"The Sickler's Fortune," A Poetry Post

Sickle cell is
a
disease for
lovers.

It is unkind to
mothers who
wake in the
midnight hour,
hovering over their
screaming infants,
consoling through
full-flowing tears and
holding back
deep sobs of
regret and
remorse.

It is unfair to
siblings who
play second fiddle to
older or younger
sufferers,
the people who become the
banes of existence for their
mourning and mumbling
parents.

It is unyielding for
children who are
struggling
beneath the
weight of watching a
father or mother or
guardian writhe in pain and
subject him or herself to
mounds of too-powerful
painkillers.

But,
to a devoted wife or husband who can
follow the body's fevers and
locate the pulsating places of
stuck life,
the illness is a
sticking place where
hands become
instruments of
healing.

What a fortune a sickler has won if
he or she can find some
one to rub the
pain
away.

"Can You," A Poetry Post

Can you
love yourself again
pretty girl?

If I remove the
feeling of
disjointedness that
has resulted from this
wretched end of a
relationship,
can you remember your
brilliance?

If I hose you down in
memories of your
previous freedom,
will you shake off this
brokenness?
This bondage?

If I make you
put on your
stilettos and
curl your hair and
wear your favorite lip gloss to the
Latin club this weekend,
will you get your swivel back?

What will it take
to remind you that
you're worth loving?

What must I do to
wake you up into the
reality of your
power?

"A Few Thoughts on Death," A Poetry Post

Death is a
complicated piece of
existence.

In one way it
separates us from the
things we love most:
our friends,
our mothers,
our children,
our lost loves.

In another way it
brings us to a
place of ultimate peace and
relief.

We condemn it but we
need it.

We hate it but
must have it.

For life without a rest
is evil and
unbearable.

Life without a rest
is a killer.

"What You Hear," A Poetry Post

When the fridge kicked in I heard
Lupe's string, and I marveled that a
drowsy gal could
hear such a thing;

It is too early for brilliance and it's
too dark to be active,
but I can't restrain the
naturalness of
such a deep reaction;

So I did not fight the prompting of the
fridge's changing temp;
I went straight to Youtube's database and
found the vid of him;

It was playing "Superstar," and around sec 17
was where I found that broad-mouthed
string section and began to groove the thing.

Such is what you hear sometimes when all is
silent as the spring.

Lupe.

-TJM

"Suicide," A Poetry Post

Mr. or Ms.,

This is a word from a woman who has been
kissed by the same macabre lips that
whisper wistful tidbits into your wits.

The voice would have you believe that if you
ended it then
surely
you'd be missed.

He's spun you the idea that eyes would
run blood, tears and sweat with cries should
you just die.

Perhaps the scene is
dark, serene and
covered in a screen of
heavy rain.

Maybe you see the
dark umbrellas
touching in their agreement of your
worthiness.

I guess it seems best...
ending it all at the wicked voice's behest.

But may I suggest that you are already worth the tears that
mourners might invest?

If you leave me,
I'll never pass you by on a crowded street and
you will never
smile at me.

Even your forced smile could
save me from the
wiles of our whispering friend.

But if you leave me,
he will have claimed your life and
also mine,
and we will both pine in infinity,
wondering why we could not see our
awesome equities.

If you leave me,
I will not have the chance to tell you
how much I appreciate you
finding my wallet when I
dropped it full of
hundred dollar bills intended to
pay my rent.

Since you're that type of person,
if you leave me,
some miscreant will
find my bills and
see them spent,
leaving me and my husband and
son in a pinch.

If you leave me,
I'll never get the chance to tell you how much I
like the way greet me when I
walk into your store.

When other persons busy themselves with the
click and hiss of their registers or the
swish of their packing bags,
you are always waving and wishing me well.

I cannot tell you how much I'd really miss your
appreciativeness if you leave me.

If you leave me,
I will never meet the discrete but
excellent creature that inhabits the
impressed piece of earth beneath your feet.

How will I ever live here if you leave me...
If you leave me to pass an empty bench where you would sit;
If you leave me to sit alone in my row at the indie movie in the theatre;
If you leave me to sort through my marital issues without you
and your experiences;
If you leave me to suffer great loses without your
tales of survival;
If you leave me to breathe while you
and your existential life force dissipate?

How will I escape the worries of this world if you leave me,
when I need you like I do?

We are survivors of the same lies,
me and you.

We both know
that suicide
is not the truth.

"A Word On Discipline," A Poetry Post

If my son didn't need discipline,
God woulda dropped his behind
out the sky,
6'5,''
with a
license to drive,
his own G5,
his perfect bride and a
job to provide for his family.

But since he was born here an infant,
I don't see no reason to listen to folks who
think he must have rights to his
own decisions.

Sometimes,
my boy need his whippin.

Ain't no need in me bein' his friend.

I'm his momma,
and if I don't whip his hip when he
slip and
use his lips to
diss wisdom,
he could use his fist to
whip THIS pretty brown face in his
shrewdness.

Sisters,
I can't have that.

I got at least
thirty more years to be a
bombshell.

Let the belt sear his rebellion and
drive out his ill will.

Then in the future,
we will all be sittin'
pretty.

"Dear Mr. DJ," A Poetry Post

Dear Mr. DJ,

Ya'll gone have to
drag me out the back
of this club if you don't
stop
playing Reggaeton, Merengue and
Salsa.

I don't see why
any black body should
go home
anytime
when someone like you done
walked in and
started
selectin' music that
makes my lungs
jump.

I ain't even gone act like I'm inclined.

This is a good spot.

You keep your flow and
I'll keep showing my
Latino
brothers and sisters that
brown skin can sin,
just like the bodies of our
lighter melanined
cousins and
them.

I intend to
get my bachata
on, friend.

Don't nobody rush me.

Let me forget my long day
in your Merengue.

Thank you 'Bay.

Signed,

Pretty Brown Girl.