Chapbook?

Would you like to see a chapbook from me?  If yes, comment and let me know which of my topics you'd like to hear more of!  Blessings!!!



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NaPoWriMo #7/30 - Friday Morning Rain

Friday Morning Rain

by Ieisha McIntyre

Rain falls gently to pavement.
Pad-taps out the rhythm of the day,
slips soft-silent through the cracks in the soil
and rises puddle.
Waits glass patient for my shoe.


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NaPoWriMo #6/30 - The Miracle of Sleep

The Miracle of Sleep

by Ieisha McIntyre

Falling away into darkness
--my eyes are closed
as windows with drawn curtains.

My mind--set free and active,
goes to play upon the landscape of forever.

Finding bits of reality--
here and there strewn over
every geographical point of the unseen.

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NaPoWriMo #5/30-Mr.

Mr. 

by Ieisha McIntyre

I wish I could tell you how many times
I looked at you and your forever before
I decided that it could
not be my ever after.

But, there were too many times to count,
and too many days have gone by to remember exactly
what it was that made tomorrow with
you put a bad taste in my today.

I wish I could tell you, but I can’t.

And, you’re over it.

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NaPoWriMo #4/30-Soul Tending

Soul Tending 

by Ieisha McIntyre

There are Gardens inside each soul--
where the spirit speaks to the creator.
Gardens lined with lush trees,
trees with branches that hang sleepy and watchful over fresh grown lilies.

There are gardens in our souls,
that carry the full scent and memory of love.
Love that has taken up care and pulled out tender weeds,
deep rooted weeds, pulled effortless with even the gentlest of breezes--love.

Plush moss of verdant green couch the ground
--make soft the harshest of places.
In our souls, there are sweet soft places, yearning for care, and tending. Safe sheltering places, where fruit rests heavy and fresh in the palm.

Fruit pulp-full and juicy sustenance. Peel back the rind and sink in your teeth.
Taste the sweetness of tended places.
Let the juice slide onto your tongue and creep toward the throat of you--nourish.
Let it squeeze free of your lips. Slide down your chin--feed.

Feed on this fertile love, make yourself ready to reap harvest.
Make yourself ready to offer free entry to those
in need of the peace--
the garden.

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Lotuspapillon (aka) Ieisha McIntyre Opening for Adam Falkner!

Opening for Adam Falkner @ UWTacoma

Wednesday March 31st  was one of the most heartwarming and life affirming experiences I have had in a very long time.  Adam Falkner is not only an amazingly enlightened and talented poet.  He is also a wonderfully inspired and inspiring educator!  He has a soulful singing voice and I hope one day soon he will put a few poems into song. If you weren’t at Wednesday night’s performance and you haven’t had a chance to hear his work, click his name and check him out!
I’ve posted a video with some of my work from the performance as well.  Feel free to take a look. Subscribe, tweet, comment!  Blessings all! I hope to do more readings in the future.  I’ll keep you informed!






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Fear of Flying #3/30 NaPoWriMo

Fear of flying 

by Ieisha McIntyre

I climbed to the highest mountain
and stretched out my arms as wings.
Bade the lord to lift me up by the power of his hand.  And with an effortless wave of his finger my feet left the cliffside and I was buoyant.
I drifted as the lightest of flying creatures.
 As the lightest of creatures.

All of this,
I did, inspired by my love for you.
The power of our union made me believe in unassisted human flight.  Lips were not lips,  fingers were not fingers, skin was not a barrier but a joining place. A place of surrender-co-mingle.
 All of my family voiced caution but I was unafraid
and had full faith in the power of God’s hand in our union.

I did not know that faith is made victim,
 God is made bystander,
And free will makes victims of us all.
The terror of love is in the losing,
in the ever present feeling of falling
and failing.
 
Love requires the courage of a daredevil to rest safely in the breast of a saint.
The voice of love works within our fragile minds.
We are made disciples.  
Convinced of our immortality,
we fly,
and give no consideration to gravity.
We lose all doubt of love’s existence.

In the making of love
it is made real as blush red,
hot sweaty and sweet tender.
What need had we of parachutes?
Lovers defy gravity and history every day.

