I Am White

I am white.

You are also white.

But you have a palette of other colors I do not have.

We both come from Mother Africa but you have the beautiful genes that document your claim. Mine have been washed away over decades, centuries, travels and time.

Danish butter rolls through our veins, you and me, and you also have Norwegian, making you more of a Viking than I am.

Your skin is the color of honey… well made bread… fine sand, ground to softness by tides controlled by the moon.

My skin is old now but when I was younger, my skin was taut and inflexible. Now it gives you something to tease me with.

You were born blue. Your eyes were black like the depths of an underworld cave, and sparkling like an ancient fire. You turned pink within moments after your entrance and later, you began to take on the hues of an Egyptian Queen.

We are Cherokee, you a little more than I, making you braver, more stealthy and able to lean into the wind.

We are French, and English, and maybe a wee Irish, and German, too. There are many colors within us, shapes and sizes.

In our bones, we have the ability to break chains, sail tall ships, write ghazals of love, wipe tears off the face of defeat, leap in the name of victory, count stars and follow comets.

We are connected, like a fragile feather to a wing.

We are the threads of a tapestry and we are here to protect the colors.

for Mimi

Thank you for reading..........

G R E E D

Getting everything you want while

Risking friendships and your reputation

Even if it means having no one to love and being

Empty and devoid of compassion or mercy because the

Dollar is what you worship and there is never, ever enough.  

Prose Monday Challenge - Greed - Acrostic

Thank you for reading.......

A Pinhole of Light in the Darkness

There are so many

bits and pieces of information

floating around the universe

and sometimes

I catch something I want to share but

not everyone is willing to always listen.

Like for example,

palming.

I’ve always thought it

a fascinating concept that

soldiers in early

wars,

before infrared and such farfetched ideas

found their way to battlefields,

men would cover their eyes

with their palms,

blocking out all light and

waiting,

waiting,

waiting

until the moment

they opened their eyes again

and

could detect light

in the darkness. 

Thank you for reading.....

Thoughts Floating in the Path of Memories

Wednesday prompt - Write something about a napkin.....

We drove high into the jungle

A café spread over the grounds of an old hacienda

Clay oven under a brick and palm-frond shelter with the scent of maize escaping into the mist

We sipped sweet sticky drinks, fanned ourselves uselessly

You told me about the child, never born, and you wept for a girl whose name you could barely remember

A huge butterfly, the size and color of a paper napkin, floated by and another and another

Like thoughts spiraling over our heads

Words unspoken

Floating in the path of memories

Thanks for reading..........

My Personal Hijab

Sometimes I wonder, if I was a guy, I’d get more respect if I was a drug addict, alkie, street scum.

As a female, I get less respect in any corner standing next to any man.

I shake my head when I hear scornful talk about “those poor women who are forced to wear a hijab.” Besides being a religious preference, a hijab actually makes a statement in many ways. It says I am not a man. Just call it; tell it like it is. Let me wear my egg on my face and you can know what I am. I will own it.

In my personal world, my hijab is invisible.

It doesn’t matter if I’m in a discussion about the NFL; NBA; construction; traffic; electrical systems in foreign autos;  building management…  I am talked over, ignored, looked down on, and I’ve felt it all my life.

All my female, second class citizen life.

It’s going to take a long time for this treatment to run its course.

Am I voting with my vagina? You can bet your balls I am.

Thanks for reading……….(Wednesday prompt)

Nightmare Behind the Bay Laurel

bay laurel branches loom over head, my arms aching with grocery bags carried eight full blocks, while emaciated filthy blond ponytail in pants that slide down his thighs follows me right to my own back door, can’t remember code, punching in all wrong numbers, over and over and over, and he is closer, closer, closer, I smell his meth, his mess, his aggressive stalk, one long blade held tight to his chest and it is my knife, from my own kitchen, I know that knife, bones my chickens, cars race by on the other side of the tall protective laurel bush that I pluck my bay leaves to use in my soups and stews, no one sees, no one knows what happens on this side of the bay laurel, and his stink is on me and I open my mouth to nothing coming out and punch numbers, punch numbers, arms weak with heavy bags hanging from crooks in elbows, sagging, dropping, eggs, orange juice, soft red grapes, push little buttons harder, not working, fingernails breaking,  mouth, throat, lungs not working, wake up, wake up, wake up from this nightmare...........haunts me. haunts me, time and time again…….

thanks for reading.......
(prose challenge - nightmare)

May 3 - Still missing Mom....She would have been 95 today.

April was an interesting month.

April 1, April Fool’s Day, I helped my former husband celebrate his 73^rd birthday. He was 37 when I met him, and a party would likely have included a bevy of friends in those times. Things change; sometimes drastically. When I received an email from him inviting me to join him for a drink, coffee, whatever… to keep him from observing the day alone, I felt bad. We had a lovely time reminiscing with our dear mutual friend, Jim. This news will surprise some people but I’ve always felt that Breeze got robbed. I did, too, of course, but if you could see him now, having a hard time walking, hearing, multiple health issues that can’t really be solved. I’m the lucky one. Whoever would have seen that back there in the mid-‘90’s, when my life crumbled, over and over again and people disappeared off our radar like gypsy spies.

Some of these poems are for Breeze, but not many. Most of my April Poem-a-Day poems are based on real life. As are my books, which take chapters in my own life and fictionalize characters who have painted my personal canvas with gorgeous, bittersweet, splendid colors. The good news about my novels is the phone call I had April 5th with the marketing director for a small press, Pagespring, who boosted my ego, gave me great advice and promised great things for my future, after I put in a few more drops of blood, sweats and tears.

I’ve lost some followers in the past few years and picked up a few, as well. I won’t troll for followers and realize Blogspot is not an easy site to leave comments on, but I do invite those who like poetry (or enjoy voyeurism) to read April. There's a poem every day. 

Thanks for reading…

LINES - a few minutes past midnight - May 2.........................

Shakespeare wrote lines

My friend Jennifer snorted them

We stood in lines to get food for our babies

While other mothers aborted them

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Thank you for reading.......
(prose challenge - "lines")