These walls they
Reflect our pain
The earth she
Heals us and
Absorbs our blood and tears.
She swallows up our fear. These walls
of brick, of stone, are from her.
They breathe
They feel
They love
They heal
The Character of My Neighborhood
Category: Poetry
My NIMBY Campaign
Some people are prejudiced and judgmental.
Not in my backyard.
Some people are indifferent toward people who are poor or homeless.
Not in my backyard.
Some people prefer to protect themselves rather than to serve humanity.
Not in my backyard.
Some people project their fears onto the world around them.
Not in my backyard.
Some people perpetuate violence rather than promote peace.
Not in my backyard.
Be the Rose
“If we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change.” – Gandhi
Just as we ought to be the change that we desire in the world, we should be the rose that others will want to stop and smell. Be still in the present moment and blossom. Grow your roots, soak up the water and sunshine. Feel the gentle breeze rustle through your leaves. Relax and connect in the quiet open space of unlimited possibilities. Appreciate your beauty and the intricacy of every delicate petal that is your conscience. Engage all of your senses and absorb the aromatic nuance of unconditional love.
More Found Poems and an Essay
A few years ago, I took a few classes at Northampton Community College to prepare for the mostly online Ph.D. program at Eastern University. In my creative writing class, I wrote a few poems. I also wrote an essay about the joys and frustrations of publishing Ashley and Tiana.
Children of Haiti
Children of Haiti
how can it be?
I don’t understand why my
dreaming about you does not change the
reality of your daily life.
Nothing changes,
only my heart grows stronger
for I know that one day I will visit
Haiti and we will be together.
A family at last.
I can hardly wait to meet you.
Time is the only boundary and
I promise to be there as soon as I can.
For My Children
Every time I eat blueberries
I am reminded of your hunger.
When I turn on the faucet to wash my hands
I think of your lack of clean water.
When I turn up the heat in my wintery home
I think of the heat you can not escape.
When I walk my baby nephew down the street
I think of your safety.
When I drive in my car to work
I think of your desperation.
When I lay in bed at night
I think of your discomfort.
When I take a yoga class
I think of your fragile health.
When I take a shower and dab on perfume
I think of your ability to stay clean.
When I walk inside the school where I work
I think of how much you will learn here.
When I snuggle up with the cats
I think of how much you will love each other.
When I clean your empty room
I think of how much it will mean to you.
When I bake cookies and go to the beach
I think of how much fun we will have.
When I think of my desire to have a family
I know it is me who is desperate to love you.
Learning to Enjoy My Self-Pubishing Voyage
“Buy One Copy…Get One Free for a Friend!” She told me I was selling myself short. Maybe she was right, but…
I told the organizer of the Queens Health and Book Fair that I had over 300 copies of my book at home and that I would rather have them in the hands of children. Sweet children, laughing with delight as they paged through Ashley and Tiana and absorbed its many important lessons. Among many who are pimping out literature of all kinds, my book softly requests, “please read me, please?”
So today I am at the Brooklyn Book Festival. My favorite author, Edwidge Danticat, is here and she was honored with an award last night. I feel honored to be here, even if I only sell four books like I did in Queens yesterday.
This is my third book fair this year so I know what to expect. People will walk by as if I am invisible. They might slow down a bit, to try to figure out what my table is all about, but as soon as I notice them they freak out at being realized and move away as quickly as possible. At least I’m not alone. It seems like the other 50 vendors are facing the same challenge: people who like to read, but don’t want to have books sold to them.
Oops…maybe today will be different. I just made a sale. She’s a 7th grade student who is also a poet. The first ten minutes of the Brooklyn Book Festival are going well!
As I was saying, it seems that most people who attend book fairs just want to breeze through without taking the time to talk with the authors and learn about new books and the writing process.
But this isn’t my only challenge as a new self-published author.
I did everything the experts advised: the published writers, public relations specialists, marketing maniacs, and others who share the tricks of the trade for free. I got an ISBN. I had teachers proofread my copy. I registered on over 50 social networking sites. I worked, worked, worked, worked, worked on marketing the book.
Sure that it would be a success, I ordered 350 copies for the Harlem Book Fair. I sold three. I was sure when I held my book signing in New York that lots of people wold show up: family, friends, the media, people who love books. No one came. No one. Not one person. Two days later I held a book signing in Easton. Surely, the place would be packed. “I’ll be there,” “congratulations,” “good luck,” they all told me. And some of them did come…about 15.
So I still have over 300 books to sell or give away. In retrospect, I feel grateful for every single time I have sold a book. My heart fills with joy when I think of people reading the book.
Except for voyagerfan. Voyagerfan won a free copy of Ashley and Tiana on Goodreads, a social networking site for people who love books can list their personal libraries and books they plan to read in the future in addition to reviews of books that have been read.
His review was scathing. Not only did he give me just one out of five stars, he went on and on and on in his review about the incorrect grammar (most of which was intentional), typos (I couldn’t find any), and the fact that I didn’t use, “real dashes” (oh well).
My self-esteem plummeted. I enlisted my family and close friends, my army of supporters. How could this man do me so wrong?
Man? “That’s the problem,” my sister said. “How old is he, anyway?”
I hadn’t thought of that. Clearly voyagerfan is not a member of my target market of 8- to 17-year-old girls. My self-esteem rebounded.
Up and down and up and down. Self-publishing this book has been like a roller coaster one of those that goes upside down a few times. From now on, I’m just going to enjoy the ride.
Are Women Flowers?