No one hears the tales of the fallen,
the ones who fly too high, or reach too far.
Their stories are consumed by the heat of the sun.
All trace of them left as ashes on the wind.
All memory, left to drift with the gentlest of breezes.

The fear of flying left unexplained.        

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NaPoWriMo 30/30: #2/30

Here is my second poem in this great writing adventure that it is called NaPoWriMo. It is based on the #2 writing prompt on ReadWritePoem take time to check them out.  Many of you I do not know. And it fills my heart with joy that you are reading my work. I'd like to take this moment to invite you to say hello.  Ask me questions, and if you have advice I may not take it but I'm willing to listen. I hope you like it! Blessings.


NaPoWriMo #2: RWP Writing prompt for 30/30

Regular White Paper

by Ieisha McIntyre

Regular white paper says nothing on its own--
on its own it is only fiber and glue.

There are no contracts, promises, messages or vows without ink.

Without the rhythmic wave of process--
                                    the pen in hand
                                    and the cursive script,
                                    the paper would have nothing to say.

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Cat Bird NaPoWriMo #1

Having accepted the challenge of NaPoWriMo, I present to you my first poem.

Cat Bird

by Ieisha McIntyre

Cheshire cat grin behind steel teeth,
 and she is all that he can think about.
She is all curves and muscle.
Too many years behind her to be a girl
and to many days of sin to be spinster,
he is lost to her sex and sensual.

Smiling at her as a boy
who believes he’s the first to see a stone skip across water,
he is her captive
and doesn’t even know it.
All he knows is the grin and
the slow hard feeling in his crotch.

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Rain

Rain

By Ieisha McIntyre

Rain--
the soft sound of my lover’s voice.
It falls gently to my skin,
seeps into my body and drums against my beating heart--
his intentions.
All love and never harm, never malice,
nor contempt--
only nurture and breath.

Like rain, my love clears the dust,
and shoos away the drought of neglect.
He is my fresh homecoming.
My ambassador of spring.
With him, the soil of my spirit is made ready,
and receives without complaint or resistance.

Darling,
buds peak forth and test the light.
This sun, he brings after the tempest.
This scorch-less sun -- food. Fresh, green leaves stretch to blue-kissed light.
Fare well in these gentle winds of new cast love -- these are surely the most sweet of times.

Trust,
that when disturbance enters this garden,
and the light has grown stark-jaundice,
the rain is never far.
Grey flannel clouds will gather.
Pull close about and shelter.
Bring the welcome tender strum of his rain.

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Thank You!

I'd like to take a moment and extend a thanks to all of you who followed my Valentine's Day Challenge and even participated with me. I hope I encouraged you to write about a topic that you haven't had a lot of comfort with.  Feel free to share your experiences.  If you check out the about me section of my blog you'll find contact information for this blog as well.



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National Poetry Month is COMING!

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH is coming in April.  April 1st to be exact.  What idea or theme has been burning a hole in your self-conscious this year that you would really like to get off your chest?  Take some time in that last few weeks of this month to contemplate them.

For myself, I've been thinking about weight and body image quite a bit since January.  I've tried hard not to  lose perspective of my goals.  When I've lost focus, I haven't given up, I've just gotten right back up on the horse.  Conveniently, in April, we have the opportunity to write a poem a day for 30 days and try to get all these concerns off our chests and on to the paper.  Oh yeah, and READ,WRITE,POEM will provide writing prompts for each day, just in case you need an extra push or a new perspective.



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A Moment

A moment
by Ieisha McIntyre


Give me a moment of sexy
and a dash of forever.
Hold me in the hands of your memory,
hesitate to release control
lay your heart
bare.

I understand your fear,
how much loss
can eat away at hope.

Give me a sprinkle of maybe.
We can season our lives with
more than salt.



