Platinum Song


I seek the soul of words
That marks the beginning of words
That the gods of the eyes
Watch me from the depths
Makes me tremble and rejoice
As to savor the honey of paradise.
Oh! The light of light, the soul-star
Let the future be a platinum ballad
Take the dream ship, for,in no time
It shall arrive at the city of the giant
 
 
                        Outside the Universe of Sapphire

Don’t you think the key is sweet
If it condenses into a diamond in solitude
And its song unlocks the portals to unseen gold?
You have discovered a new paradise!
Have the eyes of the juvenile once again
You have boarded the platinum ship
And the giants welcome you.
Set off! Outside the universe of sapphire
Explore the Kingdom of the Souls!!
 

                                 Words Such as God


​Winter comes and winter goes
 Until boots back the golden spring.
 My soul has boarded the dragon car of Gods
 And has just called on the kingdom of 72 planets.
 
Words such as God, where everyone is king
 When their sun blossoms to you, forever
 You will forget the world and forget the years.
 

                                August in Aspen Hill
 


Despite the coming storm, butterflies
flutter over the crape myrtle.
They touch on its flowers,
scarlet clusters, heavy in no wind
under the puffy, steel-gray sky.
The temperature drops, the last hour’s
stifling, sweating heat becoming
cool and chill.  Yellow butterflies
hover like the last glint
of sunlight on dark leaves.
 
 
 
 
 
                                      Almost Solstice


Walking after dinner, she shivers.
The wind is ruffling the trees. 
It ought to be warmer
beneath this sky with only
scuffs of white clouds.  She
shivers, drawing her sweater closer.
Spring is almost over.  Solstice
approaches.  She passes by
 the catalpa, popcorn flowers tiny
next to giant leaves.   White
dogwoods linger over red roses. 
In the park, young cattails
and milkweed overwhelm the pond. 
She cannot see beneath the surface. 
Northern mockingbirds prepare for tonight.
They will make her believe
that two am is almost dawn.


 
                                            Fusion #2 


Referring to food or cooking that incorporates elements
of diverse cultures.  Standing at the fusion restaurant’s
window open to the rain pitting the broken sidewalk
on Florida Avenue, I think
about the meatballs my Irish-American grandmother
made.  She placed a tiny bit of garlic on each globe,
then pushed it down to the center with her thumb,
then reshaped the globe.  I wonder what
she would cook now in these evenings
of tofu tacos with peanut sauce,
of sweet potatoes and collard greens dotted
with sriracha and yogurt.  I remember
Grandma’s lime jello mold salad
with pineapples, coconuts, mandarins, and
celery that she served at Thanksgiving
with turkey, sausage stuffing, and apple pies.

                                                 ROOTS
 
     After the ward grows hushed,
broken vaguely by the creak of wheels,
whispers at the desk, a distant flush,
     or the half-footfall
of a dragging leg, I sit and think
of you before your mind assumed its dark.
 
     That flat bush by the gate
you leapt with barely a run-up, is a tree
so densely packed and twisted it must die
     under its own weight.
Remembering how we bent its limbs like bows,
it's hard to grudge it that grotesque repose
 
     except I find its calm
a kind of mockery of your hollowed state,
it leans aside and waits a final storm
     while your forever night
remains undrawn, unmeasured. That a mind
should simply vanish, is beyond unkind
 
     but what are we to do?
Say plainly this is how it was and is,
that whether we know or not, the same day passes,
     but pay what reverence is due
to memory broken like a stepped-on shoot,
the dark-green tracery of withered roots.
 
 
 
 
                                        A RUN OF DISTANT NOTES
 

Through corridors just wide enough for one,
walls cool and smooth, we file into a room
that once was two nuns' cells.
I look out at a February lawn,
grass roots split as if by an act of will
by snowdrops almost too frail to bloom.
 
Sick too long, the aunt who hasn't been
herself for thirty years, the aunt we knew;
swaddled in starch and drips,
her breath so shallow it may well have stopped,
her eyes dilate in light but give no clue
of what goes on within;
 
who long ago became a memory
even as she lost hers. This is the end,
this time, and no conjecture
on mental emptiness, that dried-up river,
gives any comfort; nor infinity:
the sun sets never to rise again.
 
But when thin morning breaks, she will at last
become complete and human as the dead,
more than she is at present, giving
us leave to remember how at first
she filled her years with music, slowly moving
toward the silence in her head,
 
and how, when all else failed, a run of distant
notes could stir something more - or less -
than memory; and how like smoke
it vanished. But that phrase, never forgotten
by those who heard it, lingers somewhere, like
a promise or a hope of bliss.
 
 
 
                                                 EARTH
 

Now that the long forgetting is over,
let thoughtless earth receive you, as is proper,
but know that you have become entire
again, at last like every other.
 
