Tag Archives: American

Crying is Passion

Crying is

passion

for life

Feeling is through tears

not skin

Feel the pain

the joy

the loss

the happiness

within

Crying is not a sin

Embrace yours

your feelings

just cause

you want to

just cause

you can

let yourself

go

feel free

grieve

remember

explore from the inside

out

don’t forget to shout

go all out

crying

is

passion

for

life

Pregnant Pause

pregnant_belly

Rajo Devi Lohan
Annegret Raunigk
Janet Jackson
one Indian
one German
one American
all got together one day
and decided it was time
to choose
when they were ready
not when TV said
not when Mom said
not when science said
not when the man on the corner
who always says hi to you
said
man, a pretty girl like you?
not when you meet that lady
at a party with three kids
and she too wants to know
why
why don’t you have anyone
a girl like you
oh, you should have no problem
don’t you want to have a man
don’t you want to be married
don’t you want to have children
it changed my life
it was the greatest gift that God
ever gave
to me
the German, the Indian, the American
compelled me
just then
to say no
just because
what I want
is more important than what you want
and what you want is only for you
not never
and
not now
I don’t want to
is that okay
but
but
but
she said
so I
got annoyed
got frustrated
and I
told her
I have a skill
actually I have 3
and I wanted to be
an obstetrician
but I changed my mind
and went to university
not knowing that
language would be the key
to opening my eyes
and finding my destiny
I’m a writer
and writers’ need
they need
and need
they are not complacent
when a man asks for it
maybe they say ummmmmm….
I don’t know
not now
maybe they complain a lot
and
maybe they think too much
way much
about what they want
and they want
they want something different
they don’t change
except when it makes them better
compromise
a writer knows no compromise
it’s her voice
her time
her story
the way she wants it
to be told
by herself
not a man
in a car
going far
who invests his time and money in
not her
if she wanted to run for president
she would first have to marry the president
and then she might have a chance
after she has a kid or two
of telling people permanently
to shut the hell up
we don’t care what you think
we’re not ready
when we’re ready
We will make it
happen and
you
dear friend
who cares about things that
only you can relate to
or that you think is timely to believe
will just
have to wait
and
listen

A Chihuahua in Ouagadougou

20140317_221814

Sometimes I get out
A writer does not usually
The pot
is brewing
full of images and words
things unsaid and things too said
A hot
steaming pot
of life
bending, bending, wanting, and waiting to pour eagerly
excitedly
onto my head
Let it burn
My yearning
for words. The right words
to describe the wrong feelings,
the wrong people,
the wrong things
To define them
To deny them
To release myself
I’m washed over with words
I hear them screaming, yelling, begging me.
Raven, don’t you see me?
I write it. I write it. I write and write and every word fights with better words.
Some words
get stuck
in unwanted places
They become
the crook in my neck.
The headache under my brow.
The weariness behind my eyes.
That coffee is not working. I’m wanting
a perfection of being. To describe those things. Those things.
What is that you’re seeing? What is that you’re feeling?
Don’t deny it until you know it.
Resist
the temptation to dull yourself,
numb yourself,
reduce,
reuse,
abuse yourself.
What are you seeing? What are you feeling? What are you tasting?
What are you kissing? What are you loving?
It’s a reflection
of you
Organize it
Taste it
Touch it
Feel it
Study it
Sometimes I finish things
I write
a book
I go
outside
I go
online
I sell it
An Israeli idles near me
He picks it up
He recognizes me
in my words
He smiles
He shares
He writes too
Astor Place is full of things
and students
and truants
and artists
like me,
selling
to be sold
on an ecstasy of hope
Changing to be better
An Egyptian picks me up
next
My things
My story
he likes
He smiles
He reads
He offers me his things
I push back with mine
I write.
I write.
I write. I say
Read my words
Read
my words
Read my thoughts
Eat them
Know them
Grow them
into another world
He smiles
He reads
He leaves
and stops
and turns
invites me
Waga awaits you
St Marks Place can give you
a tea or two
There, I stare
I don’t leave
just yet
The Israeli still there watching me
Wondering me
About me
He stares
He reads
He buys
He laughs
That tea is calling him
We exchange a number or two or three or ten. I say when?
He leaves
$20 in my pocket but I go
alone
The Egyptian knows I have words
stuck in unwanted places
A writer’s never done
Expressing all
I absorb
I see
I want
I go there
alone
My leftover, unbought books is a heavy stone on my head.
Left there somewhere
An Israeli, an Egyptian, an Ivoirien now –
He smiles.
He takes.
He reads.
He doesn’t pay me
Just these earrings from his shop I take
I wait
A woman comes
and like a wind
she reads
she buys
she leaves
No more hours of talking
No more Chinese food
No more lovely smells from all the oils, and lotions, and precious cloths and sparkling jewelry and ancient instruments with sounds that float on top of the steaming Ethiopian coffee. The Ivoirien has mesmerized me.
I have to stop it
So,
I wait
I see
I hear the Egyptian speaking to me
He sells me on his ideas
Never materialized
Just there
and good
And then
the German comes
with his very dark
and equally lovely
Dominican wife’s
Chihuahua
and this small presence
fills the entire room
I see
I laugh
I touch
We gather
I leave
Did I use my words wisely?

Arthur Ashe in My Mind

Arthur Ashe. I have to say that I don’t remember when he appeared to me but he appeared right on time, at a time when I must not have been fully aware of myself. His image and his energy on the screen made me wonder who he was. He was. He existed. He felt. He shared. I remember watching him and knowing that there was nothing in his mind that he would not share because it was genuinely felt. He knew who he was. Where he was. What he was doing. And why he was doing it. I cannot call it assured. It was more than that. Of an absolute being. Arthur Ashe is. Arthur Ashe lives. He is a force field. Something which cannot be overlooked or reinterpreted. Everyone knows what and where it is and what it is there for. That is something I miss. Having people to watch who express what and why they are here without having to explain it. You can see it in their art, their work. It is real.