Rosalind Guy's Blog, page 36

Trapped

Inspiration is all around the artist; he only needs to be observant in order to tap into that inspiration. Last night I was watching Criminal Minds, the only show I can watch from sun up to sun down. I love me some Derek Morgan and Jason Gideon, but don’t get me started…Anyway, this particular episode was about a combat veteran who had a snap with reality and imagined himself back in war. He became a serial killer because of that break in reality. He was trapped in him memories. I felt terrible for what he was experiencing (yes, I know he’s a fictional character, but I also know that a lot of fiction has its roots in reality). It’s frustrating to watch a country take individuals and place them in such traumatic situations, but then bring them back home and not do enough to help them assimilate back into their lives.

From that episode came the following poem; here’s the poem for Day 23 of National Poetry Month:

Trapped

I���m trapped in my mind and

I have no way to get out. No

one can see the prison bars

but me as I try to crawl through

them to find my sanity. All you

can see is me trying to break free

from the memories of a war

that���s long forgotten to those

who never had to fight it. Yet

everywhere I turn, I see the face

of the enemy. The clerk in the

grocery store has been trying to

kill me since the day I was born.

To make me a stillborn. And the

man who delivers my mail is

prisoner guard of my jail. I scream

at him when I see him, tell him

to let me be free, but he just

ignores me. Why won���t you

send someone to save me?

You allowed the enemy to

capture me, held me in captivity,

while peeling the flesh away. You

think you see my flesh roaming

the streets; no one knows this

isn���t me. My body was left on a

battlefield. My soul was blasted

away. And the kid behind the weapon

was no more than 16, but because

of the death look I saw in his eyes,

I haven���t been able to sleep. I close

my eyes and try to escape the

nightmare I see unfolding in front

of my eyes. Damn you! Don���t you

hear me screaming? Why won���t you

help me? Didn���t I help you

when you needed me?

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

The Art of Unloving

The Art of Unloving

The art of unloving is

the most delicate of surgeries.

It requires a steady hand & focused

determination to spend hours tediously

removing the years of built up feelings.

Sometimes the harmful nostalgia

brings tears and fears that the heart

cannot be healed, but the hindrance of

disbelief only causes the surgery to

proceed endlessly. And sometimes

the unloved tries to stuff feelings

back in where they don���t fit or belong.

Don���t make the mistake of being

afraid to move on because

the art of unloving like all great art

takes time and attention. And, sometimes,

revision. So, just remember,

it���s important to wash your hands

before any important surgery so

before you begin the art of unloving

take care to wash your hands carefully

so an area, once cleaned,

won���t be re-infected and you won���t

return to a space that was unaffected

by your presence. The art of unloving

allows healthy remission of diseased

feelings, so what once affected you

won���t be able to make you sick anymore.

Begin the art of unloving with care

and precision and never self-doubt

your ability to complete the surgery.

Because once the pain is gone,

you���ll finally be able to move on

to a place where unloving has no

voice or place. And that���s where the

loving can finally begin.

Day 22 of the challenge and I’m loving this. Not every poem was at its best, but because I agreed to do this challenge, it has made me pay attention more. To everything. Because I know that tomorrow another poem must be written, so I’m always looking and listening, trying to tap into inspiration for my next poem. National Poetry Month! I love it baby!!!

It’s my hope that at the end of the 30 days, I will continue to tap into that source that helps me create, that helps me see stories that others cannot or will not see, without me creating the story and placing it before them. Because how do you know you’re a writer? You know you’re a writer when you write because you can’t not write. You know you’re a writer when, quite simply, you write.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

He Asked Me to Write a Poem

Here’s the poem for Day 21:

He Asked Me to Write a Poem

He asked me to write a poem about him

as if though writing poems were the key to

fulfilling dreams. He thought I���d somehow

be able to do what fate couldn���t do. No line

of poetry can re-write history so no matter

how many poems I write, there���s no way to

resuscitate a person who doesn���t want to live.

