Rosalind Guy's Blog, page 39

Power

Power

With hands on hips and a bit of a sister sway,

she told him one day, ���Sticks and stones may

break my bones, but words will never hurt me.���

The defiance of her stance grabbed him up &

tossed him to the side like a forgotten paradise.

He got up, brushed himself off & walked away,

slowly, because he didn���t really want to go.

But what choice did he have once he realized

she���d forgotten. Because how could he explain

to her that words were the lifeblood, blood with

power to heal or power to kill, destroying from within?

Words, he wanted to tell her, sit on my tongue

waiting to melt into meaning like homemade

ice cream.

Words build bridges over which we travel

to find one another and bind ourselves to

one another.

Will you be my friend?

Words pull people close, hold those important

to us, tighter than the tightest embrace,

the one where she let go first. You didn���t want

to let go.

I love you.

Words brush the lips like the sweetest of kisses,

sending shivers up & down the spine.

How can I make you mine?

Words can build walls, better than any other

material, walls so tall they are impossible

to climb.

I love you, but���

Words fill my throat, hesitant to show their face

like a young girl performing on stage for the

first time.

What if she doesn���t love me in return?

Words break down men & build up

nations.

Words can destroy communities &

create men, not niggas.

You ain���t shit. Why are you even here?

Words show that you think you can

play with my heart & that you believe I���ll

one day decide to play along.

I���m not ready yet. I���ll be ready one day.

Words, if spoken loud enough, can carry

toxins out of a bitter & battered soul.

I want to change.

Words can haunt a soul, a place,

a home, a love, long after the speaker

is gone. They linger like the fog

after an unexpected rainstorm.

Who will carry me home?

Words have the power to keep me from

returning to where I escaped from, but they

can also keep me from moving forward.

What if���? I���m scared.

 

Words have power and it seems that those who don’t realize this seem to wield more power with their words. Maya Angelou famously said, “I may forget what you say, but I will never forget how you made me feel.” This is true. But think about the kid growing up hearing that he is nothing and never will amount to anything. Words. And think about a woman telling a man she’s pregnant. His actions will be dictated by how he feels about hearing those words. Or think about the young girl who is told that she is beautiful, that she’s a queen. Words. Think about the young man who’s called a nigga and the one who is called a god. Words. Think about young ladies who are called ladies and the ones who are called whores or bitches. Words.

Words have power because they have the power to make the listener feel some type of way.

This poem was inspired by a conversation I had with my son James last night about why I loved a passage so much in Cynthia Bond’s�� novel Ruby, which I’m currently reading. He said, of that passage, but she could have just said….And I responded but she didn’t and that’s why I love the passage so much.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is Nothing Wrong With Me

We’ve all seen it or heard about it: self-hatred or self-loathing. Women and young girls appear to be more susceptible to the images that are inundating them. Air brushed images of celebrities convince us that we should hate our imperfect bodies, that we should be ashamed of our average faces.

But there’s another type of self-hatred, the type where we are forced to examine ourselves and, for whatever reason, find that we don’t like what we see. Acceptance of these negative perceptions is a choice. We don’t have to accept them. We have the choice to love our natural selves and realize that behind closed doors those seemingly flawless celebrities have flaws. They just have endless amounts of cash, make-up artists, stylists, photographers, etc. who make them appear flawless. So, when we understand this, there’s no reason for us to beat up ourselves, right? Right. And if we ever look at our own self and not like what we have become, we, of course, can change. One of my favorite quotes is, “If you don’t like where you are, get up and move. You’re not a tree.”

Still, though loving our self is a choice, there are still people who choose to dislike themselves. I wish I could find every one of those people, especially the young ladies, and tell them how wonderful they are. This poem came to me because I had a vision of a young lady standing in front of a mirror and worse than loathing herself, she detested the person she had become. It wasn’t a lack of physical beauty, but deep-seated unhappiness with the way her life had turned out.

The woman staring back from inside the mirror

is not me. She is a stranger to me, the type of person

you are embarrassed to say you know, but

still you hold onto because���

I do not like her, though she resembles me, she

has dimples so deep on both of her cheeks

that it seems like I could fall in and become lost,

she has a face framed with perfect red

ring curls, and glasses that rest on the bridge

of her nose, but her eyes reveal something that

disgusts me. And that���s why I dislike her.

If I passed her by on the street, I would not stop

and speak, unless she spotted me before I saw her and

forced me to acknowledge her by speaking to me first.

People tell me I should forgive her, but they don���t understand

all the ways she has hurt me. She has never loved me, doesn���t

even try, no matter how much I implore her to.

She loves others more than she has ever loved me.

The person staring back at me from the mirror

accepts other people���s trash as if though it were treasure.

