Thursday, September 29, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
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?
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
New Orleans has no more room to bury.
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.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
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.