Rosalind Guy's Blog, page 25

Black and Blue

I saw a writing prompt the other day that said to write something using colors: black and blue. This is what I came up with:

Even love took his mask off last night.

Evil faced me, berated me

for falling in love with you. And

it wasn’t until after you two were gone

that I noticed the bruises. Even my heart

was left black and blue. Everyone could see

the bruises left on my cheek and all over

the rest of my body, but nobody could see

the hidden bruises, the ones on my heart.

All my markers are dry and my crayons broke

so I can’t re-color my heartbreak again.

When you choose to hurt me,

I will just have to carry the pain

in my soul, knowing that love does hurt

sometimes

but only when I choose

to pour my love into someone

who shows me that they will never choose

to love me, that they only want to hurt me

because hurting me somehow

leaves them feeling whole, helps fix

what was broken in them long ago.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

You Ghosted Me

For B.

How can you be a ghost, missing

from a place where you never really were?

A woman last week lost her husband, murdered.

Now she’s left only with the ghost of memories.

He’s gone, truly gone, stolen away from her.

And now he can only see her

at night in her dreams. He visits and talks to her,

listens while showering kisses

and she knows that he’ll never let go.

And yet

the ghost of her love is less ghost

than you are to me. Yes, you’re gone.

But how can you leave a place that you never

even bothered to unpack your stuff in?

You never unpacked your emotions, never unpacked

your love, never unpacked your commitment to me.

You left your bags in the car,

knowing you would one day leave me. And

you fucked me.

Fucked my mind.

Fucked my heart.

Fucked my body.

You fucked my thoughts,

busted them wide open

so you could get lost inside,

swimming in them

until you were ready to be found.

I should’ve told you

I wasn’t looking for someone

to be unhappy with.

It’s too late now ‘cause

you’re gone.

You don’t exist anymore.

You just stopped existing for me.

But that doesn’t make you a ghost.

Ghosts once lived and

you never lived in me.

You only filled me up

then left me empty.

So, while I’m wondering how

a ghost can ever breathe again,

she knows that true love

will never leave. Sadly,

that knowledge wasn’t enough.

She took her own life

so she could continue

loving the man who

became a ghost in her memories

knowing that would never be enough.

Love doesn’t exist only in her dreams

anymore. But, for me, it seems

that’s the only place love will ever exist.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

And, B. I hope you realize that ghosts are only real when we acknowledge them. Anyone who has to be forced to love you will never truly love you.

My Bastard Child

I strung my words together for you

helped you build a bridge to carry you away

from what was hurting you and then you cut my

vocal cords, left me speechless. Blood spilled

from where you stabbed me, aiming for my heart.

I held my neck trying to keep the blood from spilling

out. We both knew you were aiming for my heart

but you missed. Your aim has always been off.

After giving me a voice, you took away my reason

to live. Words have always been valuable to me.

I shared them with you thinking you would appreciate the gift

but you stole the words from my soul

and replaced them with pain. You neatly threaded pain

along the edges of my soul daring me to try and be whole

when you knew you’d stole the best part of me.

My womb is swollen with words

I’ve been forced to keep in.

Maybe one day I’ll give birth to those words

and get to hold my bastard child in my arms

and people will coo and tell me

what a good job I’ve done.

But we both know what they’ll be thinking

and maybe what they think is true.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

On the Cutting Room Floor

I had a gut feeling. Something was wrong. You know how you can just feel that something isn’t right? But you ignore it. You’re not necessarily hoping that you’re wrong or anything like that because you already know. Something isn’t right.

Yep. I knew. But to acknowledge it would mean that all the time I’d put into it was wasted, right?

I thought of all the late nights. The hours of hard work. Time sacrificed. The sweat. The tears.

But that feeling just wouldn’t go away. So, I printed off several copies of my short story, Kayla’s Song. I recruited readers. I emailed copies of the story to some other people to read. And I waited. Of course, I started working on something else while I waited on the “honest feedback to come in.” I’d stressed that too. Don’t come back and tell me this is good because I know something is wrong with it. And I want to fix it.

Kayla’s Song. What song?

I felt absolutely nothing for Kayla. Her story didn’t move me like with Glory and the boys (a reference to Tattered Butterfly Wings).

The newspaper stuff is confusing to me. Good story but focus more on Kayla and I think the story will flow better. I’m tempted to say the story is more about Alwan than Kayla.

Then…

The story is confusing. Nothing happens until midway through. Was this supposed to be about Kayla or her parents? Some of the metaphors were a bit too much for me. Almost the entire story was memories and flashbacks. I kept waiting for something to happen.

Ouch!!! I have to be honest. It was the last one that cut me and drew blood. I bled for days behind that one. I also pouted. I yelled. I defended. I justified. Dammit this is a good story!

“I never said it wasn’t. It just needs some work.”

Something just happens when someone tells you something about yourself (or your work) that you already know.

So for days I moped. I didn’t write. I convinced myself I was nothing more than a hack. No wonder I have such a hard time achieving the level of success I want to see as a writer. I’m no good at all. I suck. I write crap, crap, crap, crap.