She is nothing like me, at least, nothing like I���ve ever

wanted to be. Do you know she once fell in love with

a man who said he could never love her, not the way

she was. So, she tried to change to be someone he could

love. Just another one of those people you hold on to because���

And, do you know, that she���s even had the nerve

to stand in line waiting on her turn to be loved ?

Not just once, but many many times.

Love is not a buffet.

You don���t have to wait your turn. It���s a full-service diner.

When you���re in the presence of love, you just know it

because there���s no waiting in a serving line. If the love is true,

the person who loves you will leave all others behind

just to hold on to you, because���of love.

Yes, she loves others more than she has ever loved me.

And that woman, she keeps me up night after night

trying to figure out how to win love, even though

I���ve told her that love is not a prize to be won

after a competition like climbing a mountain in the

snow or carrying the most burdens to show

that she���s no average woman. She���s a Super woman.

She loves others more than she has ever loved me.

And that���s why tonight, while she���s sleeping or pretending

to sleep, I���m going to sneak out of the house and I���m

going somewhere where the mirrors are cleaner. I���m leaving.

I���m going to find a better me. One who is able to see

that the reason she doesn���t like what she sees in the mirror

is that the fingerprints on the mirror cloud her vision and

keep her from seeing who she should really be in love with. Me.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

* Note: The title of this post and the contents of the poem were purposefully meant to convey contradictory messages because hating self is rarely a full-time job. Instead, it usually comes in highs and lows. Sometimes we hate ourselves and sometimes we are proud of who we have become despite all that we have gone through.

Photo Courtesy of Getty Images

All Stories Are Love Stories

All stories are love stories, even though it may not seem like it. Either one or all of the characters are searching for love, aching because of a lack of love, disturbed because of a lack of love, forever heartbroken because love hasn’t been kind, and on and on.

After writing this morning’s haiku, my thoughts continued to meander down the path of discovery. I’m working on this story about a young man who has been scarred because his mother didn’t love him. As I was thinking about the story and other things, I started to think about certain students who have come into my life. Students who I recognized potential in and spent day after day, week after week, and month after month trying to help to see their own potential. Some of these students had another need, one either I didn’t recognize or wasn’t equipped to satiate. According to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, until certain needs are met, some of these students will not be receptive to what is taking place in the classroom.

If a student needs stability at home, a place to live, food because he/she is hungry, someone to confide in about being abused, a good night’s sleep because they’re up all night listening to their parents argue and fight, to wash their clothes because they only have two outfits and no washer and dryer in the home, then until those needs are met, teacher and student may as well be bumping heads. It doesn’t matter that I am a good teacher and know my content. That’s why it’s important to understand that teachers do more than disseminate content. We have to love and educate the whole child, each and every one of them. No matter how good a teacher you are, if a child’s needs is not being met, they will not care about other things they think of as low on their hierarchy of needs.

So, no matter how good a teacher you are, if you are not giving a person what he needs at that moment, they may not be able to receive what you are offering. Likewise, no matter how good a person you are and no matter how loving you may be to your significant other, if you are not meeting their needs, they may never choose you.

I used to be the type of person who would say, “But I loved you. I was good to you. You should appreciate that.” I understand, now, that every person has his or her own needs and those needs may not match mine and that’s okay. The same goes for the women who meet the protagonist of my newest story. The women who meet Victor online are all trying to forge a relationship with him. Some believe if they love him hard enough, he’ll ignore his own needs and realize they are what’s best for him. And that’s never true. So, the story I’m working on must be a love story, though the protagonist is a psychotic and narcissistic jerk. It all starts with love. And even Victor realizes that, even if he doesn’t know that he realizes it.

I opened my heart to you,

and watched as you closed

the door. You left. And closed

the door behind you. You didn���t

slam it hard, but closed it gently

as if though you didn���t want to wake the

sleeping baby. As if though you

weren���t ready to let me know that you

stopped loving me, stopped wanting my love.

Though you still sought to use parts of me.

I stood looking at the closed door, willing it

to open, but knowing you didn���t want me

anymore. Not like I wanted you. And a part of me

believed you loved me more than you knew and

just needed help to show it. So, I pried the door

of my heart open once more, placed a block of

my pride near the bottom to keep it propped open.

I hoped the memory of our love would drift

through the open door like the music that

drifts from our neighbor���s house every Friday night.

We never attended their parties. It wasn���t our type

of scene, but somehow that never occurred to me.

I just hoped the memories standing on the other side

of the door would be enough to draw you back to me

because it���s been enough to hold me here,

trapped in the past, avoiding my future.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

I’m off to finish working on my love story, loves. Hope you’ll do the same. And, remember, if it’s important to you, you’ll make a way to do it. If it’s not important, you’ll make excuses. If you find yourself making excuses about something you think is important to you, maybe it’s time to re-think it all.

When Love Left – A Haiku

Love left me behind.

