This Thing Called Love

What is this thing called love?  Is it the best thing that ever happens like Gladys Knight and the Pips say, or is it like a cool breeze that brushes across your face?

Perhaps love is that thing that causes one not to be too proud to beg - or is loving you easy because you’re beautiful?

What is this thing called love?  Is it the color of amethyst or black diamonds and pearls?  Does it taste like sweet chocolate and cream?  It is a love jones?  Is it the feel of your hand on the small of my back?   Like the sound of your voice.  Is it like when I argue just to hear you speak?  Is it the sweetest thing I’ve known?  Perhaps it’s that thing that Stephanie sang about?  Sweet Sensation, or is it Fire and Desire?  Is it Ooo La la la? Is it simply giving you something you can feel?

What is this thing called love?  Is it like a black butterfly, soaring across the waters?  Is it the thing that causes life to have direction now and a clear point of view?  Is it that thing makes it easy because you love me, baby?

What is this thing called love?  Is a secret rendezvous?  It showed up during a time when nobody is supposed to be here.  I tried that love thang, for the last time I said.  So here it is.  What is this thing called love? How did it get here? Am I trapped by this thing called love?

March 31, 2012

(Excerpt from ‘Beautiful Black’)

Trinidad

The rhythmic sound of a nation, black faces, red faces, white faces.  A melting pot.  The center of the earth.  The gathering place for many.

The rhythmic sound of a nation, dialects, slang, secretly coded messages that make up the fabric of the people.  

The sound of the music.  The beat, the pounding of the drums.  The piercing sound of the horns almost becomes deafening.  The rhythmic sound of a nation.  The sound of the horns, the chatter, clang, bang, bang!!!  Such noise from the disquiet in the soul of the fabric of a nation.

The hustle, the bustle, smells of spices, urine, people sleeping in the streets.  The scream of a nation.  

The sudden quiet that overcomes the rhythmic sound of a nation.  Another day passed, another day experienced.

Tomorrow comes again. The rhythm continues.  The rhythm continues, the rhythm continues.  

(March 24, 2012)

(Excerpt from ‘Beautiful Black’)

Wonderful ME!

who am i that i should think

that i should be

or even smile

what gives me the right

to dance and twirl 

to dip my hip

to feel the sensuous beat

to see the sunlight skip across the dawn

who am i that i should think 

that i should be

or even smile

what gives me the right

to sing and crescendo 

and sound like crystal

who am i that i should think

that i should be

or even smile

what gives me the right

to lift my eyes

and spread my arms to embrace myself

who am i?

i am just me

wonderful me, flawed though i may be

i have the right to be just me

      Selah!

(March 2011 - Excerpt from ‘This is Me’)

The Power of Three

They belong together, love in its purest form.

Three bodies born in the same sweet nectar

fearfully and wonderfully made

 moving to soundless music, music in the key of joy.

Songs sung, a chorus of the days beginning and end 

Magic made in the sharing

They belong together, love in its purest form

 vivid in the color of mirth, laughter creating a thin place where 

Past touches present exploding into the future.

Whispers of thankfulness, petitions of forgiveness are sent

To hope that embraces faith while greeting serenity.

 Familiar souls wrapped in spirit stand guard

 chasing pain into the abyss bringing light to hope

 embracing faith while greeting serenity.

They belong together, love in its purest form

Small hands as warm as love, as safe as prayer

Creamy nutmeg, café au lait, milk-doused caramel

Gentle as untwisted soft silk carried from the 

Flowery Kingdom to where home fires burn

They belong together, love in its purest form

 Love dressed in its most brilliant hue

Three hearts beat happily 

The power of three

Survivor

I am a survivor, from the past, present, and future.
I am from the legacy of strong women, determined to move 
(from the outhouse to the big house).
I am from faith gained and nurtured dreams that soar like eagles.
I am from the name that means Rock, strong, unmovable, and unshakable.
I am a survivor

Life’s pains have caused me to ask a few questions, like:
“Who am I?  Why am I here?”
Does my color define me?
Does my size cause me to be ignored?
Does my womanhood, strength, and determination offend thee?
I am the one who has walked quiet.
I am the one who has been forced to be invisible.
Forced to hold my peace.
Forced to suppress who I am and want to be so others could rise.
I am a survivor

