We Bite

Our first screams sprout
a muffled storm of shock
and loosely buried rage,

eruptions that birth a quaking
of bone and flesh and thought-
triggering warnings.

“Be thankful!” they say, force-
feeding us silence, as we bite
their filthy fingers off.

photo by Nsey Benajah, on Unsplash

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #169: Answering Writing in Writing). Inspired by the rotting madness that is the current state of affairs in the USA and the following lines from The Waste Land: “That corpse you planted last year in your garden, / has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?”

Fun Funereal Memories

I remember a hat (way too big for what was left of your skull). I remember two ladies arguing the depth of your love for them over your coffin (the one in the white vinyl catsuit looked more pissed off than sad). I remember trying so hard not to burst into wild laughter, and thinking, You’re freaking loving this, little brother, aren’t you?

Photo by Andres F. Uran, on Unsplash

- it’s funny, the things that come to mind while we remember loved ones taken by death. Last year, on the 11^th anniversary of my little brother’s last breath, my memories were focused on food: his favorite dishes (carne guisada, coconut rice with pigeon peas, potato salad…), his latest favorite song (“Gasolina” by Daddy Yankee). This year, my brain is over-bubbling with (hysterical) snippets of his funeral. 12 years… and the grief (and the love) burn just as bright. 

I hope your spirit remains the life of the party, little brother--ruffle some angel feathers for your witchy sister.  

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #166: Letters/Sounds)

Creepy Smiles to Unchill Winter

not-quite Journaling, 79

When ice threatens to shatter her limbs,

she springs fangs (and smiles creepily).

1/21/2025: Few things are as powerful as a smile that is also a promise, which blooms (or rips) out of the giver’s heart and carves itself gently (or sharply) inside the receiver’s skull. So, I always say to me (and to you too if you like): smile at the whole world, mean it with your whole self, allow them to see you and what you stand for, let them choose how your heart will affect their skulls. 

 

Sunny

art blooms

in thrift shops-- 

I’ve seen it, have

you?

1/29/2025: The not-so-Little Princess gifted me two LEGO sunflowers. I’ve waited to build them on a day when I needed an extra bit of sunshine. The last few days have been… dark (and painful). The time for building bright has come. This tiny jug, a thrift shop find, feels like the perfect home for my sunflower(ing) gift. When I first glimpsed it, I thought sun-kissed thoughts… Bright and happy! I thought. And like Laurell K. Hamilton writes, in Cerulean Sins, “You have to fight to carve little pieces of happiness out of your life, or the everyday emergencies will eat up everything.” So, I’m carving this bit of brightness for me. 

 

on the bluest sky,

naked limbs weave a poem

to unchill winter

2/7/2025: Doing my hardest to enjoy the bits of magic Nature provides. It’s either that or screaming until my throat is raw. How are you soothing all the screaming? 

 

Don’t blame the times for your crumbling,
after you built your castles on sand.

2/14/2025: I was supposed to write about love today; and since truth is a kind of love, I guess I still am. I recently discovered that someone important to me voted for The Orange Infection. After they (and everyone with a brain and heart) realized what their decision meant for them and for people like me (neurodivergent, Afro-Caribbean, chronically ill…) the apologies began. Then the justifications, “Times are hard everywhere. It’s no one’s fault.” I find their refusal to take responsibility disgusting. Apologies are nice… but they don’t mean shit, when the world is on fire. 

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #164: Love Is Love)

A Flame in the Dark

The knowing dances into me (gritty and wild) through open eyes and waiting tongue. I taste the veracity shards you try hiding under a shroud of not-so-silken lies (something is rotten). For a spell, my eyes consider weeping for the worms you boiled before they could morph into moths. Then I remember: liquid mourning cleanses, but rarely fixes a thing. So my soul sucks in sadden salts, crafts them into living fuel, lets them burn for a better day. I don’t conceal what grows in me. I open my all, under the licks of moon and sun, and I let you watch.

a flame in the dark,
breeding everlasting bright,
rebirthing new hope

photo by Zoltan Tasi, on Unsplash

- this poem came to mind, after I overheard someone say, “I can’t watch the news without crying or wanting to hide. Are you alright?” Although the person wasn’t talking to me, I still thought, “Change ‘crying’ for ‘screaming’ and ‘hiding’ for ‘raging’, and you and I would feel exactly the same way about our society’s general state of crappiness.”

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #162:Joy in Chaos)