Oak

Unrequited,
quiet
I can't hear my song
with all of this
thumping in my chest
of steps taken by men with no clear destination
just up
where on my knees
I floated my fragmented peace,
to the Son
I heard was a carpenter.

Black Coffee

You would think she felt it
the way she melts syllables into song
tip toeing on her tongue
losing their balance on the rim then
falling on to her audience
they call her black
because she has skin like scrolls
with no more room to write
wrongs, but she keeps finding places
like the lips of a gutter
she sips coffee without cream or sugar
waiting on this feeling
to walk through the door
and it will, but it won't take it's shoes off
tracking mud all through her home
on her raw knees
scrubbing
the paper clean

French Kissing

Translating a foreign tongue.

Janie

Night fell on her, seeping in,
leaving stars sprinkled on her skin
the moon stood in awe.
her art beat loud
and you could read the lines of her lashes
blinking, the preface to infinity.

Girls Who Wear Glasses

I was inspired by Nikki Giovanni's childrens poetry book (hence the simplicity and the perfect rhymes) . I thought hmmm what would my 13 yr old self want to read...and if I have a daughter what would I want her to read, this is what I came up with. If you can relate to this poem(maybe you never grew out of your 13 yr old self like me) I would love to hear your story... maybe expand the poem by incorporating some of your experiences...leave it in the comments section

We are the friend, the homie,
the permanent third wheel
and we need to loosen up
because we don't know how to have fun
we are the test you cheat off of
we are the stiffs, the ones that get looked over
at parties that we snuck in
we cry in private and snort in public
we push our frames up with our middle fingers
and love it!
we aren't cheerleaders
we aren't a slutty version of something for Halloween
we have crushes that crush us
but we raise our hands
and listen to obscure indie bands
whose lead singer wrote a hit
about a girl he fell in love with
that wore glasses just like him.

Pomegranate

An endless war fought in vein
a tongue that paints outside the lines
Pomegranate similes
a song that no one hears
a soliloquy
a kept promise in a heart shaped box
padlocked
like brown eyes in brown eyes then
nothing less, everything more
caramelized metaphors
he is, no like or as

Ginger

Your laugh has too many lines
but I'd spend my time trying to count them
and if I could I would engrave them in my hand
and have my palm read over and over again

Cinnamon Sticks In My Tea

Love?
I can’t put it in my pocket
Or draw hearts around it
But these lips
having a conversation with
yours
You
unbuttoning my thoughts
existing in the space between
orange and green
on leather leaves
before they kiss
the ground, or
snatched by the wind
and locked
in a sentence
without a period
like sticks of cinnamon
in my tea

Ralph Ellison

I was born in the sun
and raised in the night sky
until I fell on a page
that made me aware of
the color of my ink
it is too dark
but if it were
any brighter
they couldn't see me.

Untitled

Don't slow down
there is nothing to see here
stale years are waiting to be released
locked behind curled bars
she could fill up wells with her clear ink
he is a clenched fist
that she has been trying to hold hands with
sometimes you invite the hurt in
and hope it doesn't stay long
but it became home
pieces of her poem
have been shoved into jeans pockets
next to blunt wraps and condoms
dragging her dreams along
crack ridden streets
then sneaking in to morning.

August 8th 11:25pm

She was such a pretty girl, with caramel curls and words that burned like raw morning

Write Backwards

Knife. tongue. scarred. lips.
will make this kiss
a little difficult
an ocean with a map
trying to fit into the mouth of a river
flow back words
and catch the fall
but there is a verbose boiling
in this bed
seven heart attacks
in the past four years
passing the past on
like it isn't vivid black
but it is like the first line
repeated as the last. knife.

You Are

My momma named me after
somebody on General Hospital
so I am a poet named Ashley, revolutionary
because you can't scrub the sun off my skin
they pull out their index
at the sight of me, Medusa's kin
their fear is man-made
and past its expiration date
but they still keep refilling their prescription
who is this fucked up pharmacist?
for them, there is venom in my pen
and I'll make them swallow this black licorice
if they speak of the other in colors
wrapped around crayons
that kids struggle to get off
and adults stick on their left breast pocket
they will lay on their labels
six feet deep in a sheet
I am fascinating, exotic,
a white girl dipped in chocolate?
a subject to be mastered
a sample under a microscope
someone should have told me to prepare
for this show
I tried to write a script
but all I could come up with
is this...

She even promised herself she wouldn't write about him

She is three weeks from lonely
her honey isn't as sweet as it use to be
she use to kind of sing her words
like Billie's vibrato over strings
you could slow dance
under a half moon to her metaphor
but that was before
now she has coal rimmed eyes
and nothing on her lips but smudged
disappointment
He made flowers drink heavily
and lightening bugs catch fire mid flight
but he will be remembered as nothing special
by her ink.

Run

Don't run
keep your wings buried in your skin
don't let them breathe
don't breathe
exhale a little when he sleeps
beat cracked cement with broken feet
apologize when your clumsy heart
bumps into his fixed mind
paint over his scarlet letter
handcuffed in tarnished gold rings
believe that you are too old to be new
don't run
you can't begin again,
when you started at the end.

Untitled

Kiss with caution
she has a gun locked behind her lips
tongue on trigger
and she's never missed
soiled fingernails indicate
she has been buried alive in hurt
there is dirt in her lungs
so she doesn't waste her words on men
he goes to church every Sunday
but he is sin coated in cinnamon
roams like lightning
and carries red paint chips
in his pocket
they ended with others
a month ago
but when the sun follows its shadow home
breathing is the soundtrack
hers, his
track 6, the interlude.