I stayed long after Love left me.

One of us is dumb.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Heaven & Hell

Heaven & Hell

If Heaven & Hell are created

right here on Earth, why does Heaven

always seem so beyond my touch?

Heaven is staring into your eyes for

hours at a time, getting lost in your forever

gaze. Heaven is falling softly into your embrace,

knowing in your arms I���ll always be safe.

Heaven is waking up being able to always

look upon your face & knowing yours will be

the face I see before I fall asleep every night.

Heaven is you. It���s being and sharing life

with you. Heaven is the promise that dreams

do come true. Heaven is me when I���m with you.

Heaven is the merging of our two souls; Heaven is

when we two become one.

Knowing that Heaven exists & experiencing

Heaven���s bliss is not simply a given. Heaven

seems always to exist outside the realm of

possibility for me. It makes me wonder if

it���s the sin within that keeps me outside Heaven���s

door, or is it something more keeping me

from entering Heaven���s gates? It seems I���ll

never know, but will always ask the question:

If Heaven & Hell are created right here on

Earth, why does Heaven always seem beyond

my touch? And what did I do to remain in the

endless circle of Hell of existing without you?

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Witchy Woman Blues

Here’s the call and response blues poems I promised. One is called Magic Man Blues and the other is called the Witchy Woman Blues. These poems were composed by me, of course, and my bestest friend, the Mysterious Poet ;-).

Witchy Woman Blues



She sings in a smoky blues joint

every Friday night. At a little after ten,

a hush settles over the crowd when she

walks through the door.

The lights are low, but the stage is brightly lit

and out walks a woman with a witchy accent.

She says, ���I am the witchy woman��� and

she shimmies out onto the stage. Her dance

is so seductive it leaves all the people spent.

Spent with desire so strong even the women are

left moaning. The men, they stop and stare

and the women steady complainin���, ���It ain���t fair.���

The witchy woman she dips down low as her

throaty and melodious voice gives the people

more than they can handle. She don���t stop when

she givin��� too much tho, no, not the witchy woman.

She says, ���When I get down on the floor, your man

will have the scent of the witchy woman all over his hands

and it���ll be the taste of his lips. And the sound that

escaped her cherry red lips pulled the people back in

so they could watch that witchy woman do her famous dip.

And oh how she dipped, barely touching the floor, then

that witchy woman walked slowly across the stage ignoring

those people who were so caught up in the witchy woman���s

spell that they were waving money toward her face.

Willing to pay, just to have a little taste.

Those people, they waved money that the witchy woman

didn���t take because the witchy woman was not an easy lay.

She beat them down with her words, left the men wanting

more. And she wanted the men to know about the power in

her hips, not the honey words dripping from their lips.

To get this treasure, you will have to empty those

egos at the door cause I need you, but you need me more.

And that beguiling smile curled those witchy woman lips

and she wiggled some more, danced all across the stage.

By the time she walked away, the people were in a daze.

Even the women were left pantin��� and sweatin���, wishing

they could carry the scent of that witchy woman. Wishing

they could touch her inner core, wishing they could see

the witchy woman gyrate and shimmy some more.

The witchy woman will always have people knocking down

her door, trying to get just a little more of those witchy woman

blues. Blues so seductive they leave a man wanting more

and a woman wanting to touch her inner core. Just a little

taste, that���s what they���ll say. But a little will never be

enough cuz once you get a taste of the witchy woman blues

you���ll always know that she satisfies your every need. And

why settle for just any ole woman when you done had a taste

of the witchy woman blues, cause after tasting and eating

the witchy woman, no other woman will ever do.

*****************************************************************************************

Magic Man Blues



I fell in love with a man

who���s pure magic. He���s

got magic all in his hands. He���s

got magic lurking in the dark

shadows of his smile. He���s

got magic clogging up his veins.

He���s my magic man.

That magic man of mine knows

exactly how to place the light of

the stars in my eyes. And he makes

those stars shine while magically

taking me to places divine. That

magic man of mine lit a flame

that lights up every single chamber

of my breaking heart. Yes, that���s

the power of that magic man of mine.

People say we never take time anymore

just to gaze up at the stars, but when you���re

surrounded by magic it���s easy to get

distracted by the stars shining in your eyes.

So, don���t think I take it lightly, this is

a serious matter to me. That the magic

man of mine shined the stars in my eyes

and the glare almost blinded me. Somehow

I just couldn���t see that that magic man

was leading me by the strings of my heart

and taking me to a place where hearts

are easily broken and the tattered pieces

left in a shattered heap that made it

impossible for me to move my feet so

I could walk away from that

magic man and run back to me.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind (and the Mysterious Poet)

Dreaming of Pigs

One of the things I write about in the journals I keep by my bed is any interesting dream I happen to have. Well last night was a doozy.

