He said, he said

He told me I could not love enough
I could not fill his emptiness
I could not match his pride with my lukewarm affection
I could not love enough with my smiles

Secure hugs were no replacement for insecurities

My love was not big enough in actions
My love was not loud enough in words
My love was not enough

There was a slow leak in the tire and every so often I’d stop at the pump or buy a can of fix a flat
Buying myself some time because replacing tires is expensive
That old car was too expensive to fix, too costly to get rid of, and held sentimental value because I invested my life into it

The mileage was beyond what the odometer could read
Oil was leaking and the car kept overheating
The seats were ripped and the interior stained beyond cleaning
A few broken lights and of course the tags were expired

No insurance
No more romances or innocent joy riding
Love and marriage were not in waiting for a faithless love
No more patience in an unforgiving heart
No sweet sound of laughter and no growth

He told me I could not love enough
I could not be the mother of life regardless of my genetic make up

My love was not big enough in actions
My love was not loud enough in words
My love was not enough

So I put the key in the ignition and jiggled three times
I shook the steering wheel two times and pumped the gas five times before it would turn over
I knew the end was near and I could not sustain it, nor could it sustain me
The engine gave out and I could not love it anymore

(Circa May 2013) 

Triumph

Tenaciously striding through this endangered world, I am a glamorous species of hope with unwavering faith in what I must know. Wisdom bestowed upon me from beyond the highest element of life, and from the lower morsels of human affliction. I dare to dream through it all.
Reclined and looking up to the blues of infinite possibilities, I commit myself uprightly and just.  


1/7/2013

The Cover-Up

I'm trying to makeup, but it just doesn't make since
Because I can't cover up the cover-up.

Cappuccino number eight to brighten my imperfections.
Purple maniac to give a sparkle to this hue of depressing blue.
Electric eel with a satin finish so you can't see the rough spots.
Number twenty-four makes a brotha stare at the lip gloss
And his girl give the head toss because she's mad.

I've concealed my rotund darkness with a natural tone.
My Queen collection doesn't have me feeling like royalty today.
And MAC better give me my money back,
Because this cover-up ain't covering up like it's supposed to.
Layers of a faulty foundation,
There are too many ways to apply these products.

Years of practice and I'm still no professional.
The rouge does not accent my cheekbones
Which never move from their sad position.
My mascara is running a marathon and volumizing my distress.
Yet, I must reapply and move forward with the cover-up.

A little more adhesive to bring out my eyes,
And some adhesive to mend this brokenness.
Natural beauty is a thing of the past.

So, if beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Then I can't be certain of what I see.
If eyes are a window to the soul,
Then my life story is an open book for the average browser.

This mineralized skin finish is purely cosmetic.
It will eventually fade while the pain still radiates through my pores.
Perhaps two coats of cherry bomb red to hide my nervous condition
Because this cover-up ain't covering up like it's supposed to.

(Circa May 2013)

What if?

What if my family never moved from Jackson?
What if I never left Lansing?
What if I attended that college I desperately sought after?
What if I chose not to attend college?
What if I let a lack of finances dictate my life style?
What if I were never self motivated?
What if no one ever believed in me or encouraged me?
What if I never attended Upward Bound?
What if I completed studies in architecture, psychology, or sociology?
What if I never pledged Delta?
What if I never loved?
What if I never lost love?
What if I were a product of my environment?
What if I never had Mount Zion?
What if I fell to teen pregnancy?
What if I fell to substance abuse?
What if I were never strong enough to make my own decisions?
What if I never left Atlanta?
What if I were married and started a family?

Where would I be? I am not sure, but those are not questions I have to answer. I am living with no regrets and I urge you to do the same.

My storyboard

Currently, my life is like a storyboard template with sketches and incomplete sentences. Ideas strewn about trying to create a big picture, but nothing quite coming together. Random occurrences and ill thought out plans to create a future of some sort, a future uncertain to present hopes. I keep reorganizing the ideas, but there is no natural flow pattern for this particular storyboard. The plot is generic and has lost its tenacity to reach a climatic point that preludes the dynamic ending. This story could take several courses, yet I am assured there is only one predestined outcome. Creativity is a struggle. The gift of choice and decision comes with great burdens and time sensitivities. How do I organize this storyboard and decide what makes it into the final script? Whatever this production transpires will be the story of my life. Stay tuned...

Cake Batter

When I was I child I loved being in the kitchen with my dad. He would cut and whip, dice and stir, flip and dip, coat and mix. He seared and smothered on top of the stove, he baked on the inside of the stove and broiled under the bottom of the stove. My dad grilled in the back yard and fried on the double burner, free standing gas stove hooked to a tank. It was versatility at its finest. Such sweet smells and memories. Cake batter!

The holidays rolled around and groceries would pour in. Sticks of butter and eggs would pile on the table. Dad left them out overnight, then in the morning he made magic happen with butter, sugar and eggs. We filled the large plastic bowl with flour, a pinch of this and a dash of that. My dad put in the hand mixer and let the whipping begin; he even let me hold it for a twirl. I knew a baking delight was coming within an hour or two, but that mattered none. I was holding out for something much grander, more sweet and instantly delectable. There was no need to wait an hour when I could have the spoon, bowl and mixing spatulas to lick that sweet combination of ingredients that once sat bored in solidarity on the table. Cake batter!

James Brown and Parliament were among the top plays in his theme music. By the age of five I could glide across the floor, twiddle my feet and do a cold spin before I dipped to the floor in a split. The dance breaks in between the cooking brought joy to the heart, especially when my dad threw on his hat and tipped it forward, put his hands behind his back as he hunched forward and slide across the floor with one leg cocked in the air. He did it with so much soul. Cake batter!

I have since grown from that admiring youngster and moved far away from my dad's stove and the holiday filled kitchen. As the years passed, so did sad times and good times. My dad experienced life and all of its peaks and valleys. I came to know life and all of its harshness and prosperity. Even so, cooking holds its therapeutic stance. When the holidays come around I must cut and dice, stir and mix, flip and fry in my own kitchen. The recipes and ingredients remain, and my playlist is quite reminiscent of a youth before my birth. A little James Brown, some Al Green, a little Bootsy, P-funk and the like to get my spatulas spinning. No matter where I am or how old I get, I will never forget those times. My home will share in that same joy to the tunes, to the gastronomic delicacies of my roots. Cake batter!

The chapel

I stepped into the chapel for a word of prayer and insightful reflection. Directly in front of me stood a podium that held a large book. I walked to the altar to make sure it was the Holy Bible. I walked back to sit in the back row and glanced to the right. A menorah was draped on the wall. The bookshelves under it were lined with Holy Bibles and books marked with Hebrew lettering. I peered behind me over my other shoulder and a cross in a frame hung on a partition. Videos about Jesus Christ were available for viewing. The far left wall was lined with a large rug. A man was there praying. Photographs of different mosques from around the world adorned this wall. Another shelf was labeled, "prayer clothing" and "prayer rugs". On top were Holy Qur'ans. After he finished praying he sat and read from the Qur'an. After I finished praying I sat and read the chapter of the Bible that was open on the podium using a borrowed bible from the chapel.

Peace overwhelmed me as I sat there. I became emotional in my conversation with God and in my reckoning with the Word. When I completed the short chapter I looked the chapel over entirely. On the sign in sheet I wrote a thank you note and left my name and city of residence. As I was writing, my Muslim brother exited the chapel and said, "God bless you" as he left. Religion was not a question nor an issue. We were both in the same place and honored that there is one God. 

My gratitude to the Washington Dulles airport for providing a place of worship and peace. There is unity in diversity. Ubuntu!