 
 
                                               THE STUDIO
 

Hands flow through gestures -
half-moon, peacock,
flag, mountain-peak,
then the body dog-folds
and the back like Atlas holds
the world in posture.
 
Noon in the studio.
The floor is warm
to the toes and palms
of those who wish to go
into the East, or into a self
that will endure, as if
 
their own world, cleft
from shoulder to heel,
could be made whole
by the crane, the flower,
and a stretched, held hour
would heal that rift.
 
 
                                                 EGGS
 

​
In a momentary light where every wall
                     is white, and day waits to sink,
this time in empty silence,
 
a drunk weaving home, his t-shirt
blue as a boy’s, carries in his head
a clutch of speckled eggs
 
lifted from a hedge on a morning
that never was, clotheslines riotously bright,
aerials gleaming like rocket-silver.
 
Against the gathering hill, he threads
between pavement cracks, avoiding flowers
whose names he doesn’t know.
 

                                           For You
 

​
This month her depression began.
He obsessed her.
She tied her heart with ribbon like a present,
Licking his fingers and kissing his feet.
 
Words failed her.
She breathed him in like a terrible secret,
A childless woman beneath the ivory moon.
But what about his eyes, his eyes, his eyes.
 
Walking in the Winter trees
Were his shadows in the fog.
He was innocent as a lamb.
Sleep, my Angel,
 
Deaf and dumb
As the drugged summer sun.
My Love,
I want you.


                                                 Love Me



Two friends.
Chalk and cheese, gelled with want.
The shy one with silver sticks
That clunked on wooden boards
Skipped to a secret song.

And him, a gauzy giant,
The bitter scat his excuse.
It shines for special occasions,
Shouting about life of biting tongues:
I am history reinvented.

Blink twice. I am not out of the ordinary.
He tells me how I have a nervous laugh
And how nice
The mice looked, strung up in grey wire.
An easy spear through each socket.

Would I like to walk with them?
It would be like kissing the flute
With my eyes smoking and hissing,
Ash sinking in each pit.
Let me roll in icy pools.

The Other does that,
Hair wet and black,
Tossing acid.
Do you ever sleep?
He wants to be loved.

I do not react.
The sun lets them in,
The moon breaks in two.
Bell, once.
Bell, twice.

One is finished.
 
 
                                          Dear Sister
 

It is Winter here.
Snow has fallen.
“I am afraid”, said the moon.
She is beautiful tonight.
 
Now it is darker than December.
What is dead is a different colour.
My dead sister is neither a man nor a woman.
She is a ghost.
 
We do not speak of her
Anymore.
I turn away from mirrors
When I see her reflection.
 
The dead can no longer see
I no longer care.
O Lord of darkness,
I want my innocence.
 


                                         Night’s End
 


Snow had fallen, I remember,
At the night’s end.
Do you hear his voice?
I am never alone.
 
And at the end?
I do not live.
It is forbidden to die.
The winds are changing.
 
Our dead brother waited
Undiscovered,
But very dark, very hidden,
As the earth became black.
 
The field was parched and dry,
Filled with death already.
You walk through it.
You see nothing.



                                     Sunday School



Madeline loves it
And sits as Mother would.
The priest is like her Father
Dressed all in grey,

Palms fluttering with
Paper clowns,
Legs and arms spinning anti-clockwise
Like the priest's eyes slide

From side to side.
We are his for an hour
But he cannot touch us,
For we are jewels to be watched,

And, one day taken.
Nobody has ever held his hand
But Grandmother, with rings like
Little girl's warnings.

This is my house of God,
Rain thundering as
Unanswered questions.
Their faces are taught and chilled with frost.

He is the bee of androgyny
Thrusting candelabras as tusks.
This drone of activity,
It is all too much for me.

 Faces dumb as naked dolls.
He strips them, licking them with stars
Like potential girlfriends
Or meats to be weighed.
 
 
                                            Young Love



When you were five
And I was six,
We would hold hands
Just like this.

When you were nine
And I was ten,
We made a pact
To never tell, and then:

You began to tell me every word
That escaped from your lips, with cold secret stares.
A look or a glance through long
Fingertips. Your beautiful face.

I see you sitting by the stair, your body
Tight in hot sun, a sad lamb
On stage. And when I have passed you
Flushed red raw, I want to remember

How young we were.
Splayed out across the pitch
Like baby starfish, pink and pinched
As tongue's blood.

Our father and mother are in silent reverie,
With knotted wrists and electric hair,
Nodding and clapping, as dumb waiters do
To our games. When we are together we are together.

Today we are family as the ill
Walk in lines, with shaken smiles that marry us.
Mother, to me you are a figure of fun.
Father, you are a child when you wake up each morning.



