Rosalind Guy's Blog, page 2

I Feel Like a Ghost

So many days have passed.

So many hours have passed.

So many minutes have passed.

So many seconds…

It’s been so long since I last posted on here that I feel like a ghost returning to a place I used to know. Many of my followers (if I have any followers left :-)) might remember that a while back I mentioned some changes taking place in my life. I started a new job at a new school and let me tell you, whew, it’s been a whirlwind of changes. In the process of getting settled in my new teaching position, it may seem that I fell off of my writing, but I didn’t. I’ve been writing. I’ve even have a couple of poems published and I’m working on finding homes for more poetry and short stories. So while it may seem like I’m a ghost, I’m really not. I’ve been around. You just couldn’t see me. But I’m back. And I’ve missed you guys so much.

Poem for the White Lady Who Couldn’t Stop Watching Me

What if I suddenly

took off running

like I forgot about

my black skin & imagined

I could simply exist

without always remembering

that my most deadly weapon

is the color of my skin

What if I decided that today

I will not engage in

self-erasure to make you

comfortable in your skin

that I will not concern myself

with existing in your imagination

while living in my own skin

What if I had chosen to

take off running trying to escape

the prison you’ve kept me in

locked into the judgments

you placed on me because of my

skin color? What if I had chosen

to run? Would I be alive today

to write this poem? Or would

my family be struggling beneath

headlines that read:

Future Felon Shot While Fleeing

Violent Criminal Shot While Running

Suspected Robber Killed Trying to Flee Scene

What if I suddenly

took off running?

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

The Fragility of Memory

the shock of

casting

a familiar gaze

upon

a strange face

trapped

in unrembering

the

life

you want to

continue

to know

to hold dear

discovering

that memory

is fragile

like a robin’s egg

revealing

a new life

one where

memories throb

like a beating

heart

until

death casts

a

glance

in your

direction

and life

slowly

seeps out

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Untitled

Untitled

By Rosalind Guy

There were always too many of us

sharing that one space

Big Mama never turned anyone

away

never enough love to go around

but always adequate space

as long as we were all willing to

share beds and clothes and adult relatives

love was

roof over your head

food in your belly

a yard to run around in

the space in Big Mama’s bed

between your two cousins

reserved

just for you

but sometimes

one of the adults living in the house

would go to the store and

buy me just one pack

of my favorite candy

I would go down into

the basement that smelled like mold

and sometimes urine

so that I

wouldn’t have to share my candy

one thing I could be selfish with

this is how I love

you

I always want to keep you close

enough to smell your

perfume, candy-coated sweetness. To drink in

the elixir of your smile. I keep

closing the door to the world

so I can steal away with you

and keep you

all to myself.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Blood on Your Fingers

The word no

needs no translation

or legislation

just listen for

the resistance

and

know

tears and resistance

are never

signs of

submission

we never accepted

the position

you forced

us into

because

we know

you will one day

claim that we

really wanted it

as if though

we can’t

differentiate

between

love   rape   hate

Did you notice

how I

avoided you?

Why did no one

notice

the blood

on your

fingers? Or how

I worked hard

not to

be

alone

with you?

Forced fucking

is not

a solid

basis

for a relationship.

I never

thought you

loved me or

wanted me or

cared for me or

wanted to do

anything but

fuck me and

leave

and I

never thought

no

could ever

be translated into

me giving

my approval

for you to

use your power

to forcefully

fuck

me.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

*Note from the poet: I am tired of men abusing women’s bodies and trying to convince them that they wanted it as if though we’re too stupid to know that if we really wanted to be forced to engage in something that in no way resembles love. We have been loved and we know what love feels like. So our feelings about being raped are not up for discussion.

The Beauty of Chaos

He stood for hours

gazing into chaos

A Banusic painting

hanging on the wall of

a museum or languishing in

a friend’s hallway or

some other space

Later

when he disappeared

I knew he’d started to

unfold himself

into that painting

the afternoon

we first saw it

and that he’d gone back

many times before

and that my presence

had pulled him away

temporarily

but his soul yearned

for chaos, soul-rending pain

the ultimate beauty

I should have known

I’ve always been a fan of

Kahlo

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Poem Reminiscing about when Love was True

If I’m completely honest

with myself

I would finally admit that I

miss dearly

that time when I could love openly

that time when love

glowed on my face like the sun

on a summer afternoon

when every day was summer

and winter was far away

A time when words flowed

from my pen like water and

poems bloomed like flowers in my garden

Love once presented me with a bouquet

of poems and I

sometimes still hold them

in my hands, careful to avoid

the thorns

Who would ever believe it was

once okay to long

for love and to feel it reciprocated

I remember longing for love

on a Sunday afternoon

Caress me with your eyes.

Finger my soul, open it

as if though it were the

opening of my sex accepting you.

Fully. Washing me over in waves,

a desire to know you like no other.

I tremble. I shudder with anticipation

awaiting one single touch from you.

 

It was like existing in a dream

from which you never wanted to awaken

like holding your breath and wishing

to never exhale. It was love.

People saw it in our faces

were drawn to the light

like we were but

 

people also wanted to put out the light

so many prefer the darkness to brightness

of a love that shines from deep within

plotting behind closed doors to know

what you know never realizing

it was never theirs to know

looting and rioting stealthily removing

all traces of light

until every day becomes swathed in darkness

 

You can’t always remember to

guard your heart to preserve your light

but you can safeguard the memories

and mine are still fresh

I kept them stored in the freezer

to preserve their freshness

I’ll take them out today and remember

how it felt to long to make love

on a Sunday afternoon how it felt

to bask in a love that was wholly reciprocated

how it felt to cradle a love so full of light

it couldn’t help but touch those around me

 

I’ve decided today to just lie in my bed

and caress my memories like I once

caressed my love and tomorrow

tomorrow I will wrap it once more

in aluminum foil and begin to forget

what it was like to long for a love

that longed for me just as much

I will step back into the darkness

denying the cold denying that I ever knew

what it was like to love and to

want to make love on a Sunday afternoon

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Survey Says

Forty-five percent

of men surveyed

said

they feel

trapped

in marriage/ so

what does that say

about the state of

love

has it been

gentrified or

marginalized or

just abandoned

Love

like our brown girls

seems to be missing

but no one is looking

for it/ the last time

I saw love

I could tell something

was wrong/Love

avoided looking in my eyes

but held me

extra tight

I should have known

something was wrong

but now that I know

now that we know

what are we

gonna do?

Forty-five percent

of women not surveyed

just might

have the answer.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

 

The Final Flight

I can’t remember whose idea it was

which one of us chose flight for our first

sojourn away    maybe the decision

derived from mutual desires to face our fears

head on or at least give it the old Facebook try

No parachutes were stored aboard for a hasty

escape   all exits signs were ignored

as we folded ourselves into the

safety of our seats at the front of

the plane     with my headphones

stuffed in my ears I could not hear

your deep sighs at once the audible cries

a last-ditch attempt to save who we’d been

unable and unwilling to accept defeat

We soldier on ignoring the piles of artillery

surrounding us. Bombs fall from the sky

lies construct walls too burdensome

to lug on the plane as our one piece of carryon

luggage  so much already in our memories

When the plane finally lands like starving

abandoned passengers we sift through debris

of our lives together unable to identify the pieces

so we leave the rubble behind for someone else

to look through searching for something

to salvage when everything’s already ruined

One day I know I’ll have blisters to

show for all the walking away I’ve done

but I’m tired of pretending I know how to fly

and I’m tired of pretending I wasn’t always alone

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Vocabulary of a Rapist

You cannot use

kind words

to fend off  a rapist

even the romanticized

rapist, when preceded with the adjective

date – you must use

vocabulary he

understands

curse     yell   scream

otherwise

he’ll use your

cotton candy nos

to choke you &

silence your protests

so no one ever knows

all you ever wanted

was to walk away.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind