Thy Brother's Keeper Much of my poetry is inspired by black men. I am blessed and fortunate enough to know and have been influenced by many wonderful black men. I harbor a deep respect and love for the ways they have impacted me collectively and individually. I admire their strength, understand their struggles and the significance of their triumphs; I relate well to their pain and try to be a source of their comfort. I know them as fathers and uncles, brothers, lovers and friends. I am indeed my brother's keeper. The Making Of Jazz Put your hands on me, boo-da-da, smoothing love in chromatic degrees, slide some wicked fingertip down this bent and lonely spine; Beneath the itch boo-da-da where sultry lovers' lust abides. The heart is connected to the thigh; a beat lies between, dancing to rhythmic taps and hand jive. A song squeezes, boo-da-da through the tight aperture like back pockets filled with uncivilized sighs and keys to open things wide. Put your hands on me, boo-da-da, draw out some latent blackgirl blues; the funky tunes hide behind the fret. Start the jam, fill up the rooms and down the halls with wailing cries. Blow me a riff, boo-da-da sax on a high note--harmonic overload bop scat willy wack it from the back, lick by lick, you'll notice the swish-ch-ch-swish keeps the blood flowing, and the rhythm going, boo-da-da like dissonant jazz, ad-libbed, out of key, out of breath, but never out of sync with whatever comes, bop! Yvonne _________________________________________________________________ when he holds me i am like tiny specks of crystal dust he could easily blow away but he doesn't. yvonne (c)2001 ___________________________________________________________________ Too Many Black Men there are too many black men in the damned world anyway walking around with their tight butts high on their shoulders, broad chest stuck out so far you can't see around 'em hands so masculine they could literally choke the life out of you.... just too many of 'em handsome square jawed chiseled & bronzed faces with milk chocolate and apple buttered skin sweet to the taste and (ha-ha) resilient to the back-slap full molasses flavored luscious lips thick enough to literally suck the life out of you... all over the place honey roasted arms reaching thru their struggles thru their experiences of making love to women who by virtue of their ...sexxxxxxxxxx are allowed to succeed in the same world that shuns-them-for-what-i-love-them-for big brown sugared legs pounding pavements looking for income or come in.... or a comfortable place to wallow legs so strong they could literally squeeze the life out of you everywhere you turn big bronzed beautiful black men black eyed hearts seeking the one place where it's ok the one place where they are welcomed enveloped invited to stay the place so warm so tight so clinging it can literally drain the life right out of 'em all over the place everywhere you turn there are just too many black men in the damned world anyway yvonne � 1997 _________________________________________________________________ The Akimbo Cafe Outside the Akimbo Cafe she camps at a table for two in the rear, away from the sidewalk. In 90 degree heat she nurses cappucino, the thin, unlit cigarette dangling from her lips and flicks invisible ashes. She is tired of explanations; why she no longer heaves her breasts into a bra, why she wears mink in the summer. She ignores curious glances, the giggles of waitresses who deliver fancy chicken salad on french bread. Au Dead Pan. A homeless man with hollow eyes walks by and snickers. He reminds her of her spirit, empty; dry bones waxed brittle and cold. The death of your only child will do that. Chill you to your DNA's core until you rattle like an old radiator in a spooky house. Akimbo. the boy-child who had clung to her womb too long to calculate risk on his own, taken out for an insipid remark aimed at a fool with a gun. Her mind has earned this furlow; to mount herself as human shrine of mangled fur, unlit cigarettes and withering breasts, until some feeling returns. yvonne (c)2000 Revised 1/2007 _______________________________________________________________ Swoon A brother loved me once imprisoned in a swollen angry place he reached for me with dark and calloused hands his damaged psyche groped a tender thing and swoon I gave him soft kisses like a mother's understanding as salty teardrops singed my� soothing tongue I gave him things that were good for him like a father's reprimanding chipped away at stone walls of brittle dried up blood � he gave me � voluptuous love; � and for my ears a pair of diamond studs. � Yvonne � 1998 _________________________________________________________________ But Joy Cometh In the Morning (for Baldy) I had planned to mourn you the rest of my life, to sit, mind looped in eternal replay, recalling the last time I saw you laugh, mischief hoola-hooping in your eyes, traded church gossip with you like God couldn't hear - threw enough dirt to bury the entire congregation, watched you throw your hands up in praise - made a mental note to mock you later. I had imagined my heart, twenty-five years from now, still gripped like a calloused, cracked heel dug firmly in denial, a'weeping and a'wailing worn like dueling bandanas, spine bent and crippled from the weight of my pouting, and praying you were at peace with being snatched from life through the rear window of a toppled SUV. But there is something about a year that makes you finally stop shaking your head in disbelief, shoo-ing away truth with three clicks of your heels and begging God for another Lazarus. Something about time that helps you lift your head out of a low place, like a decorator decides the portrait above the fireplace of the woman draped over chaise, hair cascading across her eyes, would simply look better if you moved it higher. I know sorrow has its terms of endurance but there is something to be said for one year anniversaries- granting mourners permission to heal, cleansing rituals that usher in morning joy like memories of you that catch me smiling - my hands thrown up in praise. m yvonne 3/06 ____________________________________________________________________ Backgrounds & Graphics By Let me know you were here! Ready to continue your journey?