                                     She Chose Red



It is Winter.
He dragged her through the snow,
Her heart in her hand.
She was trying to be special.

In her room
Is a barbed cage.
She made it herself.
She waits inside with a needle in the dark.

Exiled.
Chewing her own hair.
They don't talk to her.
Her mouth is full of hair.

She chose red.
Dreamer, how did you get so low?
Anywhere you go,
She will follow.

She is a slut called Jezabel.
There is sunshine in an empty place.
Her birthday: a black death.
The rush she gets. Machina.

Her cousin is a spider.
Withdraw.
Now give her an inch, a mile.
She is a beautiful liar.

Aphrodisiac.
She crawled out from the sea.
A horse drinks from the dark water
Dieing, vapourous.
 
 

                                      Baby's Breath
 


On rainy days
I give myself permission
 
To touch the glass
And see your remains:
 
Tissues, shadows,
All that is left
 
Of you.
Dancing with ghosts
 
Over dark hills.
Skylarks, old dear.
 
When I stand in your old room
I feel so sad that I masturbate myself.
 
Bees feast in tartan plumes,
Birds hanging on threads.
 
An old donkey hobbled
Into the mists.
 
Ring-a-ring-a-roses.
A pocket full of posies.
 
Your tiny hands tremble away
From my throat. Jack-daw.




                                                                  Seeing Things
 

My face is changing
And no one else can see it.
I am in an asylum for weeks.
And no one else can see it.
 
My face changes
Like a rainbow or a storm cloud.
 
I am a snake now
In the mirror.
We photograph what I can see
And talk about it.
 
My eyes are shrinking.
My hair is shrinking,
Growing longer today.
I don't know where it goes.
 
I think it shrinks away
Into my skull
Choking all of my thoughts
Until I have nothing left.
 



                                 God, He Is In The Air
 


God, he is in the air,
Rushing through the wind and
Over the hills.
Coming at her in waves at the seashore.
 
Grey gusts
Colour her cheeks crimson
As a bandstand balloon.
She doesn't know why.
 
Polka dot flags
Hang in the air
For Madeline to stuff into her pinafore
In handfuls.



                                  Secret Life of Life
 

I am a child
Thrust open and disregarded,
Trashing through corridors unchained.
The sound poured into me then,
Like birdsong,
Sweet and softly tapping
At my heels.
 
Short bursts
Of stigma
Are attached to this threshold.
I wandered out, caught
Between the lines of cars.
Such activity frightened me
So I died with leaves.




                                            The Secret
 

The words fell from her mouth
Like black snakes.
Hissss.
She has lost them all.
 
The secret!
A promise she could not keep.
Someone knows.
He lies in bed, the room growing dark.
 
It is the last night of their lives.
Take me there
To the beautiful people
Who run in the garden in long coats
 

My name is Moses Chukwuemeka Daniel,  I am from Nigeria, Africa.  I'm a teenage poet, I love writing and I sing too.  My poems have been published in some  online journals and magazines.

                                         'you cry you die'
 

​
All my life defeat has been a friend,
in class i sat at a failing end,
where i had some friends,
and failure was the closest,
i had to fight on my own,
it gave me help by giving me no goal,
all my plans ended in one hole,
i cried and cried, i tried and tried,
i failed i cried,
i got back and tried,
i smiled and tried,
i failed i cried,
i got furious ones more and tried,
again i failed and again i cried,
there was no hope,
i had to look beyond the clouds,
to find solace  in the sky,
sometimes i felt to be  happy,
The ambiance of my street,
Was like a curse to my feet,
i had to look within myself,
i saw someone else,
and he said,
'you have to be enthusiastical inquisitive,
be sanguine,
do not sit nonchalant and lackadaisical  and watch  defeat win ,
your journey is just like a two sided coin,
you have success and failure ,
Let your imperfect self strive for perfection,
Fight yourself from within,
be true to yourself like the wind ,
make it work without tears,
be indomitably strong,
Fight like you want it best not wrong,
Do what you love,
Let your zeal be driven by passion,
Don't you ever give up,
And if they say  you aren't good,
Do not sob,
Because if you cry you die.




                            'Listen to these words instead '
 


  Have you being cheated by the world?
They made you cry without remorse?
They laughed at your every fall?
Please listen to these words.
 
  They came as friends,
Brought your happiness to its end,
Lies and lies they possess,
Oh to these words listen to them.
 
  Their words made you wither, from the steel you once wore,
If those words could make you bitter,
Embrace these words it is a stronger wall.
 
  They proclaim peace and love,
They showcase hatred and war,
Lie still on this words,
Beyond your view they carry lot more.
 
I will love you they pledged,
But like locusts they fled,
Remember tomorrow is a friend,
Now listen to these words that care.
 
