Posted in Poetry

Hunger

She…was…always…hungry

Many would consider…her…greedy

Would see her appetite as…insatiable

She tried desperately not to act on its needs

But Hunger always won out

Gnawing persistently at her mental

Forcing her to act

She could not resist its cravings

So…she…suffered

Ashamed of her wanton hunger

Jailed by its immense need

Posted in Poetry

When You Love Me

When you love me

Your hands are gentle

Caressing every inch of my body

Your touch is like silk

Smooth all over my skin

When you hate me

Your hands are rough

Pounding my face and body

Your touch is like a hammer blow

Leaving me battered and bruised

When you love me

You’re always sorry

Saying you’ll never hurt me again

And I, like a fool, believe your words

Just to be pummeled again

When you hate me

Posted in Poetry

The Black Woman

Photo by Houcine Ncib on Unsplash

She holds her head high

Towers over

beat-downs from her men

Stands above

put-downs from the media

Lives life

against the grain

with a deck of cards stacked against her

She stands

Arms outstretched and open wide

Hands upturned, fingers splayed

the weight of her people upon her

Still she stands

Fiercely in opposition

against all injustice

Fighting valiantly for

her sons, her daughters

taking the bumps and the bruises

hailed at her by society

with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face

She stands

Posted in Poetry

Poetically Aloof

I’m as distant as the meaning of an obscure poem. People hang on my every word, even though, my words drip

with poisonous cynicism. I make them laugh as I flit from person to person, hovering, my nerves on edge, ready to strike

I am a murder hornet, searching for honeybees to decapitate. They fall into my hands unwittingly, caught up in my spell

of poetics. Similes and soliloquies keep them captivated. One would think I am friendly, the way they swarm

around me. I feel like a queen. Maleficient, draped in black, a raven resting on my shoulder. I shoo them away

with a flick of my wrist, swat them down like a fly swatter. The people are pests, surrounding me, bothering me with

their quibbling and smiles, begging me to speak, to lay upon them, sonnets and villanelles and sestinas of words

Words, words, words. If I could not speak I would surely die