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Day 6

When YouTube sent e-mails that you posted your latest work.

You made our belly’s rumble with excitement before we ever heard your voice.

You always wanted to be remembered.

You saw fame like a bulletproof vest.

We forgot to tell you that words kill.  

We played your songs hoping that ringing of gun shell applause would stop.

When you heard the shots go out did you think that it was the backbeat to the latest bounce song?

Do you regret that your last words tasted like gun smoke?

Mothers always tell their children to not be messy,

When you took the name, did you expect so many people to follow?

You asked “Who’s gon pop the Messy Mya”?

Are you satisfied with the answer?

Does the music you loved so much sound better from above?

Anthony

When they called you messy did you mistake that for a compliment?

St. Anthony and North Rosh ablaze

How fitting that God had angels dispatched on short notice,  

1 month before your birthday

1 month before your son’s first day.

I wonder if his breathing labored since he would now be living for two.

He will only know his father in nine minute intervals.

Did we not call your death a hate crime because you were too dark to have a law named after you    

When you would say “Follow me camera.”

We were not supposed to follow you long enough for twitter to swallow your last breaths.

You had so many hits that day.

Did you feel them?

Do they still weight you down?

Children still have your death on their screensaver as to not forget

Another son,

 New Orleans has no more room to bury. 

Day 5

To the woman who falls in love at least 3 times a week.

I would like to talk to your mirrors,

I would ask them not to deceive you

that your heart is not a Venus fly trap that men are dying to get in.

Love is blind but it should at least point you in the right direction.

 You are waiting for hands that don’t feel so foreign

to hear I love you without hidden motives tucked in its curves.

You are an everlasting spring

That would give anything to be sucked dry

You have more purpose than to have people use you as a quencher of thirst.

The cat calls never get old even though you act like they do.

You resemble the image of a woman, who is whole,

But there are holes in your soft tissue

you try to remind yourself that you use to call that spot  inner peace.

It weighs you down like bricks on the doorsteps of a

 big easy waterlogged house that is never coming back.

Those 3 times that love knocks on your door,

One of your acts of kindness should be for yourself.

You move so fast from rejection that you

Can’t see your blessings staring you in the face.

It is begging you to love the simple things

And stop falling for sinking stones.

Your body is not a storage unit.

It is not a wasteland waiting to be filled.

So the next time your reflection tries to tell you what you need

Tell her you have better things to do like loving yourself.

 The one person that needs you the most,

And she will be there whenever you stop looking for validity in shadows. 

Day 4

When I was 8 I asked God for a little sister and

to never have to spend another summer at my  grandmother’s house.

The next day my father left like all too familiar rolling stones

for big stages and fast woman

My mother decided that her education and new boyfriends were

 more important than remembering that no matter what a daughter says,

that a mother’s love is always wanted.

And he killed the wrong grandmother.

I learned that you should be careful want you ask for.

For years, I have thought that our connection was as unreliable as

A boy telling you that you can’t get pregnant the first time.

Is my life the lesson you want someone else to learn from?

When I asked you to remember me

I didn’t think you would start our conversation, last name first

Enlisting my body to a no man army,

Sometimes I feel like I would have been better being left your unmolded clay.

When I asked you for a intervention

 I didn’t know it would be in the form of

Double parent disappearing acts.

When I was a kid I remember believing in believing.  

I am now sentenced to doubting the very hand that you

said would always be there for me to hold.

I edit our conversations so I wouldn’t be the only

one that doesn’t have a story with you as the main character.

Don’t pass by me another day without letting me know

That you still have a smile the Devil envy’s

A heart that is the baseline of our footsteps.

Hands that holds broken dreams in his spare time

Arms that never get tired of holding this

broken pot I have made of myself

A back that is still strong enough to carry my sins

A nose that smells the truth

Even I stink of fairytales and little white lies.

Ears that hear my screams late at night in alcohol pillow

And a shadow that protect me,

Even when we I stopped protecting myself.

These days my only wish is that you become my hero again.

This 8 year old is still waiting for a miracle.

Waiting to stop thinking and believing again. 

Day 3

When I die can they bury me in your smile?

Trace me in the wave patterns of your hand,

Move me in your stomach until you are filled with me.

I can’t dream about having you tomorrow,

When there are so many things I want to do to you now.

Like I want to hold the burden of your last name,

Carve your fears in my womb so I can birth you hope.

Can you hold my hand through a miracle?

I know Jesus turned water into wine,

But can you turn me into your wife.

Don’t be too big of a man to not need me.

I make this task so easy.

How dare you shield yourself away from me?

There are flashing lights in your hand,

Don’t be so blind to miss them.

When I ask for your hand it is not just to lead you into dark rooms,

But for parks and plays,

I want to show you music that can vibrate your spine.

Sing you into me.

Play me moans in the key of G.

You will never leave empty.

Your stomach still growls my name when you’re hungry.

And will not be as often as you think.

We will be a timeless and boom sticks waiting to be jumped over.

So when I ask you if love is a possibility.

Do not watch sand drift between us.

This will not become a trilogy by just reading each other mind.

Hoping that the other will not figure out that our baggage

 is too much for any one person to handle.

That the weight we carry is easier for two to share.

Our love will not just break headboards but we will force time to stand still.

Cause all we asked for is each other.

Even when we didn’t know each other yet. 

Day 2

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t a poet.                                       

 Wish I had attractive words to say to you                          

 Wish I didn’t have to hide behind malnourished metaphors and my shifting ego.                                                 

 Wish I could give you long awaited love letters signed....Good Morning.                                                                     

She has never seen your eyes.