  Let the words that i share,
Wipe the tears that you bare,
Let those pains of yesterday,
Be witnesses to the beauty of today.
 
  Listen to these words instead,
They were blessed by mother's love,
And cuddled by father's strength,
Just to let you know how much poetry cares.
 
 
   
          'A LETTER TO THE GOVERNOR (EBONYI STATE)'

 
  my heart gladdens at your good works,
Conspicuously they spill good good luck,
I saw how you polished our enthusiastic legs,
Now we walk on marbles and gems,
Your efforts are heart warming,
Unlike how yesterday got us diminishing,
I solemnly stand behind your good will,
Because i know on good path we find good dreams.
 
  The future is never a friend,
As we find change right now an enemy,
But let your good works find no end,
In your endeavour for a new beginning,
Change and restructure the rice mill,
Give aid and recuperate the cement industries,
Resuscitate the health care of the EBONYI infants,
Retaliate the strength of our agricultural endowment  in rural communities,
Reduce the amount spent on superfluous parties,
And invest in the education of our children,
Create job opportunities for our graduates to own offices ,
Renumerate the effort of our civil service,
Harness our talent in every tenacity,
And then sit back and watch us thrive.
 
  This is no business as usual,
Work ,work and work,
In no circumstance should you ever stop,
We must make our land like what we see in  London,
So lead the way for us to follow,
Lead us to adequate growth,
we will fight by your side,
So you must  teach us how to fish,
Lest ours hands be stuck to your dish,
And remember it won't be easy,
But let  God tell your story.
 
 

                                 'Africa oh Africa'
 
​

Our sacrosanct land of old,
Born of black unique and bold,
With  Your endless struggles to grow,
You once wore grasses as clothes,
Just to hide shame not guts.
 
  Today your voice is heard,
But your value is ensnared,
By your children's children,
Who does nothing but glare.
 
  You once bathe with the wind,
There was no stereo music,
But the birds you watched sing in the morning,
And crickets in the evening.
 
 
 The day gave you vision,
And the night got you wisdom,
You were a stranger to love,
And an adept to tilling soils.
 
   Africa oh Africa,
Today your voice is clear,
Africa my Africa,
But why leave in fear?
 
 Your grand children are wise,
Yes they are,
But they know not your struggles,
They have no clue.
 
 Remember oh those days,
Of white invasion,
Remember oh those years,
Of bewitching exaggeration.
 
 Oh your foods,
They are now buried in ignorance,
Oh how sweet and beautiful,
But they died to the new world without cognizance .
 
Your men and women,
Though naked but loved relentless,
Even in darkness,
They cared.
 
 Africa oh, Africa

                                Puppets on a string



A sea of dust surrounds us 
And the sun scorches our skin
As our feelings start to die within
Like puppets on a string we move
What are we trying to prove?

As we walk on eggshells
And in the sea of dust we cry
And in the same dust we will die
Will our names be remembered
For all the services we rendered?

In the sea of dust we remain
Till our bodies they come to claim
And if not, our lives will never be the same
Us the puppets moving with a string
What will the future for us bring?




                                           The Sirens
 

A Wiseman once said to me
That if a man goes out to sea
So very careful he must be
For if the sirens he will see
Never again will he be free
 
Their song replays in his head
Each night as he lays into bed
A sweet song, yet almost sad
It is enough to drive him mad
 
So all sailors and men beware
For if to sail out to sea you dare
Make sure that you will not hear
The song of sirens lurking there



                                                A Dream
 
 
I wish to dream of you once again
for when I met you my life began
and though I’ve never seen your face
and know not what is your race
I long to be with you every night
for you fill my heart with delight

​

                                        Misconception


There’s a terrorist perched in the pine tree
in the backyard. He’s frozen as ice is,
legs coiled around the tippy top branches,
AK-47 slung to his side.
 
The birds bludgeon the morning with whooping
war cries and my body hits the floor, takes
cover beneath the bed. There is no God
here to help me. Clumps of snow fall and limbs
 
crack. Earthworms churn their bodies through dark soil.
It won’t be long now and his polished boots
will appear at my bed. He will kneel down,
lift my bed skirt, and peer into the cross-
 
hairs of the veiled darkness in which I lie
in. I pray Allah’s bounty of virgins
is enough to go around and wonder
if God knows the women are being screwed?