The time has come for me to make a difference!
To rise up!
Be counted!
Be respected!
To silence the noise of the past and move ahead!
I am a survivor

In this season all misunderstandings will work themselves out.
In this season I will birth out the stored creativity that has been locked within me.
In this season I will forgive myself of mistakes, mishaps, and failures that will one day turn to successes.
Life is not a dress rehearsal; I must ask my self, “How will history remember me?”
I will leave a legacy of faith, strength and determination.
I am a survivor

Shattered dreams (like a glass broken into tiny pieces).
Divorce, “felt like a hot knife cutting through butter” but the river of living

water has come to put me back together again.
Single, how will I raise my children so they will be a beautiful portrait and walk colorful in their gifts?
Cancer, stealing life from my brother and mother, “the foundation is gone who will lead the way?”
Lost, lonely but not alone.
Sad...
But I am a survivor

Emotions blowing around like a leaf in the wind.
I know now that I will have to:
Laugh because it’s good medicine.
Find Joy because it’s my strength.
Run to peace for it will sustain me.
When weak, God will make me strong.
When alone (God will not leave or forsake me).
When broke (I will give).
When troubled (I will pray).
When lost (God will guide me)
Weeping may endure for a night but joy will come in the morning.
It is morning time!!!
It is morning time!!!
It is my morning time!!!
It may feel and look like I am on the bottom, but I’m coming up real soon!
Because I am a survivor

I am the one who pain tried to silence.
I am the one whose troubles tried to kill.
I am the one where life almost lost its meaning.
I am the one who never fit because I was not white enough, not rich enough, not smart enough, not beautiful enough, not small enough.
I am the one whose voice will silence the pain; For me first, my children and then for others.
I am the one who stands before you now...
No longer broken...

BUT A SURVIVOR

Hear Our Voices Live on April 19!

Exciting news!  On Thursday, April 19, the Pentimenti Women will be featured guests at the Haley House Cafe as part of their weekly performance series Art is Life Itself.  We  hope you will come hear our work brought to life in each of our unique voices.   

Thursday, April 19, 6-9PM (The Pentimenti Women will take the stage at 7:30PM.)

Haley House Bakery Cafe

12 Dade Street

Roxbury, MA 02119

If you are unfamiliar with Haley House, it is a wonderful organization that believes in (delicious) food with a purpose and the power of community.  Learn more about them here.

Life Love

At dawn’s first push into blushing light

velvet black lashes flutter as monarch’s wings.

My struggle with waking lost, and the veil of sleep drawn back.

I see you, seeing me as though for the first time.

I can hear all in those eyes as I fall into their deepness.

With wondrous thought you ask,

Who is she?

What is she,

that her mere being holds me with a power super-natural?

Her skin soft as sky cloud, lips a deep wine perfect in silhouette with

a supple sweetness that would drive the most stalwart insane with desire

and at the same moment powerless at a sober sharp wit tumbling from them

cutting to the quick.

I see you, still strong: a warrior worthy of ballads sung, stories told.

Time finds you still tall, wise yet yielding, with a heart holding sweetness beside

the shadows of pain past and present now and again flickering ever so slightly

across your brow. 

I see you, as your fingers lightly brush a wayward wisp of hair from my face tapping the tip of my nose in their travel to my heart still

beating in time with yours…magnificent, powerful.

From somewhere and nowhere I hear my name and with it a knowing you will always be here listening, waiting for my call.

You now see me seeing you as if for the first time

the last time.

Shani's Song

I am a Brown Skinned Woman

Warm, so warm in sienna, bark, mahogany, color wrapping around the beginning with a hot cinnamon sweetness.

I am a Brown Skinned Woman

Born of dark and oh so darker queens of fierce, fearless mighty Amazons

The strength of my loins held rivers, mighty oceans, and love to the world.

I am a Brown Skinned Woman

Love, loving, lover, holding heart and soul tight within, ancient music emanating from my secret place.

I am a Brown Skinned Woman

A comely Mother of the Ages 

Tasting of strength, tasting of life

Here now,

Here forever.

I am.

Cover Me

I have seen some bridges, you know…I’ve seen them.

Liken to those in my dreaming eye 

covered with Heaven’s hand, those long ago hallowed halls of travel to

passion and the raw beauty of nature -

God’s very breath.

I have touched some bridges, I tell you…I’ve touched them,

and they crooned the sultry longings, pain and desires of Lady Day,

the cool, low, creamy tones of Johnny Hartman as we melted into one another

sweeping, swaying, swinging

I have walked on some bridges, I say…I’ve walked on them,

as the rippling rivers underneath spoke of magic

creating a love lasting all the way to forever.

I have danced on some bridges; I remember…I’ve danced on them.

Oh, to once again dance with you so stand-still slowly on those old wise planks

of long ago that sung time by with their melodic aged creaking as they

wrap timbered arms tightly around lives lived, hearts found.

I have seen some bridges, you know…I’ve seen them.

Liken to those in my dreaming eye

covered with Heaven’s hand.

safe harbor from doubt, despair, tears yet to fall.

Those long ago hallowed halls of travel.

Dudley Square Cries

Hear the living cries of Dudley Square woes!

The heartbeat of Boston reveals

Life’s blood victories and defeats

Newborn babies in strollers
Young mothers, seasoned mothers
Fathers too!

Strolling,
And rolling,

To make a hustle to work

They go

Reading Boston Metro

Cell phones singing curses loudly of

Love’s soap opera gossip gone wrong

Or tender muted sounds of love’s promise

Look at the fine apparels worn to protect or expose

The appearance of a hidden soul

The lows and highs of self worth and self esteem

In arrays of bright and dark colors fashioned

Smells of

Restaurants, fruit stands and vendors calling
Sweet cooings of flying doves above
Living, breathing, moaning Dudley Square

Cry on!  Cry on!  Cry on!

Photo credit: "Faces of Dudley" by Ernesto Valencia, www.picturingroxbury.wordpress.com

Dudley Square II

Vegetable soup stirring, daddies maybe,
crying babies, mamas talking loud

Ebonics flying, see hips swinging?
Women, men walkin’ – or are they swaying?
Hear the wind blowing?
Birds chirping, flies flying
Sounds crying, tires screeching

Horns justa blowing
Culture moving
White, yellow, black and red
No need to salute a flag
Look at heat risin’!
Chicken gumbo soup in motion
Boiling!

What you say?
Poetry in motion
Swinging and justa swaying
Ha!  That’s Dudley Square!

Dudley Square III

There’s a be-bop de-bop in the square

Something’s always going down

Sounds of a circus coming to town

Be-Bo-De-Bop
Be-Bo-De-Bop

Right here in the core of Dudley Square

The colorful cartoon reality ringing

Out another rhythmic beat

Marvin Gaye – “What’s Going On”

Be-Bo-De-Bop
Be-Bo-De-Bop

A woman hungry is asking for a dollar

Be-Bo-De-Bop
Be-Bo-De-Bop
           
Preacher man preaching from the good book

Be-Bo-De-Bop
Be-Bo-De-Bop

See the man on crack walking unsteadily toward you
Asking for your money

Be-Bo-De-Bop
Be-Bo-De-Bop

My Father's Hands

March 3, 2010

Look!
 Don’t cover up your faces!
See my father’s hands.
Yes, they are filled with deformities now.
drawn up in the form
of a lion’s paw.
What a story these hands could tell you
which formed my family’s world.
With praying hands
strong provider hands
tying my shoe lace when I did not know how
helping hand for algebra homework
and making chicken gumbo
carpenter hands holding a hammer,
rhythmically and melodiously nailing, fixing things
yet like a protective lion, tenderly brushing away my pain from my childhood
woundings.
Hands fixing bandage on a scraped knee as I learned
to ride my bicycle, “The Green Hornet.”
These hands painted walls in strokes of ease.
and drywalled houses
Dad could cement bricks together like icing a cake.
Hands which measured walls with a look.
These hands worked long hard hours until midnight.
Hands of excellence
so don’t you cover up your face or look away!
Like the nails in my Jesus’ hands,
see my father’s hands!

Easier with You (First version, written in my twenties)

Shades drawn, closing out a hazy dawn
while a jazzman playing low from a scratchy stereo
sounds of last night's song.

And lazy on my pillow, I stray into a glowy mellow.
There I wander into the beauty of living and filled with
a newness sown by you.