Skeletons and ghostly apparitions stalk our dreams

and waking life too. That���s why I know poetry

will never revive what we two once had. But he

asked me to write a poem, something to soften

the edges of our jagged past. And since misery

loves company, I happily wrote this poem

in remembrance of a love that will never ever be���

again.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

You Weren’t My First

I wish I could tell you

that you were my first, but

you weren���t. I can���t imagine

what it would mean to you

to know that you were the first,

the first to promise me pleasure,

then to deliver me pain as you entered me

and ripped my insides out, leaving me

feeling empty. The blood staining

my sheets and my hands is nothing new.

I know you���re waiting for me to

tell you that I never loved another like

I love you. And you want me to say

that what we share is magic, something

that could never be felt between two

other people. But lies don���t build fires

and there���s nothing to be gained by trying

to build a fire with kindling drenched

with my tears. No, you weren���t my first.

You were not the first to sell me a love

that could not hold the fullness of me

cuz you were only interested in filling yourself,

so your love was full of holes. You weren���t

the first to take my love and use it as a

weapon to damage me. And you weren���t

the first to look past me, trying to find value

in anyone but me. I know you���re waiting

to hear that you were my first. That you���re

hoping the blood on my sheets means

you took me where no other person took me,

but I have to be straight with you,

you weren���t my first. There have been

many before you. Many who used my feelings

like a samurai sword to try and kill me.

The blood will continue to flow and

stain my sheets and cover my hands.

Cuz no you weren���t the first

to try and kill me. And you won���t be

the last.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Dreams Are Fragile

Just finished reading The Stranger by Harlen Coben. Exceptional book, as always. The protagonist mentions the American Dream a lot in the story because the appearance of the stranger who spills people’s greatest secrets is a malicious threat to the other characters’ lives– their living the American Dream. So, toward the end of the book Adam says, “Dreams are fragile.” I wrote the line down, knowing I’d use it to compose today’s poem.

So, here’s the poem for Day 19 of National Poetry Month:

He told me dreams are fragile,

that they don���t last. How do I

tell him that I dream of him

every day? That my every dream

is about him? How do I tell him

that I dream of loving him forever

and that I dream of holding him

in my arms until I can no longer

hold him so he has to hold me?

He told me that dreams are

transitory things that fall apart

upon the slightest whim. He said

don���t build your life upon

the foundation of a dream

because all dreams eventually

turn into nightmares. What seems

like the stuff that dreams are

made of today surprisingly

becomes the stuff that keeps

you from being able to sleep tomorrow.

Then he asked me to love him

forever and I cried because

I���d spent my life dreaming of

loving him & finally I knew

this was just another dream

that could never come true.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Empty Graves

The wind gathered up my soul

and carried it so far away, I

thought I would fall. And we

all know I���m afraid of heights, so

I yelled into the wind, though

my voice was thrown back into

my face: Please bring my soul back home.

The wind chuckled at my foolishness

and took my soul to the place with

mass graves, where all my ancestors

were laying. The wind sat me down gently,

left me free to roam among the graves

of my ancestors. The wind knew what no one

has ever said, that the crumbling & earthen

graves were empty, that my ancestor���s souls

were so far away from home, only my

longing & searching could bring them back

to me.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

walls of fire

a fire cannot burn

from lukewarm feelings;

the cold in my soul

won���t allow me

to ignite a fire

that will burn too freely.

i just want you

to love me, but you���re so

wrapped up in what won���t

let you be free. how can

two prisoners stoke a fire

to burn down strong walls

when we will need those walls

to protect us from each other?

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

No — I’m Not Crazy

Most days find me hovering

above the thin line between

sanity & insanity, knowing

the least little tilt could

push me completely over

to the side where the gate

will be closed behind me.

Once you���re on the other

side you will never be able

to venture back to sanity.

I���m tired of being insane

in sane places, where no one

ever notices me. I close my

eyes to lions walking up and

down the street, watching

and looking to see who���ll come

running up behind me. But

who���s gonna be crazy enough

to approach me?