She gives all she has with no more

Purpose that just to know your name.

A name your uncle gave you unwillingly.

They cracked him open like an all to memorized paperback.

You were too young to read your purpose in stones.

Your mother still dreams of you knowing that Southern California is not the only place where it never rains.

 It is not the only land that claims you.

There are fried plantains finding shelter in your core.

Maybe that is why your words are so sweet.

I wish I could take sounds out your mouth

 like always and never.

you are full of them.

Our God would like you to stop picking up strays

He has never comfortable with the distance you keep

 from your hands to your heart.

Maybe that’s why the performer in you

 is never happy for too long.

There are glow boxes inside that need to know you are safe.

I wish I could call you safe.

You are what my mother never told me about.

Hope.

You feed it to me on a plate of your smiles.

And I am selfish with the time I steal from others to be around you.  

I wish I could break things like you can.

You are so good at not seeing what was already there.

Maybe your heart is encased with the

 same stones that forgot to tell you your name.

Maybe it crumbles at my voice.

I wish you crumbled at my voice.

Saw how I tried to suck your ex-girlfriends name out

But you kept the worst parts of her in your teeth.           

But you say you like to stay dirty.

Can’t strip too much of them away

 what else would you possibly have to tell us.

You say your scars are a reminder of

when gravity met you face first.

Did you know that scars have a funny way of never staying in their place.

They seem to find a home where they are not welcome.

She was not there picking up ,left over parts you decided not to hate.

You keep looking for the wrong ribs to save you.

You are comfortable in goodbyes.

So I tell you hellos as loud and as often as possible

Because this hello is really I love you

This hello is wishing that I wasn’t a poet

Wishing I could say what I really mean

But I will hide behind pretty teeth and lies

Cause its safe.

And you’ll just be another poet I say hello to. 

My version of a Pantoum

So this is National Poetry Month and I am going to try to write 30 poems in 30 days.. I have been posting these on Facebook.. but my blog needs some love too.. so lets go 

 

1.30

There is an old woman, that lives inside me,

She grows old and tired every breath that we take.

She asks me for a glass of water,  but I told her this is my body.

She leaves me sometimes and I feel so hollow when she returns.

She grows old and tired every breath that we take

She wants me to remember her name but it’s hard to spell out my own

She leaves me sometimes and I feel so relieved to feel my body

I never asked for second chances or fair warning

She wants me to remember her name because I will be the only thing left to tell her story

I want her to be young again so I can talk to the old woman crawling to get out of her

She never asked me for a second chance or fair warning.

She said my name is Javonne, live for yourself because I will never know your name.

There was an old woman, who lived inside me.

I wanted her to be young again, but she never got a chance to see the old woman swim out of her

She said my name is Javonne, live for yourself, I will die and you will honor our names.

She asked me for a glass of water, I cried and said you can have this body. 

Sheila .. gone but def not forgotten

So I have not been on my blog in a while and I could say that it was school or touring but in honesty i have been lazy, but right now I want to talk about my friend Dr. Sheila Siobhan. I never knew how to say her last name , but I guess we have always been on first name basis. When I came on the scene, to most people I just appeared and just never left, but it took me a long time to come to neo-soul, even more so to say that I was a poet and this was my new family. For the first time in my life I felt like I belonged somewhere and poetry was something that I was really good at so I stayed with it. The first time I ever got on a mic was at Ruta Maya on June 30th, the day that Shannon died. I never met Shannon but from that moment on I felt a connection with her and her family. I even showed my support by going to her memorial. I guess in hine sight, who shows up for a memorial service to someone that she never met, but I was determined to go and that was when i met Sheila. The first thing I ever said to her is "I didn't know your daughter, but I can tell she lived with no regrets", Sheila told me "Did you know that 'No Regrets' was tattooed on her arm". I told her no and she invited me to her house for the re pass ( Louisiana term for dinner after the funeral). At the time I was living by myself in Austin and really didnt have family here. Sheila, along with some people in neo soul, took me and has never let me go. Through all my highs and lows Sheila has always been there. Now I will not say that we didnt have our disagreements but we loved each other beyond bullshit.. She was family, no other way to put it. When I think of Austin, I think of Shelia, there is no way around that. I miss my friend, it is hard to try to understand that she is not here. That I cant text her or message her on FB. I wish i talked to her more when i left Austin, but I was so upset. None of that matters now, I know that she loved me and that is what important. If I had to do it again, I would change nothing. i would not change a thing. She was so strong, I only know of one of woman that had the grace that she did after losing her child and that is my Auntie and the mother of my middle namesake Javonne. Sheila i love you and I will miss you something stupid. Thank you for letting me go to Chicago and all the work we did together for the youth. i am never going to forget your hugs and love. thank you Thank you thank you

Nappy Independence.

My Mother says that my hair is a phase…

 still in the never ending search of finding myself.

She is thick with heavy hands and a mouth full of unnecessary opinions

 She tells people  

“She had such beautiful hair until she did that”

As if my hair was putting us back in rusted chains.

My kinks and curls are not an embarrassment.

And I make no apology for them.

It reminds her of all that toby and kizzy in our veins.

You just can’t relax away what was already there.

I am finally comfortable in this alabaster skin

that God thought I was strong enough for.

There are bodies swinging in these roots

 I am not afraid to hear the crack of the

 trees given in to their weight.

I know I have good hair weather I straighten it, keep it nappy or lock it up.

Modern menstrual shows will never

 be able to stop this mane from growing.

I am what I always have been.

Beautiful

There's a app for that.

So I can blog via my android. This it great.no more excuses. Let's go

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