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Bellocq's Ophelia

Hello Everyone! I thought I would lend a change of pace to this blog by including some of what I’m reading.  I just finished reading an amazing little collection of poetry called Bellocq’s Ophelia by Natasha Tretheway (She also won 2007 Pulitzer for Poetry for Native Guard) a winner of the 1999 Cave Canem Poetry Prize and published by Greywolf Press

. Bellocq’s Ophelia is a journey into the rarely discussed world of the “Colored” brothels of New Orleans.  The exotic nature given to the ivory skinned African women by white culture combined with the conflict of being trapped between two worlds is explored to surprising depth in these brief pages.  You do not leave this slim volume of poetry without wanting to know more about the world describe in its pages.  It is truly titillating.  You want to know more about the lives of these women, you want to know about the lives of the men who visit them.  You want to know more about the world that would keep them in a state where they are enslaved, not by their skin tone but by the skin tone of their grandmothers. I was left wondering about how many ways in today’s world, African-American women are still forced to make choices based on the perceptions of others instead of the strength of their spirit and the power of their intellect. 

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I Forget

 Valentine's Day poem #14 is up.  I was a few minutes late but Nina Simone songs deserve to be listened too closely.  This one is inspired by her song "For a while." Blessings Lovers!

I forget

By Ieisha McIntyre

Just for this moment love –

Kiss my hand and take me for a drive around town,

With the windows rolled down,

In the dead of winter.  Let’s do something that defies all sense.

Just for a little while,

Let us be the last human beings on earth.

Kiss me in the street, pull up flowers by the root,

Kill off all other traps of human life, and remember only

Me.

Look at me first my love. 

Look at me first when you think of your tomorrow, make me

The central player.

Pull yourself away from the influence of friends and privilege. Choose me,

I will forget your avoidance. 

I will forget and go on

Not one hour has passed in my day.

I live only for your love.

For all that guides me in this world is my love for you.

I forget—

You are gone.

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Just Friends

The following poem was inspired by Nina Simone's version of "Every Time We Say Goodbye."

Just Friends

By Ieisha McIntyre

Standing free of your touch,

my lips remember you.

Every time.

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The Prairie

 Valentine's Day Challenge poem #12.  I'm having an ekphrastic day! This one was inspired by listening to Lucia Micarelli . (Click this link to hear the exact song that inspired this poem!)  

The Prairie

By Ieisha McIntyre

The prairie, outstretched and vast in its greenness. 

You are farther away than ever the years or distance could make.

Close held in memory is the strength of your arms,

The heft of your weight against thighs.

Your breath against my neck—

Only the touch of the breeze as it contorts itself through the pillars of the house.

My feet pad gently against the course wood grain of the weatherworn porch. 

Lured toward the light of the setting sun—

I can hear your voice travel through the brush,

Just above the hum of the fireflies as the sunsets.

You rush upon the warm summer wind, graze the hem of my dress, slide finger light

Up the crease of my thighs,

And the curve of my waist,

To the cleft of my breast.

Defenseless, I breathe in the warmth that was you.

And for one moment,

We are shining light of love and harmony. 

We are partner friendship, forever.

But the gathering of night comes to our day,

And the cold creeps into the breeze—

Pounds out the rhythm of ending that all living things hear and deny.

Bare feet to the dusky ground,

I start my evening search for the clothe blown free of the line,

Call the cat,

Draw the water and wash the porch free of the dust of the day,

Lend coolness to the night’s thoughts.

Speak softly, gently the words that came from your lips.

Look my love—

All the plain is amber and orange.

Red.

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Valentine's Day Challenge

I know I'm behind in my Valentine's Day challenge that I set for myself.  I was at a loss for inspiration, and you know how that can be.  So I went on writing other things.  But here I am back again and only 3 poems behind.  So my goal for today is to write three more before midnight. I hope they will improve in tone.  If they don't, oh well!  I hope you can get something out of them.  Please feel free to comment! I've included a link to  The Handbook of Heartbreak: 101 Poems of Lost Love and Sorrow so that you can take a peak of some of the masters of lost love poetry.  See if you can roll with the big boys!

Python Heart

By Ieisha McIntyre

My love, can you adore me?

Even though my heart is enraged

And in full flame

And lost to concealment?

Beloved.

Can you love me? Can you take all of my acerbic charms?

Can you stand faithful even when I cannot stand you?

Even though in full two year old tantrum—

I insist you stay

While shouting NO. 

Will you tolerate my lost nature and directionless heart?