 


                 Kurd from Baghdad wins Oregon Lottery
 


The story does not end here but triggers
a full blown, Facebook feeding frenzy
with people going ballistic, blowing
 
up their walls in shell-shocked statuses
and point blank posts about this little known
man of international mystery:
 
The money belongs here in Oregon!
There needs to be rules. This is messed up.
Not to be racist, but this is so wrong.
We can’t give money to a foreigner.
Isn’t gambling illegal for Muslims?
This is not what our soldiers died for.
Way to bring the terror home, America!
God bestows millions on a Muslim.
Lord, help us all if they give it to him.
This should buy a few air missiles, virgins,
guns and goats. In a related story…
Iraqi Kurd becomes warlord overnight.
This guy will use our money to kill us.
You dum (sic) asses. You’ve funded ISIS.
What would Donald Trump say? When you’re sliding
into third and you feel a squishy Kurd…
 
A man from Iraq wins the lottery.
They withhold his name with good reason.
 

 
                                     Croyden Courts
 


They live in enclosures behind sun bleached
walls facing a courtyard sandbox, littered
in beer bottles, butts and dirty diapers.
Lawns are postage stamps clipped out like coupons.

Grandpa sits captive in his den, confined
to his chair rolling loose leaf tobacco,
sipping stale coffee. He tells me Birdie
is sleeping with Leo, Tabby's a bitch

and Rex is a snake. Robin’s a pussy
cat in her tiger tank top, black panther
boots and leopard leggings. Ava's the doe-
eyed one who drives Buck, ape-shit crazy

and even though Jonah thinks he's a catch,
he's really just a jackass. Grandpa's sick
of the shrieking, snot nosed kids running wild
while parents take time to procreate less

time. He roars at them to keep off the grass,
keep their hands to themselves and quit feeding
the beast. They're all a bunch of animals!
Fingers coil around fence posts and eyes glow

yellow through the keyholes as doors slam shut.
He's the zoo keeper, minding his business
while cages moan under the moonlit filth
and children curse inconceivable beds.
 

 
                                       Haven’t got a Prayer
 


How do prayers reach Heaven? Do they hitch
a ride on the cosmos in the backpacks
of angels, go air mail on the wings of doves
or do they drift on a slow spaceship to Zion?
 
Is there a place in Las Angel Bliss where God’s
messengers sort requests between the seven
deadly bins before sending them Heavenward
with their seal of approval? Do they measure
 
and weigh each one, filter out what gets tossed,
returned to sender and dispatched to the dead
letter office seven stories below?
I’m sure they wire the flyers and The Daily Bread.
 
Does all Hell break loose when God receives junk mail
and do the angels go Ghostal?  Maybe God
is fed up with our lack of creativity,
our inability to grasp his word.
 
Maybe he’s golfing all over God’s green
acres and is on a million par hole.
They say God answers in his time, not ours
but time doesn’t exist in eternity,
 
so forever and a day takes no time
at all.  Perhaps prayers are left unanswered
because God in his infinite wisdom knows
we just haven’t got the damn message yet.

 
​
                                    It’s all about the Yoga
 


A forest of women spread leafy green limbs
to the matted-mossy floor. They are ferns
unfurling branches, bending and arching
 
their newfangled bodies with open minds.
I'm the camel plodding along, sweating
it out in the dry hump of midday.
 
I don't belong here in this dense grove
of women, this cathedral of ever-
green composure. I don't wear a red
 
cape, drive a blue mini-van or drink.
I am a trinity of all three
melting into a twisted rendition
 
of Edvard's Scream in an ugly frame
of mind. I am not sitting Lotus
or posing as the Fallen Angel.
 
I'm the woman in the yoga pants,
downward dogging it to pick up toys,
soldiering on till I undertake the corpse
 
position. I lie there, a spineless
cactus without a stiff prick of rain
to inspire me to get off my stump.

Kim Bailey Deal writes Women’s Fiction, short stories, poetry, and creative non-fiction. She's been published in Firefly Magazine, A Journal of Luminous Writing. Kim has also been a guest blogger for Robert Lee Brewer’s blog at www.writersdigest.com. She authors a weekly column and is Social Media Manager for www.five2onemagazine.com. Kim also has a creative nonfiction piece published in Pilcrow & DaggerAugust/September Issue http://pilcrowdagger.com/issues/, and three poems, two short stories, and a creative non-fiction piece to published in September and October 2016. Kim is mom to three sons and one daughter, Nim to her grandchildren and step-daughter. She lives with her husband, John, near Chattanooga, TN. To connect with Kim, follow at www.kimbaileydeal.net.

  
                      The Reluctant Warrior


My shield
                guarded my spirit
My lance
               pierced hearts with the truth
My sword
               cut through their falseness
My armor
              deflected the collateral damage
I am a warrior, life made me this way.
 