To complement the posting of an Anshutz painting on Facebook, the Metropolitan Museum of Art wrote, “the likening of a beautiful woman to a flower are common themes in late-nineteenth-century American painting.” The sentiment of this statement simultaneously offended and allured me. After giving this a bit of thought, I concluded that women are beautiful flowers not to be observed as passive objects, but as active manifestations of the connection between earth and sun. We bring all kinds of beauty to the world to express and create joy and love. Fetishization of this process is irrelevant to me as it is extrinsic and oppressive; I choose to bloom in peace.
The Found Poems
While a student at Allentown College of St. Francis de Sales (now DeSales University) in the mid-1990s, I wrote several poems. Many of them were either too morbid or too corny (or both) to share how — even more so than those written below.
Poem 18
I was sitting in a bus station wearing cheap drugstore perfume
When I realized that it didn’t matter where I had been
But it is really important where I am going
Day after day my journey through life grows richer with experience
And I feel more content with what I have and
Yet more assured of who I am
(Note: by the way, this is not a true story)
Fly
I wish that time could stand still
Just for a few perfect moments
These would be saved for the special times
That slowly fade from our memories
Like birds moving on to another tree
Long ago I knew something well
That now is a dream to me
Was this meant to be
Or is this just a cruel manifestation
Of my selfishness staring back at me
Disconnecting me from the world
That I push away in pitiless disgust
As if there were no hope
In those sweet little birds
Poem 12
Sticking my fingers through the cracks
Of my glass case
I fear that someone will try to cut off my fingers and
Maim me for life
There is no thing, no person to
Protect me
When I shove my fist through the back wall
And feel the blood run down my arm
Weakened by my false bravery
And never to find security
Long ago I shrunk inside
Afraid to even peek outside
The case of glass
Frightened by disturbing images
Feigned obscene by tragic experiences
When somebody looked at me, looked inside
I could not help but cry out
I was even more afraid when
Nobody heard me
So nobody became my friend
Looking at the shattered glass on the ground
I am confused by the mess I have created
Fragments of time, empty of love
Spread out waiting to be picked up
Holding the glass in may hands
I am thankful to be alive
Happy to know I exist, that I am a
Human being who walks among human beings
With the wind against my face and
A piece of glass in my back pocket
Lost Inside
Life in the box
Is very sad and lonely
Days go in and out
The sun rises and sets again
But everything is still the same
Inside the box
We are confined to our misconceptions
Our dreams get in the way of
Our achievements
We forget who we are in a hurry
To get out of the box
We lie, cheat, steal, murder
Anything to bust out
But the box gets smaller
The lids gets sealed with glue
And we are shipped off to
Unknown destinations
For when we lie to others
Mostly we are lying to ourselves
Not content with the simple things
The things that know their way
Outside of the box
The tiny little box
The further we reach outside the box
The more we are shoved inn
The further away we travel from the truth
Still in the box
Locked in, choking, gasping for air
Dying in the small, ugly box
The very box that we ourselves created
In spite of our foolish selves
Hello
Sometimes the world around you seems to fade
Into another dimension of existence
It feels like nothing matters and
It feels like everything does
It would seem easier to hide from
This strange monstrosity
The passion and diversity of life
Which will so easily suck away our ability to
Appreciate it
Sometimes it would seem life defeats its own purpose
And so to rebel is to be free
But you must not slip away from life
Or from the people and things that you love
Put out your hands and feel the wind
Embrace the many joys of life and you will grow stronger
And better able to combat the fears and doubts that it brings
Do not forget who you are or
Why you were created
Bright as Sunshine
How insignificant is the little speck in my ceiling
Longing to be noticed in its speckled flock
Against all the others yet the same as them in appearance and material
What would make this tiny, little dot special to me or to anyone else?
Maybe I’ll paint it yellow so that
I’ll always know it’s there
And when I see that little dot on my ceiling
I will be reminded of my own insignificance
In the world of omnipotent beings
Yet I will know that I am special
Not because I am yellow or
Because I stand out from all the rest
But because I am not alone
I belong to the flock of specks
I am a part of it and it is a part of me
I am special because others can know me as they know themselves.
Paris
I might rent an apartment in Paris for the summer
Gazing upon the courtyard I will write about
Lonely nights in cafes
Ending in a stranger’s arms
Laughing, loving, and living
I might stroll the streets of Paris this summer
Collecting rare gems I adore
Sipping wine with my lunch and
Sauntering about in the pleasant rays
I may endure many rainstorms by
Paris is always there
Waiting for me, yearning for me,
As I yearn for her
And I wait for her
Here in my home with the cracked window
Running away, away,
And sipping wine with my lunch
Thank You
Where am I
The world I once dreamed of
Seems so far away
It’s oh so lonely at the top of the game
The world I once dreamed of seems
Far less interesting now
So many mysteries uncovered
But at least the mountains still aren’t moving
There is a clear boundary between life and death
And all things will go on
With or without me
Knowing this, I feel grounded
Bound to the earth by her
Tempestuous force
Looking for Love
I always feel lethargic and fatigued
For no reason that makes sense to me
The root of this great sadness in my life
Is deeply hidden beneath the ground
In one hundred different holes and
I don’t know where to start digging
I start on one but then move on to another
In a panic that I will never get anything done
And in fear that no one will ever love me
Despite this great anxiety and frustration,
I will never stop trying to find myself
Hidden away in so many places
How desperate I must be to come back to life
How deeply I long for this resurrection
It seems like the harder I try the
Further away the remnants are
And the longer it will be until we are reunited
So I can be whole again
So that I can be bright and aroused
Ready to plant little seeds
To sprout from this earth in my tidy garden
The beautiful colors and sweet nectar will be
Alive and full of life
United We Stand
We are divided and
We are falling.
America is in need of a
new revolution.
One that is peaceful, not violent;
Selfless, not selfish;
Unifying, not separatist.
United we stand.
