On Far Away Names

if I have been so kind
as to reshape my formidable name
around curves and under crevices
to fit your graceless tongue,
the least you can do
is push it past your lips
with the respect and
reverence it demands


The pieces of poetry on this blog and Write Bitches are works of fiction, erupting from my incredibly over-active imagination. And my unending love for all things romance. And politics. And my brown and black brothers and sisters. We are the magic.

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Arsenal

Sweet girl,
unfurl
your cool blanket of
indifference
slip into that
sublime cloak of
memory,
and seek
new truths
in the shards of
your soul,
broken and tossed
carelessly
to the wind.

Those pieces of
time and love and light
meld into
a magnificent
sword.

Drag it across the
throat of
your demons,
slay your
dragons,
roar.


The pieces of poetry on this blog and Write Bitches are works of fiction, erupting from my incredibly over-active imagination. And my unending love for all things romance. And politics. And my brown and black brothers and sisters. We are the magic.

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First Person v Third Person

The Code of Ten.Three Covers Together

A long, long, long, long time ago, before the wind, before the snow…

Just kidding. I’m not going to recite Sir Psycho Sexy for you here, but it is a fact that as soon as I wrote the words a long, long the rest just kind of appeared on the page and now, as I type I can hear the Chili Peppers in my ear.

But I digress.

Or I’m stalling. Which is highly likely, and something I do quite a lot these days when it comes to my writing. But that’s another blog post altogether.

Anyway, a long, long time ago I wrote and self-published a paranormal romance trilogy called The Sanctum. It’s about a girl and a guy and a prophecy. With some warriors and dragons. A southern-fried vampire. A conflicted shifter. Some sexy trolls. And a most delicious husband-and-wife baddie combo.

It’s a lot of words, and they’re all written in third person.

And now I’m re-writing them in first.

I’m only three chapters in, and it’s a lot of work, but damn if I’m not kind of loving this exercise in self-destruction (because holy shit, why am I doing this) and rediscovery (because holy shit, of course I’m doing this).

Also…

This is going to take F O R E V E R.

Also…

If you read the original trilogy, and are interested in reading my reworked, first-person version, leave me a note in the comments, and I’ll give you a taste of chapter one.

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Semantics

semantics

If you define civility
as the lie pushed past
your lips
without a hint of truth
or a kiss of regret
and tell yourself
little brown fingers
wrapped around metal bars
don’t matter because
they’re “not our kids”
and think so little
of due process
that when it is due
you see fit to
eliminate all process
If the roar of
white power
is your bedtime lullaby
and black lives
never mattered
so why should
they now
If your wine is made
from parents’ tears
mourning their children
lost to guns violence ICE
and you’ve never
heard a sound so sweet
as the march of fascism
through our halls
of democracy
then thanks very much
but fuck you
and your civility


The pieces of poetry on this blog and Write Bitches are works of fiction, erupting from my incredibly over-active imagination. And my unending love for all things romance. And politics. And my brown and black brothers and sisters. We are the magic.

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National Poetry Month Day 7

AS IF

without fail
whenever out together
we are asked:
where are you from?
as if this city has no time
for a wide smile or
a kind word
as if the cement of these streets
renders impossible
the laughter of a private joke
the tender of a stolen kiss
as if all of us
are too overwhelmed
and underpaid
to revel in each other
to share grace
to speak beautiful
as if


April is National Poetry Month – one of my favorite times of year, where I attempt to write a poem every day. I’m having trouble writing these days, so I’m very far behind, but determined to write my thirty. They won’t be perfect, they never are, but they’ll be here, throughout the month of April.

National Poetry Month Day 6

HBD

in a world that loves to tell women
you’re too thick
you’re too loud
you’re too opinionated
you’re too proud
exercise more
eat healthy
have babies
marry wealthy
dumb yourself down for that man
use this cream for those lines
don’t eat after 6pm
for god sakes crack a smile
baby sister, lean close
I’ve got a ceiling to shatter
you’re about to turn forty
trust me, none of that matters
they’re all lies perpetuated
by this male patriarchy
“you’re so old,
life is over”
what a load of malarkey
your forties are brilliant
the most magical days
you have the answers
you know the questions
the world is ablaze
nothing can stop you
other’s words matter little
their opinions are hot air
a side-eye cannot belittle
so sit back and enjoy
these last hours of thirty
shoot the world a sexy smile
wear something flirty
then know without a doubt
the other side is a blast
and say hello forty,
you gorgeous bastard
I’m here, at last!


April is National Poetry Month – one of my favorite times of year, where I attempt to write a poem every day. I’m having trouble writing these days, and I spent a week in Paris, so I’m already behind, but determined to catch up and write my thirty. They won’t be perfect, they never are, but they’ll be here, throughout the month of April.

National Poetry Month Day 5

GIRL BODIES

at fourteen this body felt like a prison
made of cordlike sinew and too-thick muscle
baby fat brown skin wishing for that Lisa Bonet pale
lips wide and full and nothing like a white girl’s
blossomed in my
twenties roared in
bearing gifts of size 26 Levi’s-skinny,
coffee, cigarettes, and New York City nights
filled with friends and dancing and
white-girl-wannabe dreams
no longer mattered
because yeah, life
rolled into
my thirties
were a tequila-fueled blur
if I’m going to be honest
and I am
that somehow someway
slipped into big-bellied-beyond-belief
(seriously, I gained 65 pounds)
knocked-upedness
soon-to-be mommy
(who me? yeah, you girl)
womanhood standing on the cusp
of forty
toes twinkling lips grinning
let’s do this already, bring it on, life!
YES
LET’S
in all caps
thank you very much
says my almost-forty-seven years self
as I revel in
this brown skin dark eyes
big nose wide smile gap tooth
got-a-butt-for-an-Indian-girl body
kiss my calamities
love up on my wild
I wish I celebrated your resilience and fortitude
and every inch of your brown magic
before I knew such a thing existed
I wish I hugged my twenty-five year old thighs
and rubbed my thirty-two year old belly
more often than I cursed them into submission
non-existence
oblivion
I wish I looked at you
the way Barack does Michelle
like love is all that matters
every inch of my body is perfection
right down to my weird baby toes
like I am
enough
(I didn’t then
I do now)


April is National Poetry Month – one of my favorite times of year, where I attempt to write a poem every day. I’m having trouble writing these days, and I spent a week in Paris, so I’m already behind, but determined to catch up and write my thirty. They won’t be perfect, they never are, but they’ll be here, throughout the month of April.