And it’s easier with you breathing beside me, ‘cause
you've taken away all the hollow nights and days when
time was just too free.  My reasons in loving you are in
the things you prove.  It's so much easier with you.

Daylight hustles into the city's glare, and to face another
day with thoughts of running away to roads that call me there.
Although I want to follow and drown into a stony sorrow,
but since you've entered into my sinking future and filled it with
the power of love, I find that all that is, is so much Easier
With You.

Easier With You (second version, written in my senior years)

With shades drawn, closing out a hazy dawn
I still embrace the rhythm of last night's song.
Waves of a jazzman's horn is playing low
while a singer's voice wanders off into a whisper.
I have become entangled within a dream.  There
I find myself moving so very slow, as the music
plays softly from a scratchy stereo.

And lazy on my pillow, I stray into a glowy mellow.
Where my heart is racing to catch each beat.
There I wander into the beauty of a new beginning
overshadowed by the fear of yesterday's memories.
Those words of thunder and betrayal of trust.  Now
forgotten, now so faraway, now, my heart is filled
with a newness sown by you.

And it's easier with you breathing here beside me.
You've never doubted me.  You've allowed me to talk
forever about who or what I plan to be.  Even though
I sound so outrageous, so silly about staying free -
like a purple, green and yellow winged butterfly.
I mean, you care about me.  You're a first!

Daylight hustles into the city's glare, and to face
another day with thoughts of running away to roads
that call me there.  Although I want to follow and
drown into a stony sorrow.  I remember your touch
and your sighs.  Now that you've entered my life and filled
it with a powerful love.  I need to be here.  All that is
good in life and all that is really real is so much easier
with you.

The Mirror

The mirror, the mirror hanging there
So small, so plain, so unaware,
Of looks, and blinks and teeth so white,
Fore fills its duty to give delight.
To those who pass by without a care,
Who gawk and giggle and hope to dare,
To believe whatever tales it shows
The secret desires that no one knows.
Kept hidden and quiet by a blank cold stare
From half closed eyes full of hurt and despair.
 
Oh the outward masks we show
To others who believe they think they know:
     The beauty queen, the soccer pro,
              A dancer's dream,
     The boatmen's row, an idol's song,
              A love story so very wrong.
 
A mirror only knows why a reflection glows,
A mirror only shows what the mind already knows,
No matter how much primping and smiling I see
I relish that old mirror who reflects back at me.

The Shell

My inner being has long been emptied into rivers of time long forgotten by me. 

As I lay deep within the riverbed, the hardness of my shell still draws visitors of endless seaweeds that cling for a moment before moving on.   I yearn for them to stay awhile and keep me amused. 

Why should I beg for comfort, let all things pass through to where they must go?  My shell cannot weep for itself, nor can it laugh or ask for forgiveness for being empty.  I am broken by the turbulence of the quaking floor.   It has left me with swirls of ingenious lines of pale yellow, blue, orange, pink and a heavy moss of green.

I have become a beacon when the morning sun shines on all my parts, transforming me into a fascination picked up by new hands.

Although a part of me is lost forever, the spirit of my soul still lays buried deep within.  I will always be protected against the changing times of nature.

If you see me and care to listen, my tales of the sea are true.

Cushite Nation, Arise

 

 

Arise, this is your finest hour

The dawning of a new day

Arise and take your place

Fulfill your destiny

Shake-off the sack cloth and ashes. Put on the garment of praise

How shall they be led?

Except ye Arise Cushite Nation, Arise

Remember when God called you and set you above many as Kings and Queens

Remember when God anointed you and called you Great

Gird up your loins

Remember not your captivity

This is your finest hour

This is your time in the kingdom

Arise Cushite Nation, Arise

Miss Edith

There is wisdom in her

The way she surveyed the room sitting proudly in her seat

I knew that behind the gentleness in her smile there were years of hard learned lessons

There is wisdom in her eyes

The knowledge and the stories that she could drop

I would love to sit at her feet with my head on her knee as she speaks her story gently to me

There’s wisdom in her face

Not in the lines that crease it but in the regal way she walks into the room

The past and the present came with her

I saw the future in her too

There’s wisdom in her hands

They way she gracefully folds them in her lap,

I wonder how many babies those hands have gently caressed, how many braids have been platted with those graceful hands

I saw the past, the present

and the future in her too

There is wisdom in her.