My childish mistrust of anything

That doesn’t look like mommy’s hand?

I promise. I’ll pay you back.

I’ll pay you back—

For every scar I place on your heart and your soul.

I’ll pay you back in kisses and caress,

I’ll give you every beautiful moment I can muster

From the turmoil of my warring heart.

I’ll let you become addict to narcotic me. 

I promise you won’t feel pushed upon. 

Not until you are fully hooked upon

Me and all my poison.

I promise, you are my antidote. 

I will help you be more than prince,

More that savior.

I will let you be more than methadone.

I will let you be cure.

If you can love me.

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A Day at Frye Art Museum

  If you live in the Seattle area or you think you might be in town soon, you should make sure to make time to visit The Frye Art Museum.  Not only did I have a very enlightening workshop in ekphrasis facilitated by Susan Rich and another wonderful woman named Lilias (I unfortunately can’t locate her last name)but I also had a chance to become better acquainted with art in Seattle.  If you’re a poet or someone who loves books/poetry/art and are also a teacher, check out the Tim Rollins and K.O.S.: A History exhibit.  It will inspire and excite you when you see what art and education can do.

Just in case you are knew to the term Ekphrasis, Susan gave us the following wonderful definition:

Ekphrastic poetry is a written response to a visual painting, photograph, dance, sculpture, Ikea catalogue, Childs drawing, or bumper sticker.  An ekphrastic poem begins with inspiration from another piece of art with the understanding that art begets art.

--Susan Rich

I wrote a little poem that was inspired by the painting The Bride, by Marc Chagall, 1953.  Anyway, here’s the poem feel free to read and comment.  Blessings!

Child Bride

by Ieisha McIntyre

Papa said it would be simple

And momma said it would be quick

The first night with my old husband

That I did not pick. 

He chose me.

It was an honor that could not be refused.

My sisters gathered white flowers, washed them with their tears.

My aunts dressed me in red, with a white veil.

I thought only of my nanny goat and how well I kept her fed.

She never gave me worries or wandered from the yard.

Even when the gate was open, she had no need for exploration.

It would be too forward. 

Her milk never failed.

When she saw me come her way, her bleat was more a melody – so much so, that on that day, when the village musicians did play

–        my nanny goat from the dowry cart

Did express her heart and sang along.

Simple and quick.

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Why We Date

WHY WE DATE

BY Ieisha McIntyre

We date for the same reason we play the lottery.

We hope against hope,

Hand over our sweaty wads of change,

And force ourselves to believe that we are the one in forty.

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Love Salutations

Love Salutations

By Ieisha McIntyre

All my heart is hello for you.

Gentle,

Strong,

Tender.

Hello.

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*This poem is #9 in a series of Valentine's Day love poems.  Please feel free to scroll down and read the others posted during this month.  Don't for get to click and make your free donation to THE WORLD FOOD PROGRAMME for international school lunches.


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Iron Heart

Iron Heart

By Ieisha McIntyre

My heart tasted more like iron

In my throat when I first decided

 to speak from it.

 I let it grow teeth and

shape ventricles into lips,

And throb out a meaning.

But you were deaf.

And I was exhausted.

 But someone heard.

And it was made good

Enough.

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*The previous poem is #8 in a series of Valentine's Day poems. Feel free to scroll down and view #'s 1-7! Don't forget to click and participate in generating funds for The World Food Programme!


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Autumn Love

Autumn Love

By Ieisha McIntyre

The multi-colored leaves of fall

Reveal the true nature of our love.

Every once green thing

Changing color by degrees.

Every once green thing

Heightened and in metamorphosis.

We are not evergreen.

These words of yours

Change the summer of our love

To fall.

We should be conifer rich,

And without enemy.

Our love was the trunk of our being.

We were joined walnut.

Not maple, able to be wiped out by a foreign moth.

We are so in need of the other that we cannot produce.

But here we are in the autumn of our love,

Transfixed by the hurt,

Transformed to golden, red, azure quivering in the subtle breeze,

Frightened of the words,

We know that winter kills.

Let us speak of springtime when we first met.

When your fingers met mine and we knew.

Let us turn our thoughts to the breaching of the cold crisp air

By the warmth of sunlight.