I dreamed that I was getting ready to dissect pigs with my students. The most natural thing in the world, right? An English teacher dissecting pigs. Yeah. So, I went to my instructional facilitator to get the supplies I needed to dissect the pigs. Pig cadavers, of course. And whatever else science teachers use. So, she gave me everything except there weren’t enough pigs.

So I had to go find some more pigs so I would have enough for all the students. I took what I had gotten from the instructional facilitator to my classroom (in actuality the apartment I lived in when I was in elementary school) and then went looking for pigs. As I was walking I kept stumbling upon “nests” of piglets. I would scoop up four or five of the baby pigs and then head back to my classroom. Making the trips until I had enough. But when I would go back to add the piglets to the ones I already had, I would always take a long, indirect route to my classroom. I ended up climbing up on railings and walking through alleyways, before eventually ending up back at my classroom.

Right before I woke, I remember feeling disturbed because I was going to have to murder all those piglets. The kids have to dissect cadavers. I couldn’t give them live pigs to dissect. And I was just standing there trying to gather the courage to kill the pigs.

I don’t know if I ever found the courage. I woke up, but before I did I remember a voice saying, “I gave you all you needed to get the job done, but now you have to do your part.” This is true. I didn’t have to work too hard to find the pigs. All I had to do was walk and there they were right there for me to pick up.

I have been trying to figure out what the dream could possibly mean, but honestly I have no idea. I came up with several interpretations but none seems to mesh with the dream. Maybe it was just a dream, but I don’t believe that. I believe my dreams are manifestations of my own thoughts, things that are bothering me, or conveyors of meaning, to answer a question that I have. You can tell when something is purely incidental, and to me, this one was not.

In the meantime, I have decided that it stems from the conversation I had with a good friend earlier this week. I was telling him about a story I was working on and the difficulty I was having with getting it written. I told him that it had occurred to me that I don’t make my characters work hard enough. Like an overprotective mother, I try to control how bad the situation is my character finds himself or herself in. And, we both agreed, that maybe that’s why I’m sometimes not satisfied with how my stories turn out. Maybe I realize that it’s a good story, but that it lacks tension that would make it so much better. So, he has agreed to read this story for me and keep pushing me until I give it my all. I’m going to “get my character up a tree and then throw rocks at him.” And my writing partner and best friend is going to help me keep throwing rocks at him until he figures out how to get down out the tree or is knocked out the tree.

Gotta get to work loves! Do something you love for someone you love because all you have is today. Tomorrow is not promised. Right? Right.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Magic

“Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic.” –Frida Kahlo

He told her she was pure magic

and thought his words would melt

her heart. But she learned long ago

that magic is nothing more than

an illusion, that what you think you see

and what you are truly seeing are not the same

things. So he never understood that

instead of mending the pieces of her

breaking heart, his words were the start of

the unravelling of her all over again.

She knew that in the end she���d be the

only one left on stage, a lone participant

left trembling like a summer leaf

before its consumed by the eternal flame of

her soul as it hurtles through space,

through the trap door of a love that doesn���t

exist anymore. That���s why she stopped

believing in magic and why she never will.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Magic Man Blues

I’m feeling like a contemporary blues artist these days. The blues are running through my head just about all day. So, I’ve undertaken a blues challenge of sorts with my “best(est)” friend in the whole entire world. I’m working on a blues poem about the magic man and he’s working on one about a witchy woman.

This is what I have so far:

Magic Man Blues

I fell in love with a man

who���s pure magic. He���s

got magic all in his hands. He���s

got magic lurking in the dark

shadows of his smile. He���s

got magic clogging up his veins.

He���s my magic man.

That magic man of mine knows

exactly how to place the light of

the stars in my eyes. And he makes

those stars shine while magically

taking me to places divine. That

magic man of mine lit a flame

that lights up every single chamber

of my breaking heart. Yes, that���s

the power of that magic man of mine.

People say we never take time anymore

just to gaze up at the stars, but when you���re

surrounded by magic it���s easy to get

distracted by the stars shining in your eyes.

So, don���t think I take it lightly, this is

a serious matter to me. That the magic

man of mine shined the stars in my eyes

and the glare almost blinded me. Somehow

I just couldn���t see that that magic man

was leading me by the strings of my heart

and taking me to a place where hearts

are easily broken and the tattered pieces

left in a shattered heap that made it

impossible for me to move my feet so

I could walk away from that

magic man and run back to me.

I’m going to keep working on this. And then I’ll post the finished product along with his poem on the witchy woman. (I love this part of me. It’s the best, most passionate part of me.)

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Start the Week with Snoopy — Just Because

I’ve spent the past few weeks polishing poems for my next poetry anthology. I hope to have the new anthology finished in the next month or so. This comic definitely applies to how I’ve spent so much of my time recently.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind