waves cast by the vessel, came.
The vessel that would deliver us to a new hell
To be consumed by the mouth of man and into an other belly.
But here, again, in darkness and foul stench
I share my 18 inches.
Partially, submerged in urine, feces, vomit and afterbirth
I struggle to believe – that red exists beyond blood, green beyond rot and stench.
I struggle to remember lush hillsides and orchids – the heavenly smell of the plains after the rain has passed.
I pray to any god that will listen. DELIVER ME!

All rights reserved © 2009

One more time!

Hello everyone out there in the blogging world! I just want to try this blogging thing one more time. I have decided to do so along with Napowrimo (National poetry month). It is similar to the write a novel in a month writing challenge. I appreciate your feedback. In the months to come I will write more regarding all that is in my view in terms of Afro-American Womanhood. And since my view is limited, I invite your incite. We may not always agree, but communication will hopefully make understanding more powerful.