Ever since you took my outstretched hand
and we danced, I thought I no longer needed
my weapons,
I set them aside, collecting dust
in the remnants of fights and fear
 
Until the day the wolves materialized
while you stood idly by
they took pieces of my flesh
a morsel at a time,
Stripping me
            of my ecstasies
Reducing me
            to rubble
Exposing me
            to their single-minded scourge
 
Until a jagged coat of rotting muscle
skin over splintered bones
were all I had left to protect my spirit
 
You, then, began to feed off my remains
rejoining your clan and forsaking me
 
Forced to come back, the warrior me,
I knocked off the dust and limped into the fray,
my lance and sword of truth raised,
War paint smeared across my face,
each howl and scream returning
fierce flesh to my bones.
 
 
Donned with armor
shield raised
I fought
             for you
 
Backing down was not an option
reciprocity was unexpected from you.
This I realized as worms
ate the rotten flesh of the person
I had sloughed off,
the person I now despised,
the carcass of a woman who
was nothing but a shell.
 
The wolves fed on the last of the meat
what once was
gorging on their victory.
 
Reclaiming myself, speaking my truth
filling myself with love and respect
honor and boundaries and authenticity
no room for doubt
no second-guessing who I am
                                    or who we were supposed to be.
With shield and sword, lance and armor
I began to relentlessly fight
 
Yes!
              I have hell on my side
 
They kept coming,
cutting me with their insults
slashing at my words
seeking to shame me into submission,
demanding my Silence.
 
Turning to you in the melee I howled,
“I have been fighting for you! Will you fight for me?”
 
You simply turned away,       
           
            as my war cry echoed in your ears.
           
 
 
 
                                     Redemption
 
 
I was a flower
reaching for the sun, my petals barely open
my green arms small, yet strong
alone on the sidewalk
nestled in the cracked concrete
where you walked
laughing with roses and orchids
clutched in your hand as you
passed me by.
 
I was a diamond
glittering among shards of glass, gathered at the side
of the road, ruined
resting in the shade of trees
under which you drove, tires screaming
rattling the remains, remnants
roaring past me with gold and silver
bound fingers tapping
to a different tune.
 
I was a bird
broken-winged, banished, pushed
from the nest too soon
flapping in circles
calling out to you, singing
my broken song, shrill and scared
as you strolled past in silence, smiling
whistling with the whole ones
their melodies unmarred.
 
I was a flame
dim, in darkness flickering surround by walls
self-induced solitude
barely drawing on oxygen wafting
through the cracks of my fortress
glowing and dimming
fiery and faint
fierce and forlorn
refusing to die.
 
I am the fire
burning blistering bright, a bloody
red rose, thorny
a blue diamond, blinding
a mended bird, soaring
singing my songs, scorching the lies, searing
the walls, watch them crumble
and break,
a forged sword slicing
to the bone of truth.
 
 
  
                           Revolution and Evolution
 
​
Listen up!
Open your hearts
Expand your minds
The time has come
For a revolution
From which you can
No longer hide,
 
Made to be your companion
My sweet fruit always at your fingertips
You took without asking
Plucked me before I was ripe
Stunted my growth and left
Me to wither and rot
In my shame and grief.
 
You took
Without giving in return
Is this pleasure?
What a joke.
Your lips never tasted my lips
Your hands clumsy and quick
Your dead heart pressed against mine so fierce
Your eyes closed to the beauty inside my soul
Your shadow darker in my light.
 
You took
Not only my young body
You took my tender heart
You tried to take my soul
And my mind,
you considered so feeble
When my thoughts did not align
When my words did not echo
Your own.
 
You took
My children,
who sprang from my womb
Suckled at my breast
Who heard my heartbeat long
Before they heard your lies
You had the nerve
The audacity to believe that
THIS had no meaning.
 
You took
When I had nothing left to give
Worn out parts and broken
Dreams placed in boxes beneath
My bed
When all I asked
All I needed in return
Was the comfort of your hand
A heart to beat in sync with mine
Respect for me, a woman
With thoughts and feelings and dreams
 
You took
And you took
And you took
And you took
 
And when you were finished
When you had your fill
When my sweetness turned
To ashes in your mouth
You threw me aside
Like a worn and broken part
Like yesterday’s garbage
No use to anyone
or you anymore.
 
Listen up!
There will be no more taking.
 
This fruit
Sweeter still
Grows more glorious on the vine
This fruit
Stronger now
Spreads its seed beyond your reach
This fruit
Speaks truth into darkness
Moves mountains with a roar.
This fruit
Is inaccessible to you
As you have been to me
 
 
Your lips
Will never taste
The exquisite delight
Of my mouth
Your hands
Will never trace the sacred
dark places for which you hunger
 
Your eyes do not see me
Your heart is cold to the fire of knowing me
Or knowing yourself
Your hands that took
Without hesitation,
Became weapons against me
When you did not like what I gave back
Your arms stayed empty
For they now hold only a dream
A memory of who you wanted me to be
Who I never could have been.
 
