Missin' Me

I am all about self definition. Knowing who you are and being comfortable with who you are. But as human beings we have a tendency to lose sight of ourselves and what we should be. I will admit that I have done this plenty of times in my life and what I have done is learn to forgive myself and move on. This is a piece about those emotions that I felt during those times. Let me know what you think.....

MISSIN' ME
by LADY EMERALD

I miss you so
How could I have let you go?
When you were here
those around saw cheer
grins from ear to ear
no fears, no tears.

You were who you were
supposed to be
and without you
I am a different me.
Timid, depressed
smiles are less and less.

I need you back
so I can be whole.
I want to be me again
Tell me where to find
you
Me
The person I used to be.

Because since that day I
you went away
things have fallen
fallen down
fallen apart.

I want to have you back
I need to get you back
Me back
that part of me, you see
I lost.
Will you ever return?

Miscarriage by Jane Duran from Staying Alive: Unreal Poems for Unreal Times

There are some things in life that are inexplicable, hard to deal with and impact our human experiences greatly. The best way I found to deal with the things that impact us to the point of disruption is to view them through another set of eyes, to feel them with another heart and to speak of them as if they were to be part of someones else reality. Only then, when you learn to remove yourself from what ails you by learning that these things do not only happen to just YOU, but to everyone, can you appreciate and see what good comes from those negatives.

This is a poem takes one of the more heartbreaking things for a woman to ever have to deal with and goes in another direction other than the negative connotations that we are used to and helps us to feel with more than just our emotions. It helps us to feel with our entire being; mind, body and soul.

Miscarriage

The Womb refuse,
backed up,
its particles of silk
wasted, perish.
Breathless-
the cloudy silo,
the yolk sea.

The ceremony
of lifting
and enclosing
the womb refused.
The ceremony of no-child
followed.

On either side
its ostrich neck
its camel neck
wavered,
swallowed the high
midnight.

The womb held back.
It had an eye
for sand,
spread its cool
oranges and reds
on dry land,

and bright
and fierce
as a lair,
the womb bear-hugged
its dead,
and let go.

Ars Poetica

 I love to learn and to be informed. What is most intriguing for me is to question all that I have learned  using what new information I have at my fingertips. This poem called "Ars Poetica" comes from a style of poetry that questions the art of poetry, hence the Latin term. The Ars Poetica form of poetry is used  to question the basis of something so normal and routine using words. So this is what I've done.

ARS POETICA

How careful should we be of how we speak?

With all of language’s unwritten rules, should we even consider careful?

The audacity of lesser a figure to tell "top-of-the-food chain" dwellers

how to express ourselves is funny. Don’t you think?

Do you think? And about what?

As writers do we think before we speak or should we think about thinking to speak at all?

The art of paying attention. Like most things, we function on auto pilot.

I know the way home, therefore I get there.

I know my name, so when I hear it I respond.

What if we paid attention and focused more on the art of being.

Have I taken the necessary breathes to keep me my lungs full?

Is this apple really red? Green?

Is the driver in front of me really aware that I’m behind them?

Are my mirrors properly angled? Defrosted?

Language had an odd bed fellow- consciousness.

We cannot know what we say unless we are conscious of what words

 are, and the spaces in between.  The meanings that are given to them

are there for a reason.  Only consciousness allows us to know language.

Whether or not we know it well is up to us.

I, Too by Langston Hughes

There are a few works of literature that apply to ALL people no matter of race, color or creed. The most powerful words you will ever hear, in my opinion, come from a genuine heart which lives in a place called sincerity. And this is one very sincere message that can tell of any personal struggle any human has come face to face with.  I, Too is one of those poems that lives on its powerful words and their  reverberating meaning. This is a work not to be taken casually. Enjoy!


I, TOO

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed -

I, too, am America.

 
 

The Hug by Tess Gallagher from Staying Alive: Real Poems for Unreal Times

This poem made me think about every person to person encounter that I have had. No matter  how big or small, whether a passing smile or a quick hello, we never stop to think about what those small gestures could mean.
Let me know what you think.......

THE HUG
A woman is reading a poem on the street
and another woman stops to listen. We stop too,
with our arms around each other. The poem
is being read and listened to out here
in the open. Behind us
no one is entering or leaving the houses.

Suddenly a hug comes over me and I'm
giving it to you, like a variable star shooting light
off to make itself comfortable, then
subsiding. I finish but keep on holding
you. A man walks up to us and we know he hasn't
come out of nowhere, but if he could, he
would have. He looks homeless because of how
he needs. "Can I have one of those?" he asks you,
and I feel you nod. I'm surprised,
surprised you don't tell him how
it is - that I'm yours, only
yours, etc., exclusive as a nose to
its face. Love - that's what we're talking about, love
that nabs you with "for me
only" and holds on.

So I walk over to him and put my
arms around him and try to
hug him like I mean it. He's got an overcoat on
so thick I can't feel
him past it. I'm starting the hug
and thinking, "How big a hug is this supposed to be?
How long shall I hold this hug?" Already
we could be eternal, his arms falling over my
shoulders, my hands not
meeting behind his back, he is so big!

I put my head into his chest and snuggle
in. I lean into him. I lean my blood and my wishes
into him. He stands for it. This is his
and he's starting to give it back so well I know he's
getting it. This hug. So truly, so tenderly
we stop having arms and I don't know if
my lover has walked away or what, or
if the woman is still reading the poem, or the houses -
what about them? - the houses.

Clearly, a little permission is a dangerous thing.
But when you hug someone you want it
to be a masterpiece of connection, the way the button
on his coat will leave the imprint of
a planet on my cheek
when I walk away. When I try to find some place
to go back to.