Let the scent of fresh tulips breaching the black earth

Be remembered, held sacred and recovered ritual.

Let us hold tight memory and warm ourselves with the flame.

Winter holds only the things that want death.

Remember my arms, holding you.

Remember my lips, kissing you.

Remember my thighs.

Nothing of love wants death or autumn.

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War Bride

War Bride

By Ieisha McIntyre

Tears rise from my eyes,

Roll down my cheeks,

And slide softly to your chest.

I rest my ear against you and listen

To the beating of your heart.

Try to match my breath to its sturdy rhythm.

Dependent. I know you are there.

I know by the rhythm of your heart.

A gentle breeze blows through the window of our apartment

Tossing new pressed curtains

Against a gently whirring fan.

It cannot drown out my sobbing.

This is the day that you leave.

I need to memorize the sound of your heart.

I need to know every tap of the muscle

And the moment in between,

I need to hear the rush of air in your throat.

I need to hear the intake of the warm late summer air

Rushing into your lungs.

I need to feel the heave of your chest

As the muscles spread gently

Letting in another burst of life.

This is our last morning. 

Our last morning before they put the suit of a killer on your back

And paint your blood khaki green.

Last morning, you’ll lie next to me and sleep

Uninterrupted by nightmares.

Last morning that I will wake next to your body

And not be drenched in the sweat of your shame.

The man they will return to me will be a shadow of you.

My heart knows.

I listen to the beat of your heart and the ease of your breathing.

You brush back my hair and promise you’ll return an even better man.

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Summer Rain

Summer Rain

By Ieisha McIntyre

Beloved, your touch

Is the warm summer rain –

air pregnant and moist.

Trees turn their leaves end up in anticipation of you.

The wind blows –

Herald of your arrival.

Love, changes shape and patterns

But that day you were rain.

Round heavy drops – and

I was welcome and desire,

Open armed and willing,

One touch of you and the dust cleared.

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Days Like This

Days Like This

By Ieisha McIntyre

On days like this,

I want to fall into your arms

and let the scent of you carry me

swiftly from my worry.

Days, when I want your tired head

to lay heavy in my lap and

let my fingers comb away your troubles.

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Love Offering

Love Offering

By Ieisha McIntyre

The path that is my life has turned the soles of my feet cracked and calloused; has placed

Corns on my soul;

bunion ridden my heart continues to beat.

But in syncopated

Rhythms – rather in an arrhythmic throb of sorts –

both feet and heart left disabled -- fully hobbled.

Humbly.  Full of shame at my unworthiness, I offer you my calloused heart.  Sacrifice. Do with it what you will – my mind lurches.

Disbelief.  

I offer you my heart,

Bid you remove your shoes.

Come walk with me.  

Come stride cross, gravel and brambles, and shards of glass.

Take my hand full scared and bleeding,

But warm and worn from fighting,

Bring the strength of you to this journey and we will make it ours.

Or better – together forge a new path,

March head long into the fray. No longer a lone warrior, but allies instead,

Armed with the peace, love brings

Healed by nurture.

Pressed forward by faith, we are made army.

Intimate, I can give you partner in arms.

I can give you healer.

I can give you lover.

I can give you my heart,

world weary and ready for your love.

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Sweet

Here is the second of my Valentine's poems. I'm attempting to write one a day until Valentine's Day.  Just sending out the love energy.

Sweet

By Ieisha McIntyre

Sweet my love – lie sweetly

Next to me. Let the strength

Of your arms wrap ‘round my waist

And pull me gently to your middle.

Lay your lips against my

Shoulder and whisper soft

The best parts of your day.

Nuzzle my hair and listen

As I pray for us –As I thank God

For the miracle of us.

Let me rest my cold feet atop yours

As we drift into sleep.

When we wake we will breath

Forth new salutations, new proclamations –

Forge new bonds and reclaim our vow.

‘Til death do us part –but not now.

Now, we are us.  We are the best of together.

We are sweet, my love.

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Hello Love

Hello Love

By Ieisha McIntyre

Hello love.

My heart says hello.  Take my hand and feel my love for you.