The Making Of Jazz Put your hands on me, boo-da-da, smoothing love in chromatic degrees, slide some wicked fingertip down this bent and lonely spine; Beneath the itch boo-da-da where sultry lovers' lust abides. The heart is connected to the thigh; a beat lies between, dancing to rhythmic taps and hand jive. A song squeezes, boo-da-da through the tight aperture like back pockets filled with uncivilized sighs and keys to open things wide. Put your hands on me, boo-da-da, draw out some latent blackgirl blues; the funky tunes hide behind the fret. Start the jam, fill up the rooms and down the halls with wailing cries. Blow me a riff, boo-da-da sax on a high note--harmonic overload bop scat willy wack it from the back, lick by lick, you'll notice the swish-ch-ch-swish keeps the blood flowing, and the rhythm going, boo-da-da like dissonant jazz, ad-libbed, out of key, out of breath, but never out of sync with whatever comes, bop! Yvonne _________________________________________________________________ when he holds me i am like tiny specks of crystal dust he could easily blow away but he doesn't. yvonne (c)2001 ___________________________________________________________________ Too Many Black Men there are too many black men in the damned world anyway walking around with their tight butts high on their shoulders, broad chest stuck out so far you can't see around 'em hands so masculine they could literally choke the life out of you.... just too many of 'em handsome square jawed chiseled & bronzed faces with milk chocolate and apple buttered skin sweet to the taste and (ha-ha) resilient to the back-slap full molasses flavored luscious lips thick enough to literally suck the life out of you... all over the place honey roasted arms reaching thru their struggles thru their experiences of making love to women who by virtue of their ...sexxxxxxxxxx are allowed to succeed in the same world that shuns-them-for-what-i-love-them-for big brown sugared legs pounding pavements looking for income or come in.... or a comfortable place to wallow legs so strong they could literally squeeze the life out of you everywhere you turn big bronzed beautiful black men black eyed hearts seeking the one place where it's ok the one place where they are welcomed enveloped invited to stay the place so warm so tight so clinging it can literally drain the life right out of 'em all over the place everywhere you turn there are just too many black men in the damned world anyway yvonne � 1997 _________________________________________________________________ The Akimbo Cafe Outside the Akimbo Cafe she camps at a table for two in the rear, away from the sidewalk. In 90 degree heat she nurses cappucino, the thin, unlit cigarette dangling from her lips and flicks invisible ashes. She is tired of explanations; why she no longer heaves her breasts into a bra, why she wears mink in the summer. She ignores curious glances, the giggles of waitresses who deliver fancy chicken salad on french bread. Au Dead Pan. A homeless man with hollow eyes walks by and snickers. He reminds her of her spirit, empty; dry bones waxed brittle and cold. The death of your only child will do that. Chill you to your DNA's core until you rattle like an old radiator in a spooky house. Akimbo. the boy-child who had clung to her womb too long to calculate risk on his own, taken out for an insipid remark aimed at a fool with a gun. Her mind has earned this furlow; to mount herself as human shrine of mangled fur, unlit cigarettes and withering breasts, until some feeling returns. yvonne (c)2000 Revised 1/2007 _______________________________________________________________ Swoon A brother loved me once imprisoned in a swollen angry place he reached for me with dark and calloused hands his damaged psyche groped a tender thing and swoon I gave him soft kisses like a mother's understanding as salty teardrops singed my� soothing tongue I gave him things that were good for him like a father's reprimanding chipped away at stone walls of brittle dried up blood � he gave me � voluptuous love; � and for my ears a pair of diamond studs. � Yvonne � 1998 _________________________________________________________________ But Joy Cometh In the Morning (for Baldy) I had planned to mourn you the rest of my life, to sit, mind looped in eternal replay, recalling the last time I saw you laugh, mischief hoola-hooping in your eyes, traded church gossip with you like God couldn't hear - threw enough dirt to bury the entire congregation, watched you throw your hands up in praise - made a mental note to mock you later. I had imagined my heart, twenty-five years from now, still gripped like a calloused, cracked heel dug firmly in denial, a'weeping and a'wailing worn like dueling bandanas, spine bent and crippled from the weight of my pouting, and praying you were at peace with being snatched from life through the rear window of a toppled SUV. But there is something about a year that makes you finally stop shaking your head in disbelief, shoo-ing away truth with three clicks of your heels and begging God for another Lazarus. Something about time that helps you lift your head out of a low place, like a decorator decides the portrait above the fireplace of the woman draped over chaise, hair cascading across her eyes, would simply look better if you moved it higher. I know sorrow has its terms of endurance but there is something to be said for one year anniversaries- granting mourners permission to heal, cleansing rituals that usher in morning joy like memories of you that catch me smiling - my hands thrown up in praise. m yvonne 3/06 ____________________________________________________________________ Backgrounds & Graphics By Let me know you were here! Ready to continue your journey?
Ready to continue your journey?
