Diaspora Writers

Friday, September 23, 2005

A Part of Life

People say that "death is a part of life,"
Like it's supposed to make you feel better,
As if it heals the hurt and dries the tears!
People say that "death is a part of life,"
Like it's supposed to be easier to let go,
As if somehow you'll sleep better at night!

Strangely, it usually does.

Knowing that "death is a part of life"
Makes me feel a little better.
It does, at least, ease the hurt and slow the tears.
Knowing that "death is a part of life"
Makes me more able to let go
And I do sleep a little better most nights.

So, "death is a part of life"!
BUT, what then, is the dying?
Is that also a part of life?
What can be said then?

To see the strong, the vibrant, the independent
Become the weak, the dull, the dependent.
To see a person full of life, love, kindness and humor
Become just about lifeless, mean, moody and witless.
This is the dying!
This is the part that people forget to speak about!
This is the process that I'm still trying to deal with.

"Death is a part of life" but what is the dying?

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Anniversary

For a lifetime I feel as if I've known you
known the way your lips turn up in a smile of down in a frown
known your laugh, your touch, your kiss

On the day that is today, four years ago I knew
knew I had to have you and would have you
knew that you were my soul's mate

Did not know I was going to have to fight you to get you
didn't know we'd have to go through such ups and downs
but knew I would have you

So here we are together, forever we said
said it to our families, our God, each other
not many know the fight, I had to have to have you

But the fight makes this day so much sweeter
better than any I told you so
this anniversary

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Tolerance

You say
That the plethora of things I don’t understand
Mean that I’m the one who needs changing.

But accomplishments speak ever louder than theories,
And I see past your inaction
Clean through to the insecurity, confusion and well meaning

And it is only because I know them well

That I tolerate you.

Sometimes I Wonder if Even God Hates Black People

God must hate black people. He's got to. And if he doesn't, then he's guilty of GROSS negligence. Willful and wanton and in reckless disregard of the fucking obvious.

I just came back from a movie – The Constant Gardener. The upshot? Another verse in a common refrain - pharmaceutical companies were killing people to test new drugs on them – in Africa, of course. Tested in Africa so that millions of Westerners would have access to the drug – black people perish, so that white people might live. The ultimate sacrifice. A race of Jesus Christs. Lambs to the slaughter. The crucified savior - en masse. And here I sit in my American home, in an American city - in the seat of all freedom - doing nothing.

My fiancé is angry at me….I’m in one of my moods, he says. But as my partner, my lover, my leader - I don’t understand how mine are the only tears that can fall?

Why are we here – black people? What was the purpose of us? Are we simply here to shoulder the burdens of the rest of the world? To embody injustice...any injustice…all injustice?

ALL of them????

We seem only to be here as the work horses...tragedies the rest of creation uses and abuses at will. And seeing as how that IS what we are, I can’t imagine that God cares for us any more than our American president.

When does this end? When comes our retribution? When are the wrongs made right? And how – when I sit here with two little hands and a heart bound to crack...woefully, pitifully powerless? What can I possibly do that can matter to a people a with so many open wounds...when I am one of those wounds...with bloody scars and war stories of my own? where would I start, with no resources (a fact created by design), and with a pittance of knowledge as to even where all the problems lie? Where do I begin, when the hurts began with my greatest grandmother, and seem deeper and wider than all of Yemaya’s seas? How would we begin? Where could we be presumptuous enough to even begin???

And, even if we by some miracle discover those answers…

Do we ask - to what extent do we lend ourselves to such misery? And if we do, to any extent, does that make it our fault? Did we do something to deserve this? What did we do? We're all one - aren't we? Are we?
Assuming we are - if we all stem from the same source, the same true thing - then why does the rest of creation not inherently share our obvious burden? Why is it ours to carry - alone?

Is there justice, anywhere? Is it hiding in me, festering and gasping for air? Maybe if we are all one, and the breath of God lives in me - if I am God - then it's really my negligence at issue.

A 20 Something Epiphany

I wanted to be a dancer
Dissecting spirits, destroying defenses
compelling with armslegstorso
Tearing down stronghold with flesh...

I wanted to sing
Wailing tales of haunted harmony
With words someone might
hear, recognize, cry for…

Inside screams the painter
Frustrated in never knowing
the satin of oils...

the pale of watercolor...
the weight of matter
in her hands.

The writer whispers still
Telling sweet sinful stories…
Violent rememberings…silenced plights of pain…
All demanding to be told

But now

I am only schism
Warped dichotomy of reason,
and of soul.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

You

You


All this time I dreamt of you. Thought I found you, longed for you, wanted you, craved you; even hoped for you. All this time. You never came. So I began to thought that either you did not exist or if you did, you simply didn’t want me. Maybe I wasn't good enough for you.