Someone���s gonna come along and

pick up the earth, hold it in

the palm of his hands

like one small, round egg

and crack it open along the

tender line of the universe���s edge

like a large glass cake bowl���

and we���ll all slide out

and crack our heads on the

sidewalk of the universe.

Then someone will come along

and try to save me

because they knew all along.

I tried to tell you

but you wouldn���t listen;

you tried to tell me I was crazy

when I could see what you

refused to see. Now, I���ll ask you

which one of us is crazy?

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

P.S. Take a look inside my newest book of poems, Blues of a Love Junkie, a love story told in the form of poems. Like all love stories, this one is full of twists and turns, pain and hurt, smiles and tears, it’s full of the life of loving. http://www.amazon.com/Rosalind-Guy/e/B00BGH5F88

The Child Butchers

I refuse to stand idly by while you

butcher my children with your tolerant

nonchalance by refusing to place value

on their innocent black lives. I heard that

#blacklivesmatter

but I���m still waiting for the 100 proof truth

to present itself and prove that that���s more

than a passing trend, something to mollify you

while you try to get a foot in the door. Just some watered

down gin that���s got you stumbling down the

back alley of truth, where no one will ever be free.

I understand you and how you feel. I���m tired too

of being invisible, of being a menace to society

even though all I ever wanted to do was love you.

Love everyone. I���m tired of trying to

force a color-blind world to see the worth in me.

Color blind only when you know I see you.

But even in a fucked up world where thugs with badges

will gun you down as easily as me, I refuse to be

tagged with an ever-tightening guilt noose

or

to be branded with revolutionary temporary tattoos

an ingrained inscription ���I will only become enraged

when you off-color outsiders come into our homes &

take our people away like lambs to the slaughter,���

except we lookin at you & we see you, so you gonna

keep seein your face plastered on the news and we gon���

keep protesting you. But there���s a death knell of silence

on the streets in our neighborhoods when another

colored person chooses to massacre someone with

butterscotch-colored skin like me and you. And

that Hershey dark chocolate. And caramel too.

The silence is so loud I can hardly hear you.

I know you���re there. I can hear you

knocking, but somebody should���ve told you

that we don���t fake the funk with

Designer outrage here

So you can strut by in your

Michael Kour-age, Dooney Burdens,

Black & Broke Pride and your worn out

downtrodden Jordan shoes.

I must tell you: empty platitudes don���t hold

water, their substance like runoff from an

overflowing latrine. I tried just shaking the handle,

but it eventually fell off in my hand & I���m left

standing here feeling confused, wondering where

to dispose of the crap that claims

blacklivesmatter

but only if you white when you take a black life.

Every night on the six o���clock news

they inflame you with recycled news stories

about who shot who and somehow you manage

to ignore the elephant in the room standing right

beside you. A little girl was killed in her bed,

this ain���t no fucking Sleeping Beauty story, dude.

She was sleep and they killed her. Why doesn���t

that enrage you? A seven year old shot in her head

and she fell dead. All she wanted to do was play

the games children play, but someone stole her life

away. Why the fuck doesn���t that anger you? Why

haven���t you gathered her mother���s hot tears

in a jar and used them to wash away the shackles

that have chained our minds and memories too?

What has to happen before you will hashtag

BLACK LIVES MATTER

even when the killer looks just like you and me?

What will finally touch you, touch that spot within you

that makes you wanna holler so we can yell together

���We wanna be free of the madness that���s killing me ���

and you?���

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

He Entered

He Entered

She felt it enter her

when she laid down &

closed her eyes. The

entrance was oh so smooth

yet she felt it instantly, how

it changed her. There was no

denying that someone or

something was there for her.

She opened herself like

the petals of a flower &

accepted the new thing,

wanting to know the fullness

of it. Fear was washed away

in the waves of indulgence

coming upon the shores of

acceptance. And at the end

of the experience

she was drained, wiped

out. She sighed deeply,

didn���t exhale & watched

as the thing that

invaded her nightly

disappeared once more

back into the walls

surrounding her.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind