Waxing poetic on thoughts, theory & the times
I
never realized I was held
by fear of him
Until I gained the strength
to go;
Until push came hard enough to shove
And I realized
I
was not yet
as fully powerful
As I thought,
While I stayed,
Under his weight;
It was in the run,
In running
Away
That
I
felt the surge
Felt the start
Of me coming into me,
In the run
I
saw who I was
saw who I could be,
Saw myself standing out of his shadow,
And saw what I was capable of;
In leaving,
I
returned.
I deserve
More than I know yet,
I deserve
Because hell I’m worth it,
I deserve
Because I know who I am,
And loving her makes me realize
I can’t expect love, respect and affection from another,
If I can’t expect that from myself,
for myself,
And so I’ll confess it here:
“I love me”;
I am intelligent,
I am wise
I am beautiful,
I am kind,
I am good
I am awe-inspiring
I am all this and more,
And yes, I am god-damn deserving.
Wildflower, grow,
Don’t hold yourself back,
Let your self-empowerment be
A light
That brightens your path
And know it is also an inspiration
For others along their way;
Be a pollinator, wildflower
Of Pride, in self,
Pride in who you are,
Not just what you have done;
As a flower that grew up past concrete,
You are first and foremost
A seemly impossible miracle
That is,
As a living being,
Treat your petals gently, wildflower
And be unafraid
To bloom.
Words are my art
And my ministry;
I write, I speak,
I evoke, I exhale
Words,
Into the ether;
What comes next
of the symbols and breath I share
I cannot contain,
It is with benevolent intention I infuse
These words
That I trust
Will come to settle
Where they are most needed,
With Spirit,
As the guide.
The creaking of the porch swing brings me back,
Back
And forth,
My brown limbs outstretch to power the rocking
And I feel the air brush against them,
Like when I was small
And my legs dangled from a sun-bleached wooden swing
That like my maternal grandparents
I wish were still here today,
This was their house,
The rural abode
Where I, their first grandchild,
And a then newly dubbed city-kid, would return
Again and again,
With memory of toddlerhood here,
Running,
With chubby caramel-colored baby legs
Sitting in and exploring , and feeling the fresh cut green grass,
on this same land;
This was my first home
It always will be,
It was where my mother carried me in body,
Herself breathing in country air,
In this her family home,
It is where I swing now,
With a new bench beneath me,
And older, lengthened tan legs
moving me,
Back and forth,
Still I have always been
Between places,
In movement,
Like this swing,
And that is what I aim still to do,
To swing back between here,
Pennsylvania,
And my New England home of familiarity;
Between the two places
Distinct accents call me back,
And forth,
incantations to return again
And again,
The swing with its own creaking accent calms me
And keeps me in place for now,
Both driven and pulled by nostalgia
While I figure out best laid plans
To be
In each beloved place,
In each their own time.
I often see, hear, and feel hints around me,
Of the ancestral homeland I have never met,
But know of
From the people, stories, and the traditions
Passed on;
Much woven into my DNA,
Evident
In the rhythm of my hips
And movement of my feet
With steps I knew
From childhood,
When encircled by elders
–Dark brown clapping hands ushered on
The skilled footwork of the coy child
Dance, dance,
“Eh! Eh!”
The child smiles shyly,
But honors their request,
With steps that mimic
What she has seen the others’ dress shoes do,
Alas savory smell of a hot soup wafts through the air,
Enticed hungry bellies hurry away from the impromptu dancefloor,
For the beloved dishes awaiting in the next room;
Tiny child hands eager for puff- puff and Fufu
Are re-directed to “wash first”
As the music plays on,
It is the now outdated Makossa sounds of the older generation,
But the tiny ones care not,
They find joy in the sounds,
And this is how they too come to learn,
Ancestral wisdom,
Unknowing the aged messages in the footwork
And the drumming;
The drumming,
in songs,
That helped generations of our peoples,
In Africa,
and in new worlds;
Music that links siblings
Oceans apart,
in this great diaspora
From the motherland.
She of Letters 