Your mind is closed
To my imagination
Your heart is hardened
To the beat of my spirit
Your tongue is thick
With pride and rage
Your eyes grow so dim
The brighter I shine
 
Your ears hear
But they do not listen
Your lips move
But they do not speak.
Your foggy promise fades
In the hazy morning light
Burning off as the sun rises
warming my face
as I give its glow the one thing
I refused to let you take from me
 
To you I give my back
 
And walk away.
 

                                    Small Backyard

 
It’s a small backyard
I’ve watched for years
from an upstairs window
while chained to a computer.
Whatever the weather
 
the old widow was always 
planting in spring
watering in summer
raking in fall
shoveling in winter
 
but the yard’s quiet now
the only traffic 
a resident squirrel
heading for the oak
over the tall grass 
the widow’s heir 
has stopped mowing.
 
She told her son
you don’t have to garden 
but please mow the grass
rake the leaves and 
shovel the snow
or I’ll shake you
at midnight 
the rest of your life. 
 
 
  
                             A Third World Life
 
When he was just a boy,
they took him to the dump
to scavenge, bits of metal,
any food that might be eaten.
 
When he became a man,
young and handsome,
every day he would go 
to the dump and scavenge.
 
When he was middle-aged,
other men followed him
after he discovered a bigger,
better dump to scavenge.
 
Now old and blind, he sits
in his hut while seven
children and their children
go to the dump and scavenge.
 
 
 
 
                                     Small Shoulders
 

She speaks the truth
as she always has
in 40 years of marriage
 
especially when she’s 
lost in making dinner
this time though 
 
she has to wash 
blood from the paring knife
before she peels 
 
the last of the potatoes.
Until the knife went in
he didn’t think in 40 years
 
she had noticed that 
for a man his size he   
has small shoulders.
 
 
 
 
                                      Reprobate in Recovery
 

If you’re a reprobate in recovery
you have to be careful what you do. 
You’re no different than an alcoholic,
always in danger of falling again.
 
At least an alcoholic has a disease
but not every reprobate is sick.
Some are genetically louses.
They love what they do.
 
If you’re a reprobate in recovery
it’s understandable to think
you might be safe in church.
 
Lots of good people go to church. 
But reprobates go there too.
Some may be worse than you. 
 
The next time you go to church,
even if it’s your first time, remember 
this old saying, recently refreshed:
 
A church is a hospital for sinners 
not a resort for saints.
 
When you go to church, 
a reprobate might  
hand you a bulletin, 
pass the basket, nod off 
in the pew next to you or 
bellow from the pulpit. 
 
So watch for a reprobate
to join the mix after 
a Sunday service
during fellowship with 
coffee and donuts.
If you can't spot one, 
a selfie may do.  
 
 
 
                                      Odd and Strange
 
​
The day Paul got married, 
his old girlfriend called his house 
just before he and his bride Anne
 
caught the plane for their honeymoon. 
Paul was outside packing the car 
and Anne answered the phone. 
 
His old girlfriend was angry because 
Paul had married somebody else so she  
told Anne strange things Paul liked to do,
 
strange things Anne had never heard of,
stuff that didn’t sound like Paul at all, 
but Anne said nothing about the call
 
and they flew off to a nice honeymoon, 
diving off cliffs and swimming in the sea, 
seeing rare birds and tropical flowers, 
 
eating native foods Anne hadn't heard of.
Years later, they went back to Oahu 
for their 40th anniversary, and Anne
 
told Paul about the call but didn’t say 
anything about what the girl had said 
although she remembered every word.
 
They were sipping drinks at a cafe 
when Paul admitted he remembered 
the girl because she would ask him to do 
 
things he thought odd and strange.
He was open-minded but there’s a limit. 
Anne said she understood because after 
 
40 years with Paul, she now liked to do 
things she thought odd and strange when 
she left the Amish for something new. 
 

 
I, Renee’ B. Drummond-Brown, am the wife of Cardell Nino Brown Sr. and from our union came Cardell Jr., Renee and Raven Brown. I am the offspring of Mr. and Mrs. Peter C. Drummond of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. My siblings are Delbert D. Drummond and the late Pastor Shawn C. Drummond. I was born in North Carolina, at Camp Lejeune US Naval Hospital. I am a graduate of Geneva College of Pennsylvania, and my love for creative writing is undoubtedly displayed through my very unique style of poetry, which is viewed globally. My poetry is inspired by God and Dr. Maya Angelou. Because of them I pledge this: “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”
 
“Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight” is flown across the seas by God’s raven. There are several Scriptures that I love; however, this one speaks volumes during this ‘season’: “And he sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried up from off the earth.” (Genesis 8:7 KJV)
https://www.amazon.com/Renees-Poems-Wings-Words-Flight/dp/1490887946
https://www.amazon.com/Sold-Highest-Bidder-Renee%C2%92s-Flight/dp/1504968395
http://bookstore.authorhouse.com/Products/SKU-001068789/Sold-To-the-Highest-Bidder.aspx

Still I Write
(The Answer to: Dr. Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise”)
 
 
 
Maya,
Of course they wrote you down in history,
You proved them wrong in truth,
But you planted for me calligraphy,
So I’m heard on paper all the way to God’s celestial roof!
 
