Waxing poetic on thoughts, theory & the times
What magick did I make as a child;
Undercovers imaging the future?
Let me remember this art,
To manifest a future in which I
Am loved, by one I can trust,
A romantic and life partner who will never hurt me.
Beautiful life with cracks
Where the light gets in
And out.
May it be so.
(Post relocated from my Thepurplepaintedbutterfly.wordpress.com blog)
There is beauty
In acknowledging and thereby experiencing
Another’s happiness;
I am happy,
Because you are,
May we find this truth
Whether our joys of origin
Be synchronized,
Or not.
Blessed be.
(Post relocated from my Thepurplepaintedbutterfly.wordpress.com blog)
As a child
Kids tauntingly called me,
for reasons I could not see,
“Tina Turner”.
I balked at the comparison
That I could not understand
Because
That
Was not my name.
I scoffed
Because I was just a child,
And not, however old the singer was then;
I hated it.
I hated it because
I couldn’t understand
What being black and beautiful
Even as a child meant
And yes, often
It meant gazes of judgment from foreign eyes
About who and what I was
It mean negative perceptions
But it also meant the good.
And now I appreciate my mother’s response
That the tears of this child could not fathom then.
“They called me Tina Turner, again”
“Yes”,
And I was reminded that I had just been
awarded,
an unintentional compliment;
Of comparison to one of the
Greatest of all time:
The astonishing gorgeous,
Talented,
Resilient,
Powerhouse
Who is
Tina Turner.
“Why not be proud?”
This poem is not inspired by a tragedy,
It is inspired by lives that lived,
Albeit shorter than expected,
Lives that lived
With truth and love and conviction,
In innocence,
This is for their individual lives of uniqueness,
That inspire still
Even once their visible light
Goes unperceived
By human senses
This spirit has always craved mystery
Of trying for the seemingly impossible;
And yet it fears failure
At the end of a long game;
It fears erasure,
Fears unsaved progress,
Lost
But that was then,
This is now
Game Genie,
Changed it all,
Shifted the odds,
Way back when,
But it was never really the game
or the game system
That was at stake;
It was the mind,
The controller of the hands
holding the game control,
It was the mind shuffling between
Levels of life,
Competition in game,
At school,
At home,
From which friends were those
Fellow players
Sifted out and held close,
For keeps.
Along the way
The cartridges get dusty,
The disks scratch,
The software glitches,
We become tired,
We get distracted
We stop playing, because
Life…
Our fingers need only work the buttons once more,
To remember the sequences,
To do it just
Right
To beat that Boss,
To escape that trap,
To remember it was never
About winning it all
On the first try,
Unless you had “backup”,
I, you, we all
Were never meant to game alone,
But we got older
And we saved our games
And some tucked them away,
Forgetting
Each other
We got older
Our relationships got complicated
And became new games,
Complete with bosses
And real became fake, and fake real
Never mind the console,
Or the title
truthfully,
We are all trying to beat it,
This epic game.
We get minor victories,
And the harsh truth being
We will all eventually get
Game Over
In radically accepting
My eventual,
final KO,
eventually,
I strive to make my own sequences;
Reset to replay my favorite games;
Reconnect with my backup;
And break the rules
That bound me to a fear of failure
If I am going to one day end
I can not
live the game
Afraid to even play.
I said it.
All so out of ordinary
For my heart’s modus operandi,
Here I can not deny,
I watch my words,
For of this
I can not lie,
Nor to this 1.
She of Letters 