Take my hand and feel my pulse race.

Hello love.

My eyes trace the perimeter of you and map your jaw line. 

My fingers test the feather of your eyelash and the pillow of your lips.

I rest a kiss.

Hello love.

Feel the warmth of my breath as it dusts across your lips, as we speak to closely.

Too public. 

We smile and wonder at the rush of the blood and the dizzy our minds take.

Hello my love.

I welcome you. I welcome the softness of your lips against mine.

I welcome the firmness of your tongue against mine.

Twist mingle together. I welcome the strength of your body, the feel of your hand against my waist.

I welcome you. Rest your kiss soft against the curve of my neck knowing I’ve rescued you. Knowing you are hero, and home.

The comfort of surrender.

There’s no agenda, there’s no deadline, only the mercy of love.

Only the peaceful blessing of our joined fate.

Home. While the storm looms held at bay, by our love.

Hello.

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Edwidge Danticat: Stories of Haiti | Video on TED.com

Edwidge Danticat author of Breath,Eyes, Memory gives a talk on the beauty of Haiti and shares the power of story. Listen and learn of all that Haiti has brought and contributed to the Western Literary Canon. Perhaps it will bring you hope for Haiti's rebirth.

Edwidge Danticat: Stories of Haiti | Video on TED.com


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Capitalist Charity Negotiations

It has taken me weeks to try to find a way to respond to some of the many feelings I have wrapped around the tragedy of the earthquake in Haiti (World Vision appeal). I am admin of a group on Readwritepoem called African Diasporic Voices.  I posted a challenge to respond to the poem Betrayal by Leon Laleau in which is discusses the internal conflict of mental decolonization.  Here is just one of the poems that I have written during this time of heartbreak.

Capitalist Charity Negotiations

By Ieisha McIntyre

My happiness matters more to me than your pain.

--matters more to me than if you eat,

 if you are warm.

--more than if you are loved.

Your misfortune is not my fault.

It is your job to convince me that your pain

is a threat to my happiness.

-- then I will help you.

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Best Laid Plans

Best Laid Plans

By Ieisha McIntyre

When plan A failed

It freed my mind,

to believe that plan B was possible.

That every if, and, or but

and the woulda, coulda, shoulda’s

had the right to be resuscitated.

The right --

to be released,

to be wild,

to be free,

to wreak havoc and run amuck

upon the failing seeming normal. 

I laugh now when I meet those clinging feverish to their plan A –

having tied too tightly the rope around Plan B’s neck –

Never having jumped,

they left it there until the blood pooled and

the flesh turned black decay

and the head of the thing just fell away.

I should sympathize.

But, I have not time to linger over dead things.

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Prayers To the God of Convention

Prayers to the God of Convention

By Ieisha McIntyre

Squeeze me into normal.

Even if the shoes pinch, and

The bra straps dig into my shoulders, and

Make the sweat pool up against the creases

Underneath my breasts, squeeze.

Cinch in my waist.

Make me size 6 normal and taught.

Pull taut, my waist and expanse of mind,

And give me pleasure in the common fare.

Stop me from scribbling outside the lines,

And give me paint-by-number rules.

I’ll use the corresponding colors and place them

In the right spots to make the allocated image.

Squeeze me into normal. 

Give me the boyfriend who wants marriage and 2.5 kids

And suburban wonderful unconscious,

And enriched white bread culinary, mall pretzel Saturdays, Squeeze.

Bring me the promised exhale of pension and homeownership,

Secure healthcare, affordable babysitter, and retirement in my 50’s.

It is my bounty as the rightful assassin of my dreams.

I carried out the prescribed order and followed through on the demand.

Leave no incriminating evidence of crime and no trace of the dream refugees

Who hid beneath my acceptable demeanor and conventional garb.

I was the assassin who followed through on the hit put out on my dreams.

I let the years tick by afraid to risk their release.

Desperate, they were flung loose by tragedy and trauma.

As wild things will do,

Threw themselves full-bodied against the fences. 

Some lying on the wire as sacrifice so that others might live. 

I was the assassin and I claim my bounty.

Squeeze. Squeeze me into normal.