With Her Eyes Closed

Her window is in sight
its right above her cheekbone
but the fall is still too far
and she never forgets to set her alarm
but she has to write down her dreams
and if they happen
to visit during the day
like sun rays on smoke
they are evaporated by night
she has flames
flowing through her veins
but no fire escape
she is purple ribbon
wrapped in wire
she assigns numbers to her plans
that will one day involve kids,
a husband living in beige rooms
even though her favorite color
is green
she doesn't know the simple
the soft middle
hearts put back fast
and then stolen again
hers is stiff and still
the trees are the only ones
that understand
so when no one is looking
she whispers to them
can I leave with you?

Black Codes

Complete the census
Fill in the box
with a primary color
Secondary? no, you're other
so carry I.D.
Drink the kool-aid
but don't talk about drinking Kool-Aid
or eating chicken
not in front of them
and remember always
carry I.D, preferably the census
Curve your spine
picking tomatoes
for my fries
that someone skinny
will pretend to eat
so they can sell it back to
me
We need to compete
put up 5 more Burger Kings
in the same vicinity
between those liquor stores
but make sure there is
no place to buy
organic tomatoes
then call up your president
we need to check
his birth certificate.

New

Break up, fast.
break down, slow.
the ashes float in the air
and settle on the sea
the fish feed on the broken tomb
and this is new,
and this is new.
there is a murmur
steel drum low
between her toes
that climbs red vines
hoping to find its' home
and this is new
she takes a bite out of the moon
before she decides to
share it with you
no Nat King Cole
she has soul like Nina Simone
and this is new

Cast Iron Skillet

Her hands smell like garlic
Crouched next to dirty laundry
She presses her knees into damp carpet
I'm not supposed to hear
so I claw scar tissue,
recite monogamyths
and she, starts sentences with "chiiillllddd.."
then digs into an almost empty fridge
and seasons Mondays leftover's
with basil
to bring out the sweetness
and while her index runs down
the sheet music
I tell her his name


"I know him
he can hear your soliloquy
and has fingers like black keys
that find themselves in faulty
locks, and his
are perfect
long enough to be wrapped
around your stomach
like velvet melodies
but you are not the only one
in his rhythm
and you will never be."
she grabs the salt
throws it over her left shoulder
and says
"Chiiillldd, you are looking under rocks
for your wings."

Tongue Kiss a Stranger

Have you ever tongue kissed a stranger?
parted your lips
and gently slipped private letters
into their subconscious
to where they can't be reached without a key.
have you stolen a staccato breath
so that they know
how it feels when you're running on a sentence
and you don't want it to end,
mess up the rhythm,
or you simply can't remember
what you wrote after aaannnnddd...
have you painted their mouth with your pen.
drew hieroglyphics on their cheeks
to be discovered by the next memory;
noted that they taste like
strawberry preserves without the seeds.
I do this regularly
tongue kiss strangers
and with a mic and a stand I might
kiss you too.
c'mon, it's just a little wordplay

Speaker

I don’t feel like writing tonight
But this vomit needs to vacate my system
Because the acid is burning my esophagus
Making it hard to swallow
So I’ll spit
Or rather let this volcano erupt
Like its girlfriend wants it to be celibate
but it can’t restrain its lust
Spewing black lava over dead trees
Consuming all of the white
But none of the lines
None of the sweet steam after
a May rain
Or the pucker face made
After eating sour candies
No, those are for me.
The book of my mind that my heart recites
With every I
That pumps out of my arteries
But it doesn’t burn
it blazes
Searing whatever happens
When the moon is lit into my skin
Leaving brail wrapped around my limbs
To be read only by the blind
Who would rather hear it on a mic
Than see it in real time
This is how I wrinkle my sheets
My waste basket is full of these
almost comings
I’m pro-creation
So sometimes I try to seduce metaphors
With my kiss
I tempt them with my tongue on accident
Thinking I’m rhyming internally
when in all actuality
I’m speaking out loud
I don’t need a speaker
I am one
I speak her, I speak him, I speak them
Through God’s fist
Pounding on your door
At 5 in the morning
Just hoping, you’ll listen.

Flying Low

Trees drink heavily
while the naive night falls
with nothing to catch it
my bones are soaked
skin is slipping off
flat on my belly
hands reaching for the wind
to hold them
they yell at me
come down from there
but I never left
I'm right here, ear to soil
listening to a black seed rise
his mother calls his name
as she will many times with no reply,
with no reply
his name tries to walk away
but the sun picks him up
suspended, we spin
until it pours
in spite of predictions of a
clear Friday afternoon
from a man that is usually wrong,
but inevitably trusted
and no sooner do I land,
I'm looking out the window
to fly again.

Pretty for a Black Girl

Unless your name is Ebony
Your momma lied to you
Your name is tar candy
You will swallow it when necessary
And spit it out
When necessary
You will check it on white forms
That only recognize
Three other colors besides yours
You will be an African violet
With roots unseen
buried deep beneath American history
your full lips and hips
Will be beautiful on everyone but you
You be will called a bitch, and a ho
By your brothers
In melody
But you will dance anyway
You will be covered in
A chocolate, caramel, toffee blend
that men consume through videos
You will be crayon colors
high yellow
and red boned
labels you will try to rip off
And place on others
You will wear barrettes and braids
And headscarves at night
You will fight and be called angry
be calm, and be called angry
you will be Christian
but ignorant of any other faith
and you will not know change
except as his token
but what you will be
is not what you are
you are Angela, Correta, Nikki,
Billie and Rosa
descendants of Cleopatra
gift wrapped in golden skin
that have been burdened with royalty
and beaten to bow
and still
with straightened spine
and tarnished crown,
you march.

Prepare Your Eyes and Ears

Everyone is doing it, and I am a sucker for peer pressure (I listened to N'Sync, so yea). So here I am. Writing to myself, to my friends (who I will harass to read this), and whoever stumbles upon my page by accident. This is me, in a lot of words.