Then I though you were someone else. And I wanted them; thought they were you. Wasn’t until you appeared that I realized I had been all wrong. They weren’t you after all.

So here you are and I have to pinch you to see if you are real. You could be a mirage; a dream, a fallacy that has somehow taken shape, deceiving me into thinking that you are a reality. That’s what I tell myself because you can’t be you.

I talk with you, learn about you and then you shock me. You are you. You are who I said I wanted, longed for, craved, and prayed I would find. But now that you’re here, am I as ready for you as I thought I was?

Just Onto Heaven Now

This is the poem I wrote for my dad. I posted it here to try to remind me of how I write. I wrote this in a few minutes. It just flowed.

Just Onto Heaven Now

We may never understand why although we constantly wonder
We may even question, cry, and sometimes ponder
But we know that you are Just Onto Heaven Now
You brightened our lives, every one of us you met
You were an amazing man that we can’t believe is gone yet
You’re gone from us, At times we don’t understand how
But we know that you are Just Onto Heaven Now
You helped out your friends and family with any task
Whether cleaning gutters for a neighbor or fixing things with Uncle Sterling
Whatever it was you did it happily, no one had to ask
We will miss your handiness and helpful advice too
You are no longer on earth; at times we can’t understand why or how
But we know that you are Just Onto Heaven Now
You are free from hurt, sorrow, and pain
Free to walk upright, sing, dance, and never take medicine again
You are looking over us telling us not to worry
For you are home with God now; home at peace
You want us to not be sad, but rejoice
For you are Just Onto Heaven Now
You were a father, husband, brother, and friend
Someone who did his best until the end
Jesus was your Savior and He called you home
No more for you on this earth to roam
Although we are saddened by our loss and may wonder why now
We know that you are Just Onto Heaven Now
You loved us all and was glad to show it
You enjoyed family and friends; we were in your heart; indeed we know it
We will miss you as our loving father and husband
Miss you as our beloved eighth pea
But we know that you are Just Onto Heaven Now
We will miss the way you laugh, miss that big smile too
We will miss those freckles, miss everything you do
But we know that you are Just Onto Heaven Now
We may cry many nights
Our pillows wet with tears
You leaving us, was one of our greatest fears
We love you and miss you
In our hearts you will remain
Just Onto Heaven Now or as most of us know you
J O H N.

Am I serious?

I came here with the intent to up my poetry skills
To come in here and write shit the kills
The hubby says I should write a poetry book
My little cousin shared my poetry with her teacher to take a look
Why is it so hard to get it out
Why can't it flow like it used to
My last poem was about my dad
It was deep as hell and made me glad
Glad that the family loved it
Glad that it was easy to write it
Sad that it had to be done at that time
Happy that is was a decent rhyme
I want to get back into the flow of things
Try to get back to writing that's mysterious
I just keep asking myself
Am I serious?

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Please and Thank You

It's funny how different food looks coming up. How the pale yellow of American cheese, the beigey-pink of sliced processed ham, and the white of mayo and Wonder bread turns into a blob of beige with that tinge of orange from the OJ that burns coming up your throat. I can't keep anything down I'm constantly throwing up and my upper lip has perspiration on it from the effort. Why did I even make that sandwich? I should just go on a hunger strike and starve this baby to death. I said baby, that makes it too real, this thing. This thing that has taken over my body and my mind. Every waking moment I'm thinking about this thing. This thing has ruined my life. I buy maxi pads and hide them in my dresser drawers, for three months like clockwork. No one can find out, no one can find out about this thing.

I am the good girl. I make good grades, I'm on the volleyball team. I say please and thank you. I have a steady boyfriend who is on the basketball team who says please and thank you. His dad is a deacon at my church. I am the good girl.

So, why you ask am I in my pink and white gingham bathroom throwing up my ham and cheese. It's simple and complicated, like all things in life. Simply, I am pregnant. I had sex and I was stupid enough not to insist on any type of birth control and now I am pregnant. Complicatedly, this thing in my stomach's father is the deacon, the deacon who is the father of my boyfriend, who says please and thank you.

....

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Tiny Hands

it was only a TV show, not really church,
not really...
but no one told you, so you sang anyway
never mind the twisted tongue
you smiled - willing your flesh to honor your god
it was the only thing that made you smile by then.
and as you raised your tiny hands to heaven
i wondered how he saw your little face
and didn't heal the broken body
or

if not (why not, why not)

then why not take you by your tiny hands
and lift you to the sky...
who could see those tiny hands, after all
and not hold them?

In Loving Memory...

BSY

Sunrise ... 11.11.1946
Sunset ... 06.24.2005

The Beginning...

For all my Diaspora Writers feel free to jump in with a story or add to an already existing story on the blog. Have fun and keep writing!