Long Black haired Poems
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I write upon my twisted trails of fairytales
Whereby some arcane beauty is defined
As meek blonde girls sweeping the coals
No chance to dance at balls
Hoping only for pity from some magic elf
Or a royal's fetish for tiny feet
But now she's shattering those mirrors of deceit
crossing out lies left too long on the shelf
She needs no prince to break her walls
No damsel wrote this scroll
while the black haired adventurer partakes of wine
riding on backs of disappearing whales
whose red shadows splash over purple pirate sails
by colors erupting outside gray lines
as she cuts holes in paper souls
of heartless paper dolls
Once she rescues herself from this passive pale self
she will quiver the air with her drumbeats
2/1/21
'I Write Upon' contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Two souls searching ?
Inspired by a writing from my sixteen year old Daughter
This old man, sits in the shadows of his life’s plan,
this fading shadow, of what once was a man !,
who’s life’s colours, his aura are not but shades of gray
that come in, and seem to fill his every day.
And then, black shades he doth find
in the troubled shadows, in the mind
of his youngest, his black haired beauty,
his ever growing all knowing, big cutie
who’s mold is told, as it sets sound,
after all the rules have been laid down
for this, my dark haired child
who’s dark soul seems so wild
with rage, her soul locked in a cage,
and there seems to be no turning the page.
That book needs to be found,
her soul, her spirit set free,
to know that beautiful sound,
find inner peace, let herself be.
Escape the clutches of doom, find peace
and know just how easy it is to release,
from the deep recesses of her troubled mind,
all she looks for but never seems to find.
That place where she may set free the flames,
get out and get away from the games,
be strong my Dear, and put the fires out
with such glee, be free, and shout.
B. J. “A” 2
February 27th 2001
Lost in a strange Space
A writing by my youngest Daughter,
about a painting she had done of herself.
In honest god truth, I could not really explain,
to you all, what is going on in this painting.
What I can tell you is, the title explains a lot,
because a lot of the time, I am lost in a strange space,
that is so indescribable that I’m not going to try.
The flame I’m holding in my heart represents all
the anger and frustration I hold inside me,
in fear of letting it out, may lead to destruction of myself.
My face is black because a lot of the time
I feel I have no real appearance, just a mind.
The faint yellow around me
represents what little faith I have in my body.
If I could explain, to whom is reading this,
all of what is going on inside my mind
I would, but I can’t, and all I know,
of what is keeping me alive,
is the love I feel for a few people,
and the love they return .
By Melanie
Atfield .
passengers gather while their turn awaits
very few standing out
except for one, sprawling along my seat
room for me, just about
awkward two-handed pillow cupping head
beyond waking, no doubt
long brown trench-coat, boot soles with rugged tread
next train ! should I nudge him ?
needful resting or chemical stupor
not for me to judge him
why interfere ? his world, his well-earned dreams
very hard to budge him
startled, distracted, nearly miss my call!
still he is not shifting
urgent rush on-board, his image fading
sit back, eyes uplifting
spy those familiar curls, grey wooly hat
conversation drifting
earwigging, eavesdropping across the aisle
their words come and go
tune-in and filter out the ambient
expose their to-and-fro
they are other people, not my business
but still I want to know!
his mature companion, black-haired beauty
she smiles, ten years older
for them, no others on their train of thought
like coinciding spheres
bodies tilt towards overlapping touch
as space between them clears
carriage swaying to their sound, back and forth
they listen intently
animated, probing his next response
she lectures him gently
university trends, what does he seek?
he replies attently
predator woman and willing victim
marooned oblivious
to those furtive glances, the flapping ears
attuned assiduous
audience pleasured, unfolding theatre
cocooned delirious
rails switch, clickety-click, clickety-clack
asks his destination
the one just coming but then no surprise
no procrastination
they stay together with no track of time
end-of-the-line station
reality tears, they remain enthralled
their mobiles uploaded
walk on by, lowered voices on the cusp
demeanour encoded
then lost in the crowd, I wish them both well
destiny railroaded
Oh, you African!
Of cocoa skin and black-haired
Like your judgments
You African!
The lamb in the elections
Son of the people, wandering in the dying neighborhoods
With your sweet and spoken worldly pretentions
Hiding your ties, leaning of lions
Uou African, black as the charcoal
Of heart as the darkness
looks at the White! look at the glitter!
but you left the moodle
Ignored the guides, the witchcraft
And infiltrated yourself in the Avé Mariah
Becoming despaganized Christian
why did you lie to us? Why?
Why did you hide yourself, why?
Why did you steal our wills?
You are not lamb, You are black wolf
We are already sinners to burn
This hell and the upcoming
And the flames of worms, dead alive
Ah! Revered Beloved Black
Heavy are your sins both hidden as revealed
that they rise with the clamour
Of the pregnant women, the virgins and the young men
Without bread, water, without light
And you there in your sublime throne glittering
But only a king has his throne, Jesus the Narazeth
And this is not thou, black brother
Scent of men and sweat pervade this little space
away from vast expanse of exercise machines at this gym.
Here they strain beneath laden bars
or lift and lower black and silver weights held in their hands.
A delicious black-haired male with slim yet sturdy legs
exposes muscles which tense as he steadily pumps iron.
Beautiful and intense dark orbs peer into the mirror
at the biceps of his own taut and tawny arms.
Now he lies upon his back and hoists a bar.
The sound of his laborious exhalations permeates the room.
He doesn’t notice the pair of paler eyes on him
(I also watch the mirror. . . but more discreetly).
