Rosalind Guy's Blog, page 13

No Place to Live

She struggled to know who she really was.

Kept building houses in the hearts of people

she’d fallen in love with. In the end, she had

lots of places to stay, but no place to live.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

A Poem in Two Movements

For the men I have loved and the sons I didn’t give birth to. The truth is not that I have been taught to not love you, the miracle is that I continue to love you, despite…

Movement I

How many more sons must we invest

in freedom before we’re actually free?

The blood that flows through the streets

has become the rivers where we baptize

our dreams and our sons.

In the midst of the rivers of blood

we witness the drowning of our dreams

as it becomes the site where

prison walls are erected on the foundation

of our apathy.

We tuck our sons’ still-warm bodies into the

cracks of a society that has bastardized them.

Black people are America’s love child,

the ones they don’t want to claim. We were

ripped from the arms of our motherland

and made orphans and step-children

with no place to return home to.

Blood-soaked memories run through our veins.

Our bloodlines are fractured along the seams

and we now wear our brokenness

like a satin shawl to cover up our shame.

Can you not hear the people wailing

in the streets? We want to be heard

but we forgot how to use our quiet voice.

Movement II

My heart gets broken, it seems, every day

I can’t take another heartbreak;

so many broken hearts will cause the heart

to disintegrate completely. Every time I see

your blood flowing through the streets

I fall to my knees, to try to wipe away

the bloodstains and the blood memory.

My arms are so damn tired.

Either I’m trying to carry you or I’m trying

to destroy you. – My maternal memory

implores me to seek the face of who you were

once, before they labelled you.

Labels sell false dreams and

they sold one to you. Did you

have to buy it? Consumerism:

the ability to sell you your brokenness

and you accept it like it’s

a birthday gift or your birthright.

The tears in my eyes glitter like diamonds

but from those, you look away. You don’t

want to see the pain you’re causing. Because

they’re not trying to sell you the pain you’re

causing me. To you, this is just part of the game.

I’m just someone for you to get over on.

Somehow you miscalculated the sum of all

my fears, missed the obvious truth: that I’m

crying my eyes out for you. Considered an MVP

you think you’ll win every fight you’re in,

but this is one fight you will not win

because I’m willing to fight for you

to win back that little boy soul that was stolen

from you. Many years ago a trickster stole

what belongs to you…and to me…you were

supposed to be my destiny, not my misery.

But they told you you were dead and you

believed them. But because I love you

I came to uncover the mystery of your death.

You were never dead. Just sleeping. And I

don’t need anyone’s permission to love you.

I already do. And because of that love

I will fight to the end to show you

that I need you, we need you. Whole.

When the blood stops running

in the streets, no one will need to

save you, for you will have saved yourself.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

 

I Am Not Your God

You tell me you love me

like the declaration gives you

permission to be re-birthed,

like it will open you and

make it possible for you to live

not just one, but two lives. But

I am not your god, I cannot

give you new life and I am

not willing to die so that you

might live. My words are not miracles

and neither is my love.

My love will not save you. Hell,

most times it doesn’t even save me.

So when you tell me you love me

and I cannot find the will or the words

to offer your lie back to you, just breathe

a sigh of relief and let relief wash over

you like an afternoon breeze.

Night is not so far away that

we must be afraid to embrace it.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Carry Me in the Womb

Carry me in the womb

of your love

like a newborn

I will suckle on

your sweet flesh. Your

embrace will surpass forever

because our love knows

no bounds, looks forward

to no ending.

Carry me in the womb

of your love

and your presence

will cast shadows over

all our fears and

finally quiet the cries

that cause our hearts

to bleed out love,

a wound that will never heal.

Carry me in the womb

of your love

and I will learn to

sleep through the night,

the only sound to awaken me

will be the sound of your beating

heart. The steady drumbeat

of your heart will comfort

like the sound of a mother’s voice

reading a bedtime story.

I hear notes of hope for tomorrow

while languishing in today’s love.

Carry me in the womb

of your love

and our togetherness

will be forever safe. No one

will be able to crack the code

for the vault where our love

for one another is stored.

As long as we protect what’s ours

threats to our love will dissolve

like illusions in a tall glass of

water. And nobody wants to drink

that.

Carry me in the womb

of your love

and we will slip into

an alternate reality where love

is never taken for granted and

we lovers chase dreams, instead

of wielding them as weapons

to destroy the very foundation

of love.

Carry me in the womb

of your love

and I will burst on the scene

like the wildest dream ever imagined

and there will be no end

because every day will be our new

beginning.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Poetry Is…

They told me to clean up

my poems some and then they

might be interested in reading them.

But what good is a poem

that’s been scrubbed of its meaning?

A poem should be bold like two lovers

fucking in the park after midnight. It

should be as profound as death when

it appears suddenly, leaving behind

no explanations. Poetry is using to

commit murder in the first degree,

leaving behind corpses and ghosts

in the place of our former selves.

Poetry, like love, is never clean, never simple.

So when they told me they’d only read

my words if I cleaned them up some,

I took a long gulp from my beer can,

took a hit from my Cuban cigar and

gave them the simplest words I know:

“Fuck you!”