But on day four, I picked up the story again. Specifically, the copy of the story that had nearly killed me, the one my daughter Jasmine had workshopped for me. (I’d told her to do like she used to do in her fiction writing workshop classes. And she did.) I read the comments again. I read the story again. And as I was reading, a freaking light bulb went off. This story doesn’t start until page seven. And my mind went into overdrive coming up with ways to fix the story. I had ideas, I saw words that needed to go, dialogue that needed to be brushed up. The important thing was that I knew I needed to start on page seven.

That’s what Jasmine had been trying to tell you. You asked for constructive criticism to help make the story better then you shot the messenger when she told what you needed to do to make things better. (I didn’t literally shoot her, of course.) So I went back to Jasmine (on my hands and knees of course because how else do you go back to someone who’s tried to help you and you treated them like crap) and I told her how much I appreciated her feedback. I told her how her feedback had helped me write a better story. I told her that I was in the midst of re-writing the story and already I felt that it was a better story.

And I left all those words that I’d thought were so great, I left them lying on the cutting room floor. I’d wanted to hold onto those words because I’d felt so sure that they were great. I had crafted a winner. I knew that the first draft of a story was shit, but draft number 10? Who knew? I knew. I’d known all along. I just needed to hear it from someone else. And when I heard it, I just needed to listen.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Standing in Front of My Wall

Sometimes when I think of myself as a writer, I picture myself standing before a wall. Not a wall like the Great Wall of China. More like a brick wall surrounding the ghetto, a border line between the city and the slums. Or maybe it is like the Great Wall and I just decided to change it as I was writing this—the writer in me always trying to make a point, to tell a story. Hmm. Maybe I can huff and puff and blow it down????

Well, whatever type of wall it is, I’m standing in front of it. Most days I attempt to climb the wall. I write, I write, I write. I self-publish. I self-promote. I advertise. I blog. I interview authors who’ve already reached the other side of the wall. I search the Internet daily for reviews of my books (and celebrate when I find one). I counsel myself to keep writing, to keep listening to the voices in my head, to keep hearing their words with my heart, and to keep putting those words and those voices on paper.

I know that I will write every day. Until the day I die, I will be a writer who writes. I know this because I can hardly remember a time when I wasn’t a writer. Writing is as much a part of me as the blood that flows through my veins.

When I knew I was about to be a single mother of three, I remember walking across the University of Memphis campus trying to decide what I wanted to major in; writing was the first thing that came to mind. There were no other choices. I’d already been writing so many years.

Heather’s Hope, a thriller about Clifford, a man who kills his wife, but ….yes, I can still picture the letter I’d received in the mail a few years before that moment on the UofM campus. “…hardly a Sunday morning read, but I couldn’t put it down.” Though that agent proved to be less agent than con woman, I still believed in my passion, my desire to tell stories. In fact, to this day, I believe Heather’s Hope is a great story. Of course, it needs some polishing, but….well, you know what I mean.

So, I majored in journalism. Landed a job at the first place I interned. Cool. This is where I belong. I get to write every single day, for a living. Yay me! Not so quick. The writers around me, especially the writers at the paper where I worked, were hungry for something completely different from what I hungered for. They wanted to get the story first. I lacked that cutthroat competitive desire to out-scoop the other reporters. I simply wanted to paint a picture with my words. Don’t get me wrong, I got a thrill from writing stories at The Daily News. Sometimes. But mostly it became something to do to get the bills paid.

Getting the story when a business owner refused to talk to me was thrilling (Ha! I stuck it to you!), but it wasn’t what kept me up late at night. It wasn’t the voices that I kept hearing in my head. It wasn’t the longing I felt in my heart.

So, I ended up becoming a teacher. Makes sense, right? Yeah. So, now I teach other people how to write. I inspire people to believe in themselves when they really feel like just giving up. I give them what I wish someone had given me when I used to doubt myself all the time because I wasn’t one of those straight A students that all the teachers and guidance counselors went gaga over. I spend hours planning, hours grading papers, hours planning, hours grading papers, hours teaching, hours researching, hours creating resources, hours attending meetings, hours grading papers…

And my wall, well, it’s still there. So while I’d been telling myself that I’d been climbing, trying to get over the wall, I’m beginning to question if I’ve just been standing at the bottom of the wall all these years.

Yes, I’ll continue to write. I can’t not write. I know I’ll always be a writer. I love writing too much to ever stop. I love telling stories. The question is will I ever climb my wall?

James, my son, would probably interject at this point and say that I don’t even have to attempt to climb the wall. That if I just keep walking, I’ll find a gate built into the wall. “And the gate has always been there, and it’s unlocked. You just need to reach out and try to open it.” To which I’ll reply aloud, “Hmm. That makes a lot of sense.” But inside my mind, I’ll be saying, “Silly Rosalind. Tricks are for kids.” And then I’ll laugh out loud. Because I get it. Finally, I get it.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Just a quick question for you: Are you standing in front of your wall or are you trying to figure out how to get through it?