My passion for writing does upset them,
But I can’t be concerned,
Cause you left for me a gift from God,
And it’ll be
forever writing that I yearn.
 
Just like God’s Raven leaving the Ark,
‘She’ flew to and fro,
Until the waters were dried up from off the earth,
Because of you,
I’ll forever write in the skies,
seas and dirt;
for certain
this I do know.
 
I was that broken soul,
And bowed so low to Satan’s pit,
With nowhere to get;
but up,
I allowed my pen to place me within God’s Script (ure).
 
I know my writings excite you,
And with God for you,
who can be against us,
in giving me that nod,
I finally hear your words loud and clear,
The poems you left behind are messages of truths,
 minus the facades.
 
Some have shot my writings to pieces,
While others have damaged me over time,
But God;
sends a ram in a bush,
ink,
 a quill,
and wrote for me Ecclesiastes 3
He Author’s the time and place with limited ‘seasons’
 for their hurtful rhymes.
 
From the shame you told me to write,
I write,
From the pain you told me to write,
I write,
I am that Raven Blackbird with a large wingspan,
“Renee’s Poems With Wings Are Words In Flight”;
flying all over God’s land,
I too want to leave behind my unhealthy fears,
So in the dark,
I write,
But in the light,
I see the imagery our ancestors gave to you;
which you passed onto me,
Maya you are the dream,
Barack Obama was the hope,
and I am the slave set free (to write).
Still I write,
I write,
I’ll write.
 
Dedicated To:  A Tribute to Dr. Maya Angelou
 

muddy waters
 
 
black as ‘da’ night
negro’s colour of the day
iconic blues
ol’ as dirt
mosquito ‘an’ bees
sway
to rhythm ‘n’ rhyme
rustic blues
feel ‘da’ beat ‘n’ tune
gnats own
rural towns
cotton plantations
urban vibes
‘keepin’ ‘dem’ swampy puddles alive
mississippi’s definitely on my mind
no!
ray sang georgia
but why?
‘i’z’ feels like ‘goin’ home
chess’ cat knows ‘da’ deal
chicago’s turn
Be ‘fo’ real
‘cuz’ back in ‘da’ day
northern ‘mudd’
‘i’z’ where you got played
 
 
dedicated to: wade
 
 

 

I (still) Do
 
We met
On the street
After dropping them keys
I picked up
For you
Our eyes
Fell asleep
Deadlocked
Refusing to drop
 
 
 
‘Luv’ at ‘MY’ first sight
‘Daze’ went by,
years,
‘an’ O’
‘Dem’ semi-precious nights
We laughed,
cried,
fussed and literally
Fought a good fight
 
 
 
I did my best
To select a white dress
While you didn’t know it
You passed
Mr. Right’s test
Even saw the ring
2 Karats
Meant the world to me
Yeah ‘everythang’
Including clarity
 
 
 
But something???
Just
Wasn’t
Quite
Right
I noticed
You never stayed
Full nights
‘An’
I never met family
Foe
nor
friends
Something just ‘wazant’ right
???
 
 
 
Then
Reality
Shattered all dreams
As she walked down the isle
To my man
‘Wit’ a smile
Wearing
My dress and ring
And I still wanted to say
I Do
Ever so badly
To the unknown man
I met on ‘dem’ streets
That would be you
I still do
 
 
Dedicated To: Drifting on a memory
 

 
 

Who Are We?

​ 
I don’t know us anymore
Has time re-written our lies
Do we not speak
Of truths
Yet
Rely on blind guides
The poetic scribes
Tell tales
O’
Seasons
For all time
Don’t know us anymore
No heart beat
Nada rhythm
Nor rhyme
Just texting’s left
As
Zombies silently cry
Who are we?
I don’t know anymore.
 
 

 
Dedicated To: The Unknown
 
 

Success
 
On bottom
No one seems to care.
When you rise
They ‘ALL’ WATCH ‘an’ glare
On top
They love, love, love
‘dat’ black skin
house, car, clothes
‘An’ ‘ev’n’
‘dat’ nappy bald hair!
But when you drop,
My Lord…
Not…family, foe, nor friend
Will be left standing there
But God…
I know ‘dat’ I know
YOU’LL BE THERE!!!
 

dedicated to: Standing above ground and I’m on top of the world mom!