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

What Loving You Feels Like

Grandma always had that one chair

that felt ‘just right’ and every weekend

the cousins would fight to see who got

to sit in that chair. Sometimes

my mom would drop me off before

the others arrived—and all weekend

that chair would be mine. To sit in.

To lay in. To stretch my legs in.

To rest my legs in. And

that’s what loving you feels like.

I had a best friend once, you know,

the ones we promised to always

KIT with—except she moved away

before the school year was over and

I thought I’d never see her again.

But summer came and we drove

out to where she lived and

I got to spend two whole weeks

with her. She took me exploring

one day and we found a honeysuckle

bush; the scent wafted out to meet us

before we saw it with our eyes.

We reached out, took a honeysuckle

petal from the bush. It was sweet. I never

wanted to leave it. And

that’s what loving you feels like.

People who truly know me know

that I’m terrified of heights.

But I’ve been on a plane exactly twice.

I recall the fear that accompanied me

as I walked through the airport that first time.

Not strolled – because stroll would mean

I was okay and I wasn’t. But I did it.

When the plane first took off, I held on

to the woman beside me. Halfway through

the flight I forgot I was off the ground

and I felt calm. I didn’t need to think

about my fear of flying anymore.

I had trusted their wings to help me

feel free. And they kept my feet off the

ground. And

that’s what loving you feels like.

I’ve always been gangly and awkward.

Not athletic. Whenever the kids in the

neighborhood would say

‘let’s race, let’s run’ I would make up

excuses to make it possible for me to

race back into the house where I could

hide away. I’d watch the other kids race

from my bedroom window, while I hid

away. But they say all good things will eventually

come to an end. One day my fear was exposed.

The girl who always won every race she ran

taunted me. And that day I wanted to undress

my fears, wanted to stand bare. I raced her.

Ran so fast my lungs constricted and my chest

started to hurt. But I almost won that day.

I crossed the line only a few seconds

behind her. I wanted to race her again, knowing

next time I’d win. And

that’s what loving you feels like.

After a really long day, I sometimes stand

in the shower, warm water raining down on me.

The water mingles with my tears and washes away

the sadness. Sometimes I cry the whole time,

other times the crying is over quickly. But always,

I find peace standing beneath the falling rain.

And that’s also where I find me. And if there

are any pieces that have been torn away

during the day, they return to me. And

that’s what loving you feels like.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

I Was Only in Love

Don’t believe what they say

about me.

I am not desperate.

I am not a slut.

I will not do anything for love.

I have my limits. I think.

So don’t believe what they say.

I was only in love.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Little Johnny and Barry Don’t Know How to Read

I get it. No one likes change. We will cling relentlessly to the wrong ideas and notions, hoping against hope that they will somehow land us where we seek to go.

But that’s not how life works. Change is sometimes necessary. About eight years ago, on a day very much like today, I sat down and said, “I’m just not happy. I want to do more with my life. I want to inspire change.” Seriously. I thought this. I wanted to become a tool for change. And that thought somehow managed to change the course of my life and I left reporting to become a teacher.

I remembered sitting in classes and thinking, “This has absolutely nothing to do with me.” I didn’t feel smart. I couldn’t fathom the opportunities that would be available to me with a good education. Two of my best friends in school, Angie and Stephanie, were geniuses as far as I was concerned. And I wanted so much to be like them. But I just couldn’t see it. Instead I became what society, my community, told me I was supposed to be. I became a young bride with no education other than a high school diploma and one endless job after another, all of which I hated. Because, even then, I had this feeling that “I’m not happy here. I can do better.”

Sometimes we have to admit defeat and just start all over again. I’ve done that many times in my life. And, always, I ended up feeling more fulfilled than before. I don’t’ want to say happy because happiness is a choice. But true fulfillment sometimes requires change.

Okay, so where am I going with this? Well, like I felt eight years ago, I’ve been battling this feeling of “I’m just not happy here.” I feel like I’m not doing anything worthwhile. I’m giving my all in a situation where I feel like I no longer belong. Am I afraid to change? No. For years, I’ve been trying to change a system that is severely broken. The educational system. I went into teaching thinking I could relate to the students and I could convince them that opportunities existed for them. But after years of battling within a system that values numbers over educating the individual child, I just don’t feel like I belong here anymore. I am trying to reach children who have already made up their minds that they don’t need an education to succeed; I am trying to acquire the lingo for a system that’s so broken the insides of it resemble a social club or fraternity reunion; I am trying to achieve purpose in my life when parents give up on their children at birth and the schools seem never to have wanted to be agents of change to begin with.

Why do I say that? What proof do I have? A large percentage of black children in a high school setting who are reading on a second or third grade level. And the solution, put more pressure on teachers to produce the numbers the schools need to show they are growing students. No one wants to be the one to say, okay, this shit is broken. We’ve been doing it wrong and it is time to start over. So, I’ll say it. Our educational system is broken beyond repair. We have to start over. We need to go back to the drawing board, find new people who value educating and not teaching to a standardized test, and freaking start over. It’s hard to admit we’ve been doing things wrong for years, I know it. But it’s insanity to continue to do the same things, seeing the disastrous results and hoping for different outcomes.