My Body is a Jazz Song

My body is jazz notes

longing to be played

dips & crescendos

followed by long smooth notes

to let you know

when you’re loving me

right. And also when

you need to tighten up

a bit. I can see it in your face

how you can hear my notes

and

how you’re trying to

play along.

My body is a jazz song,

trying not to become

the blues.

Even though I inherited

eternal heartbreak,

I know how to

hold back my tears &

croon like Lady Day.

I know how to not

sing about being lonely

when you’re busy “doing you.”

My body is a jazz song

so

even though my man left me

and brings me one heartbreak

after another,

I won’t be wailing no blues.

Because my body is

a jazz song

that’s always longing

to be played.

When my jazz song

is being played

I get real quiet &

listen and hear

the echo of my own heart

as it is being reborn.

I am being real still

trying to hear

the rhythm of a song

composed by two

and when I’m quiet like this

I can hear those

Improvisations

and know

you’re trying to match my song

with your own

individual notes

and somehow

it always fits

because

my body is a jazz song

and

you always know

how to play me.

Like I know

how to play you.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

The Night the Stars Danced with the Moon

I was born on a night when

the stars twinkled

because they knew they’d be

dancing all night with the moon.

Love dripped from the trees,

falling like fragile leaves

afraid to crumble against

the cold and hard ground.

Two days after I was born

my grandmother

went into the backyard

to gather up all the love

that her strong, but tiny hands

and full heart could hold.

She stuffed every little piece

of love

that she’d found

in a hope chest

that she would give to me

on a day when she knew

I would be able to handle receiving

the freedom to love.

I accepted her love greedily

and filled my pockets

till they were full.

And that’s why I know

that grandma’s love

can be heavy at times

and sometimes it’s unsure

but always it’s steady.

And always grandma’s love

holds the memory of the night

when the stars danced with the moon.

Now that grandma’s gone

I like to lay on my back

beneath the nighttime moon

remembering

how love flowed from her womb

to fully envelope me.

She wanted me to know

she’d never leave me.

And on some nights I see her

way up high, in the inky black sky, dancing

in the illumination of the loneliest of moons.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Carrying the Weight of the World

Every day I rise

the weight of the world

stretched across my back.

I try to stand &

sometimes I stumble & fall.

And those are the days I crawl.

My spine nearly bends

from trying to be ALL.

There are not enough tears to wash away

the pieces of my crumbling world.

One day I’d like to awake

to discover

I’m not carrying the world

Alone.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

The Sound of Your Name

Anyone who knows me knows how I love dessert. They also know that words, to me, are dessert. Especially poetry. In fact, I’m the type of person who is always thinking about writing. Either I’m thinking about the characters in a story I’m working on, trying to work past a block in my mind, working on a poem in my mind. So, writing is like food to my soul. Poetry can range from being an appetizer to dessert. And, of course, I’m the type of person who eats my dessert first. Just ask any number of servers who have waited on me at Olive Garden. But the real meal, the thing that really fills me up because I spend so much time with them are my stories.

So, here’s a little piece of dessert. I have to get back to my meal. And this is a meal I won’t feel guilty about overindulging on.

A friend asked

How will I know

if she really loves me?

I asked him to describe

for me

how she says his name.

He looked at me

like I was crazy.

The way she calls your name

says so much

about her feelings for you.

Does the sound of your name

drip from her lips

like water washing across rocks

gentle, but forceful?

Does the sound of your name

push forth from her lips

like a beautiful flower garden

pretty to the eye,

a delightful tantalization of the senses?

Does the sound of your name

fall from her lips

like rain

during a summertime drought

leaving you parched and seeking

even a sip of something to

satisfy your thirst?

Does the sound of your name

tumble forth from her lips

like the sound of falling rock

down an uneven hill;

you don’t know whether you’re safe

or need to try and get away?

Does the sound of your name

naturally sweeten

like a piece of fruit

and leave you feeling soft

like the tiny hairs of a peach?

Is that really the only way

to know

how she really feels about me?

No, of course not

I told him.

But I love poetry

I see it everywhere.

I see life through poetry

Live life through poetry

And that’s why I listen to how

he says my name. And why I

want to share poetry with you.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Fire Burning in Your Belly

I saw you trying

to catch the sun

and I asked you

what you were doing.

You said trying to eat

the sun so you could

have fire in your belly.

I saw you trying

to drink the rain

and I asked you

what would you do

if the rain

doused the fire

burning in your belly.

You

told me

“I eat the sun

every day

and the moon

every night.

And then you kissed me

gently

on my lips & I felt

your fire

crawling beneath my skin

where it started to

rage within me.

Now I can’t sleep at night

because

I’m always waiting

to be drenched with your

showers of fire.

The fire that comes from you

will either renew me

or

destroy me.

Whatever your fire does

to me, I’m no longer free

to decide my fate

because you shared the fire

with me, the one

that burns in your belly.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind