Day Eighteen Challenge... Crime of the Maybe's

the straight broad took my girl.

but maybe she was never mine if the taking was so easy,
maybe it was the fact that i didn't want her bad enough,
maybe time corroded her patience,
maybe time constructed the coldness of my heart,
maybe this best,
maybe this broad is her blessing in all of her straightness,
maybe i'm the one who needs to learn,
maybe i need to be potted, incubated for 73 days before i can be planted in the richness of pink soil
between brown thighs,
maybe i need to grow,
maybe it's the care-less-ness that destroyed the possibilities, 
but... 

she tried,
she waited,
she cried,
waited again,
and then she prayed,
maybe we should have laid
hip to hip, side by side and prayed in unison,
maybe i didn't see her, like she couldn't hear me,
maybe we forgot how to touch each other's mind,
maybe this is how it's supposed to be,

maybe this is where i accept the "for now". 

Day Seventeen Challenge... Tears & Dead Leaves

would i be wrong if i told you,
i wanted it to be you....
wanted this forever,
wanted this for however long it takes to wrap time
around the sun and drag it across the ocean's floor
slowly...

would i be wrong if i wanted to lay you down,
and caress the memory of your past,
ride the wave of your fury,
and kiss your forearms at the peak of your bliss.

would i be wrong if i wanted to
have you,
feel you,
take you
over
and
over
and
over again...then repeat that rhythm backwards in baritone?

would i be wrong if I
wanted
to
keep
you
?

Day Sixteen Challenge.... truck stop romance

sundays are the days you choose to love me.

you are the bright blue 18-wheeler, pretty and boastful.

and i am the lone truck stop, route 37 going south.

i am the routine stop,

the place you go to fill up, the place you go for repairs, that trusting ear for highway gossip, that quiet place that whispers encouragement , the place you can’t stay away from because i have everything you need, that “one-stop shop” place.

but you….

are just an 18-wheeler, the thirsty kind.

the kind that drinks until the drink is gone, the one that takes all and leaves scraps. the one who only stops on sundays, if you feel up to it… but let’s be honest you stop on sundays after weeks of running, when everything you have is gone, when you have given what cannot be replenished.

and on those sundays i wash your body, buff away the scratches left by ungrateful lovers. i polish your wheels, re-calibrate your fears and listen carefully to the pur of your babbling engine. i mend the broken and balance you, align your spirit and ready you for the road.

i do this because i love to see that bright blue 18-wheeler, you do this because you love my stop.

but this sunday you’ll have to find another…

i need consistency… a trunk that stops frequently. one that unloads before it loads, one that stays to make sure the stop has what it needs, one that gives and takes but leaves enough to reserve for a later. one that listens the buzz of the lights, one that caresses the handles of the pump so that the diesel follows easy. one that only stops at my stop.  

  

it’s sunday,

you are the bright blue 18-wheeler, pretty and boastful,

driving south on route 37,

i am the truck stop,

but ….

shops closed.

your bright blue 18-wheeler, pretty and boastful is

no longer welcomed,

Here.

Day Fifteen Challenge... the Fist of Prejudice

i still remember what you said to me,

"my house is better than a house with two Lesbians".

i still remember my stomach threatening to empty itself into my mouth and the smell of hate begging me to give in.

"But Mama.... Why"? 

"are you saying that a house with one lesbian is not good enough? are you saying that the lesbian child you raised isn't equipped for parenting"?

then i remembered to breathe forgiveness, i remembered to find the meanings scrambled behind your emotion, and there i discovered what you really wanted to tell me...

i broke your heart.

shattered the dream for your daughter to wed a man,

build a happily ever after, just to say that fairy-tales are real,

prove that little blacks girls can marry lawyers and doctors,

be whatever their imaginations conjure up,

because opportunities are laying about for the taking,

waiting for eager hands to take hold and run off into distant realities made realistic,

fashion homes and lives that grow proud and capable little black children.

but i broke you,

chose to be what i am,

chose to take the sentencing garnered by the three strikes of being

a woman, black, and gay.

i know you didn't want my life to be hard, what life isn't? and who's the judge and jury that determines what "hard" is? i know being a single black mother isn't easy, but being something you aren't is deadly.

the little black child you raise is a lesbian Mom,

a strong woman who chose the consequences of being Free...

Day Thirteen Challenge of the Guilty Chromosome...

as a young parent I don’t always know what to do,

I’m not always sure of the punishments to furnish 

the teachings of life long lessons,

I’m not always ready to deal

with the issues that surround a child’s existence,

I’m not always up to the challenge,

but sacrifice is love and pain is the fact the they don’t care

or understand that the sacrifices of love mean,

dreams are deferred, sleepless nights 

passions turned down, needs unclaimed 

life altered,

so they can exist in peace,

they don’t understand that parents can be hurt

tired

Empty...

Day Twelve... Challenge of the Worship

i wanted to be worshipped.
worshipped like,
ten thousand and one bodies
meshed together chanting my name,
10,001 tongues licking every single syllable,
with 20,002 hands held high and,
10,001 heads bowed
whispering prayers...

but chance gave me Her

a woman...
with daring eyes, and
reaching hands,

calling me to disrobe,
piece by piece,
worshipping me behind closed doors on open hinges...

with my name dripping from her lips,
i hear the 3 thousand and 7 beats of her heart,
summoning me to come closer,
guiding me with hungry fingers to wade in
the ocean of her soul and swim her destiny...

chance gave me,
a woman...
with daring eyes, and
reaching hands,
to baptize me in a redemption that doesn't know love,
a redemption full of worship that breathes eternity and hears hope...

chance gave me, a woman
two eyes for watching,
two ears for listening,
one tongue for tasting,
one heart to match mine,

but...
  she
     is
         the
              worship
                           I
                              fell
                                    into.

Day Eleven Challenge... truth you don't want

“Dear God, make me into a bird so I can fly far, far, far away from here..”

I must’ve have prayed Jenny's prayer a thousand times.. prayed it on bended knee with disappointed  shoulders, and hunched spirits. Prayed that the water of my tears would swallow my fears and erase the doubt for the hopeful. Prayed that the journey not be in vain because the reward would overflow and wash me in a weeping worship.

But you asked me to trust you…

And I trust you but it’s me that I don’t trust,

It’s me that isn’t sure about the process,

It’s me that doesn’t see the footprints marking the road ahead…

It’s me that won’t willingly close my eyes long enough to heed to the direction of your voice….

And because it's me,

I’m asking for grace Lord, asking that you bind my will, close my thought, open my mouth in praise and order my steps…

So,

Dear God make me a bird so I can fly

far…..