We don’t send police into the streets

armed with only rubber bullets

and no gun. No one would trust a surgeon

who’s best work is done using plastic cutlery.

So why the hell is no one upset

when a tenth grade student can’t read?

Why is it okay for you to send me

into battle every day

to serve children who don’t know

what a sentence is?

Barry is well-versed in the language

of the streets, but he can’t identify

the verb in the sentence:

The man rotted in prison because

he didn’t ever learn to read.

The system is crumbling

it’s full of cracks and bricks

all ill-fit in the face of a wall

But while the wall is falling

we can’t see the walls for the

buildings. Seventy percent

is nothing to sneeze at. I’m not a

mathematical genius but I can

read the message in the numbers

and it’s time to admit

we’re bleeding ignorance

into the streets and

tearing down the possibilities

in favor of building prisons.

It’s politically incorrect to say to a

parent of a ninth grader

who stumbles over words and meaning

in a Junie B. Jones reader, “Why

don’t you sit yo ass down and teach

him to read?” But it’s socially acceptable

to point the finger of blame

at the cogs in the machine

that churn out ill-prepared graduates

at the rate that General Motors

produces Chevrolets.

Prisons will be constructed

based on the fact that

little Barry can’t read

by the time he reaches fifth grade

but we’re afraid to hold a

conversation to admit we’ve

screwed up and that we need to

start over again. We’d rather keep

stewing in the shit stew we have made.

How many bodies must we invest

in a world of freedom

that will never benefit

those of us

living in communities where

it’s the norm to pass children on

to the next grade while ignoring their

most basic need—the ability to read?

We’d never send soldiers into battle

with seeds and shovels

nor would we elect a president

who can’t read a story to his son

before he goes off to bed, but we

embrace and accept a system

that touts numbers:

67 percent show proficiency

80 percent graduation rate

$5 million in scholarships,

but not a damn student who’s ready

for college because Barry has never

learned how to read.

Here’s to new beginnings and change!

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

A Love Like This

They say

you learn how to love

through reading literature.

I’ve never been a fan

or a cheerleader of things

‘they say’ because

I’ve read lots of books

A hundred or more easily

and none ever prepared me

for loving you. None

told me how to survive

falling deeply in love with you.

I’ve read mysteries, dramas, love stories

biographies, short stories, and of course

Dr. Seuss, but none ever mentioned

the possibility of loving you.

No book ever warned me

how easy it would be to fall for you

when I finally met you.

And no book ever predicted

how I’d fall completely for you

and not even want to get back up

once I’d fallen down.

No book ever warned me

that love could be found

in the words that would form

on your lips or how it could

radiate from your eyes.

That I would learn how to

meditate on the possibility of us

with just one glance from you,

how I’d learn to dream our tomorrows

while living in the fantasy of today,

and believe me no literary genius

could have prepared me for you.

Not even Nicholas Sparks

could advise me on how

to offer you the best of me,

how to let love overtake me,

decide to make room for you

in my dreams or let me know

how ours is the type of love

only the wildest dreams can fathom.

I’ve read page after page

and book after book

but none ever told me that

like the hand of a surgeon

preparing to perform

the most delicate of surgeries,

our love would always be steady.

I dream of your kisses.

I dream of your words.

I dream of your presence

when I’m not near you, I dream

of you and the love

I’ll always value because

I shared it with you

and believe me you’re more

wonderful than any character

in any book I’ve ever read.

According to the books

everyone searches for a love

like ours

for a love like we have —

so how could I know

leaving was a possibility?

That every future love

will bear a silent disclaimer:

I love you but not like

I love him. Because I always

thought the hardest part

would be finding a love like this.

How could I know that

a love like this

could pass on and drift away like

whispered promises shared

beneath a silent sky,

in a place that seemed so

far away from everything and

everybody?

What book should I have read

to warn me that love

could end up like this?

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Seven Times

Seven times.

That’s how many times

it’ll take before they finally

decide to leave.

The first time

she told him to shut up.

I’m not interested

in what you have to say.

The second time

was the first time

he actually hit her

in the face, but they both

blamed it on the drinks.

It was easier to accept

that way.

The third time

she knocked the wind out of him

punched him in the chest

with all the strength

she possessed. As the wind

became wings for the delusions

to help sustain their love,

she promised

it would never happen again.

Four.

He didn’t know that leather

is the gift you give

for the three-year anniversary.

He removed his leather belt,

gave her a lash for each year

they’d pretended to be in love

with each other. The lasting touch

of leather to skin

would keep her from losing track

of what they’d meant to one another.

Five.

She decided to fight back.

She grabbed the knife

she’d hidden

as she anticipated times number

five, six, and seven.

She pulled the knife

but loved him too much

to use it. Delusion

led her to believe

that he loved her too.

After all, they’d been together

so many years that it had to be love,

right? Until the last fight

when she ended up dead.

And delusions weren’t enough

to bring her back from that.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind