HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JUNE!!!!!!
neo soul sistah!!!
FAMILTRY
(a poet’s family tree)
Nikki promised that life and love would be like cotton candy on a rainy day…the sweet soft essence of possibility never quite maturing….
My cotton candy is drenched with bitterness and sorrow, the sticky residue remains on my hands, a reminder, ensuring
I will always remember the soulful inflection of my inner being and my quest to become the WOMAN that lies deep inside of me.
The blue sky with Ntokake’s rainbow of sassafras, cypress and indigo dancing in Audre’s winds of orisha, are now a distant memory.
My sky, clouds, rainbow, and cool breeze which used to brush softly across my cheeks,
Have disappeared, forcing me inside, to play childish games like chutes and ladders and hide and go seek.
That sky, that brilliant sky, has been replaced with a translucent marble ceiling, fencing and closing me in.
Langston warned that life ain’t no crystal stair, but I was young, believed I knew it all, and just didn’t bother to listen.
I thought about Sonia’s home coming, her knowledge and teachings on how the world views a sister with a strong voice.
(Homegirls and handgrenades, they often called us.)
‘Cuz in love and life a sister’s gotta keep her mouth closed, be happy that she has a man or a job, and no matter what, don’t put up a fuss and don’t dare cuss.
Georgia and I talked about lost illusions, the heart of a woman, and how I wanted to die while he still loved me.
You see, I never wanted to know or experience in my lifetime the day he and I were to declare our love was never meant to be, a simple fantasy….
As Paul’s negro love song played in the background, I understood, in that moment why he could never love me endlessly and completely.
“Herritage” Countee once said. “Contributes to the Loss of Love for a poet.” The words, profound, as black love and respect were destroyed during the boat ride from Africa to slavery.
I am my ancestor’s eyes, but we all have a story to tell, cuz black folk are poets, prophets, lyrist, satirist, creators of lifestyles, prose, and song.
Zora advised me to be proud, stand on the shoulders of the people who came before me, so my eyes would always be watching God. I don’t think her words were wrong.
Gwendolyn and James laughed at my naivety, as we sang a song in the front yard on Beale St. with the rest of the family.
Etheridge smiled, and simply stated, “Baby girl, when you feel you have no one else, you can always come home, sit under the familtry and ponder on the idea of ancestry.
(a poet’s family tree)
Nikki promised that life and love would be like cotton candy on a rainy day…the sweet soft essence of possibility never quite maturing….
My cotton candy is drenched with bitterness and sorrow, the sticky residue remains on my hands, a reminder, ensuring
I will always remember the soulful inflection of my inner being and my quest to become the WOMAN that lies deep inside of me.
The blue sky with Ntokake’s rainbow of sassafras, cypress and indigo dancing in Audre’s winds of orisha, are now a distant memory.
My sky, clouds, rainbow, and cool breeze which used to brush softly across my cheeks,
Have disappeared, forcing me inside, to play childish games like chutes and ladders and hide and go seek.
That sky, that brilliant sky, has been replaced with a translucent marble ceiling, fencing and closing me in.
Langston warned that life ain’t no crystal stair, but I was young, believed I knew it all, and just didn’t bother to listen.
I thought about Sonia’s home coming, her knowledge and teachings on how the world views a sister with a strong voice.
(Homegirls and handgrenades, they often called us.)
‘Cuz in love and life a sister’s gotta keep her mouth closed, be happy that she has a man or a job, and no matter what, don’t put up a fuss and don’t dare cuss.
Georgia and I talked about lost illusions, the heart of a woman, and how I wanted to die while he still loved me.
You see, I never wanted to know or experience in my lifetime the day he and I were to declare our love was never meant to be, a simple fantasy….
As Paul’s negro love song played in the background, I understood, in that moment why he could never love me endlessly and completely.
“Herritage” Countee once said. “Contributes to the Loss of Love for a poet.” The words, profound, as black love and respect were destroyed during the boat ride from Africa to slavery.
I am my ancestor’s eyes, but we all have a story to tell, cuz black folk are poets, prophets, lyrist, satirist, creators of lifestyles, prose, and song.
Zora advised me to be proud, stand on the shoulders of the people who came before me, so my eyes would always be watching God. I don’t think her words were wrong.
Gwendolyn and James laughed at my naivety, as we sang a song in the front yard on Beale St. with the rest of the family.
Etheridge smiled, and simply stated, “Baby girl, when you feel you have no one else, you can always come home, sit under the familtry and ponder on the idea of ancestry.
kdtaylor, october 14, 2004
2 comments:
thats some good shit.....a great piece sis. you dug deep into the familtry to do this one!
how come i didnt get a poem on MY birthday?!?!
Hate I missed it, but I'm sure ya'll did it right.
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