My softer respirations match his rhythm.
Then. . . with his final reps come virile groans.
Inside my head. . . I moan and I see myself
above his rippled abdomen and heaving chest,
pressed against his sweet, dark perspiring skin.
The fragrance of my lingering Taboo
mingles with his musk.
I see him glance my way, and I avert my eyes.
If he takes to older women as well as to the younger girls
and if he fancies ones like me - robust and voluptuous -
not just the females delicate and slender as reeds ,
perhaps he is breathing in the essence that is me,
and for that one moment in time. . . I’m the fantasy.
For Cyndi MACMILLAN'S "MY SPICE BOX: SENSUAL POETRY. ADULTS ONLY.Poetry Contest"
My blue hair women paintings are surprisingly fun,
But the most interesting are my blue black haired combo.
I know this because I am staring at them now.
Pony-tailed, hatted, hanging, one doing the mambo.
I always thought the pink hairs would be the most “ut”.
My pink cats and dragons have them completely topped.
If I counted all the flowers and hearts on my walk.
I would laugh at my ludicrous self, that I could have never stopped.
Painting has been a most enjoyable hobby to me.
It has kept me out of relatives’ squabbles galore.
Entertaining me in every which way and wild.
Keeping me away from cleaning which I truly abhor.
Georgie
His was a pudgy boyish countenance,
With rounded river eyes and an Alfalfa smile.
He wheezed like a sick tern with repeated asthma attacks,
Playing hard at the various outdoor games and chases,
Of our fleeting childhood years in the inhaling sun.
He perspired profusely in 1964 as he sat with beads of sweat which
Gathered like a water pox above his lips, all in a wheezing row.
Bespectacled Georgie was the curlicued, black-haired boy
who lived two houses up from ours; the one with the green hedge.
He wore converse sneakers, a white tee and blue denim, with
Thick black-framed glasses astride his chubby white face.
His was a temper not sought by anyone, including Elsie his mother.
Georgie was her little boy, but when angered, baseball bats went flying.
Curse words were screamed loudly with one’s birth name questioned intensely.
Stones and large rocks were heaved at innocent windows and nearby statuary.
Baseballs were hurled at the heads of other little boys, with misses near and far.
Toy darts were skipped across baking sidewalks to the bare feet of his playmates,
Producing more loud voices shrieking in pain when the darts impaled their feet.
Oranges and lemons were rabidly picked for the purpose of pummeling one’s nose;
But gentle mother Elsie loved her little Georgie, and his little blue inhaler.
Years and decades sailed by like lost boats in a starless harbor.
Little Georgie grew into a pudgy man with nothing changed except, the drugs.
Marijuana odors hovered like invisible swarms of masticating locusts,
Lurking above the silent brick houses of our street, with old Georgie lighting up.
With a pipe and a baggie in his pocket, my old friend gave up on his life.
He decided not to work, but to take aimless walks down deserted avenues;
Day after empty day he took his drifting strolls into a personal oblivion.
We subsequently lost contact in the ensuing decades, and I forgot about him.
Until recently… I found out…
Georgie’s funeral took place 25 years ago at Rose Hills Cemetery.
Rest in piece old friend, old tormentor, with your little blue inhaler.
Decades of mystic dreamers have worn the path
trod across the leys, coupling pairs within Stonehenge.
Beneath the Wiltshire skies cornflower blue; they lust,
lotus-eaters, loose-limbed, seeking a blessed outcome.
With longing strides-- they reach, climbing earthen berms
to add their lovers song to move with the cycles.
Some take the blessed day, others wait the pearly moon.
See her so fairy fair dressed in naught but moonlight?
Watch his black-haired beast rise once encircled by her arms.
Back pressed against the dolmens, her heels wreath his waist
as virgin blood runs red like the holly berries
to feed the holy earth, she'll bear his child; she trusts.
Modest woman moderate woman
Your inner beauty strikes me
Like the tongue of noble eloquence
More than gold even refined gold
Or our purged fulgent silver.
Black woman proud woman
Your pride is not haughty
But a humble pride of eaglets;
Your black eyes are so glittering
As the eyes of our dark rivers
Filled with messages of peace
That banish the broody turmoil
From those panting hearts
Of your foreigned offsprings.
Gentle mother diligent mother
Your kindness kindles the fires
Of my heart –
Your dexterity dresses
The table of our ageless history
And the thought of your being
– Oh kind mother! –
Makes the most delicious menu
For my heart.
I remember your naked feet
Fast and fair as a pigeon’s limbs
Treading the invisible paths
Almost covered by shrubs
Small shrubs misted by the prime mist.
I remember the wood from the wood
The water from the water
And manifold items from jungle alleys
Borne by your delicate hands
And upon your soft black-haired head.
I remember the constant match
To markets and to farms
And your bright face smeared with
The ash dust
Making you more beautiful
Than any woman whose feet
Ever touched the naked earth.
I remember those burdens
Upon your cheerful kin-souls
And babies strapped to your backs
Babes full of unspoken words
To unborn others in patient wombs
Waiting in an endless turn –
Indeed, mother is dove!
A black dove and a dark huntress
A hunter’s gift from the maker?
Mother is like a weaver-bird
Building a big foot-like nest
Filled with corn and warmth
A bundle of eagle-flight
Mother is dove
And the hunter calls her
The clan’s eternal dove.
Oh, mother loving woman
Gentle as our black horizon
To you we humbly come
From these far and lonely lands
Hoping to grace our love and beauty
Before that jealous grave
Makes her temporary feast.