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Pussy

PUSSY

By Ieisha McIntyre

Women know the truth but close our eyes and pretend –

pretend, when you touch and we let you in.

You see, we know that pussy is just pussy when you fuck it.

Not a woman.

Not until you love her and surrender to that which is superior to the flesh

– the spirit

Not a woman when you call her baby.

We know.

But we close our eyes and remember when baby was a name called out of love, not lust.

Not a woman when you leave before sunrise.

Not a woman but an object.

Some creature with similar limbs.

Not a woman but an object of flesh.

Dehumanize her in pieces; let her be just a bucket of fast food chicken.

We know.

But close our eyes - open our legs and imagine love, and family, and garden parties in white gloves, pearls and red silk charmeuse dresses.

While men bone and debone, making women into poultry

We know.

Some how, in claiming freedom of our bodies we lost the power of NO.

No, to cowards who put forth his penis instead of his heart.

A penis, saturated in the sweat of too many lovers.

Lost No – to the man who cannot see the beauty of a sister or the possibility of a wife – of a mother, a partner.

Lost the power to see a woman in our own reflections.

We surrendered to the myth of the money makers, take a pill, liberate, independence.

But wait,

A life is not made on those without name.

It is made on the courage to face passion and pain.

To do so with others,

To call them by name.

Not bitch, nor ho, or some such thang – but wife, sister, mother, daughter –

we’re both to blame.

Because we know that a pussy is not a woman.

Not unless you love her, and claim her, and call her by name.

Child of God, reclaim manhood,

Reclaim woman hood, put down the blame,

put down the pain and take up your dignity!

It is worth more than the nickel you were told to keep between your knees.

Worth more than the dinner, the cab fare, the rent,

worth more than the mornings of waking up on your own,

it is priceless and powerful sacred.

We know.

A pussy is just a pussy,

Unless you love her and call her by name.

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ATONE New Year's Eve Performance with Tacoma Urban Orchestra

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LINK TO THE TEXT

Mississippi Mission

MISSISSIPPI MISSION
BY Ieisha McIntyre

I am standing in this field in Mississippi,
Looking out across corn, corn, and more corn.
My eyes look out across this land and at the old silos blown loose by hurricane.

And my heart is looking too. My heart asks my soul a question.
“Is this the field where we worked? Is this the field where we bled?”

“No. But, it is somewhere, and I will tell you when we find it. And the land will move up to greet you. As your blood will know its own, so too will the soil know you.”

I moved back and leaned against the fence.
Took in the blue of the sky,
the plumpness of the clouds,
the breeze blowing through the corn and trees,
and listened to the whispers of ancestors –
breathing hello and smiling.

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LotusPapillon

LotusPapillon


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Starting Over

By Ieisha McIntyre

Let me pick up my pen and put it to this paper. 

Place it clearly in the right spot to be moved—

and to move someone, anyone to a side.

 Either righteous or hedonistic, just to move someone, moral or immoral.

Wait.

Let me pick up my pen and take it to the wall,

turn it into a sharpie

and begin to outline either the worst graffiti

 or the most remarkable of murals; but let it be art and let it change the world—Let it change everything

Stop.

Let me pick up a brush an put it to canvas –

let it make nuns blush or sinners cry –

but let it be original – let it be ground breaking.

No.

Let me pick up this pen and move it across the paper – just so. 

Just so I can reveal my truth, a truth.

Give voice to my pain and triumph.

I will pick up my pen.

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Atone -Video Update:
I've tried to post a video of my spokenword piece Atone however, it is not working out. And when I go to new posts the video button doesn't show. I'm not quite sure at this point what to do but I will keep working at it.





This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

LotusPapillon: Minnesota Mornings

LotusPapillon: Minnesota Mornings

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.

Crystaline.
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.

Slip,

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.

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LotusPapillon: #5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

LotusPapillon: #5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

LotusPapillon: #5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

LotusPapillon: #5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

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)

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.

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,
And,
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.

Still.
I rely on the patience of my childhood.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

Loving

Loving
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

the contemporary black child @ integration

the contemporary black child @
integration


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.

But,
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

@ integration

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

Nightly.

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.
Father?
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

Blacksatire

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.