Haunted Poets, November 20th

I always love the metaphor of poets being haunted. How can we not? We’re always dredging up ghosts and making them home inside ourselves. Our hallways are haunted, our heads are haunted, are fingers are just waiting to express a haunting.

I wanted to time this workshop with Halloween but missed the cutoff for its creation so we shot for November. I want to kind of dive into what is it that you hold onto? How can you persuade it to come out poetically?

I’ve had so much fun with my workshops, with Poetic Catalyst, and my poets who make space, create space, take space for us to inspire and be inspired. It’s a lot of love, fun, learning, creating, and it just makes me so joyful to have us creating in the same space.

I’m thinking and planning eventually to maybe have some in-person workshops, but this is down the line. It would yet again be probably sliding scale, and maybe even where instead of us writing right away we explore something, then find a place to sit and make things. Or, we explore and then I leave you with a small booklet of prompts to write out your poems in, hand-held, at any time.

I’m already thinking if we will keep Haunted Poets next month or if I’ll explore a different topic for us to do and get together to go through on the weekend.

If you’re curious, and interested, just click here to find out and sign up.

Racism Is As Real As Today

We watched One Night In Miami last night and it had me tearing up. Just knowing that Malcom X knew that the end was near and kept trying as hard as he could to have his words, his friends words, speak for the racial tension and for what was happening every day.

Speaking about the movie my boyfriend admitted that he doesn’t feel safe taking a walk in the early morning. It gauged my heart out but I’m just always hyper aware of the tension that is around and racism he’s dealt with most of his life. We were talking and all we need is someone calling in a black man walking around the neighborhood, the wrong cop coming out, and him being killed.

This is real.

Every day this is real.

My love is a black man who I’ve seen, more than once, twice, just countless times that he is looked at more than twice. Just walking around. He always engages people in saying “Hello” first when we’re walking together. To let them know he sees them, is what he explains is why he does this when we’re out. I tend to keep my eyes down and not engage anyone when we’re out.

He calls me gregarious and I call him the same.

We have to explain to kids that racism is real, and rampant, and my friends with their children have to specify to their little boys “show your hands even if you didn’t do anything wrong. Show you’re smaller.”

What road is the wrong one?

What street is watching you too closely?

Who called you as a threat when you weren’t even one for a second?

What are we doing to make this well-known? All I do is explain it, say it, make it into poetry, and have full discussions about race and admit my white privilege I own and have.

Matrimony Made Unmaking

I never believed in love. I figured, if it doesn’t believe in you why should you believe in it? I believed in myself, and I still hold onto this. This belief in myself above all else. I become my own deity, not to say it’s ego driven, just knowing that if I’m drowning there isn’t anything that will be sent down to save me. I gotta grip my hand, pull up, and get myself out of the well.

Cue, me now, writing some of the best poetry I’ve ever written hands down and I have love. I have the best kind of love, safe, easy, always there, strong, compassionate, giving, considerate, and always appreciating me for what and who I am.

How many times you’ve been told you’re broken so love will never find you?

I have, but the funny thing is, it’s not true.

My parents married out of necessity. I had a brother before me, my mother was divorced, and my dad just fell in love with the hurricane that is my mother. She said either buck up and marry me, I don’t have time for games, or get the hell out. They were married in three months. My mother needed a father figure for my brother.

He still speaks warmly that my mother knows the best places to go to (she does, honestly, honing pigeon of a woman) and what she comes up with is exciting.

My mother talks less now about how much she distastes my dad. And, my dad had his own times where the power flipped. But, it was never healthy. There’s so many different things I see where I go, well, I can see why my own ways of repeating history happened. Even though, I always screamed from the rooftops I was strong.

When I met the love of my life, I wasn’t looking. I never am looking. I would prefer to be left alone and just left to my own devices. Remember, the only thing that can save me is myself? Add a person to that and it almost always would turn out, well, not good.

Our rituals we have in our relationship are sacred and I love them. We always kiss when we wake up in the morning or return to each other in bed. He is basically like my silent editor you never see with my poetry getting his help if I feel like it needs some extra something. I share all of myself with him and don’t feel like a fear he will use anything against me. Which was a constant.

I was raised from a system of love that I knew I didn’t want. So, I thought I didn’t want love period. Just goes to show that I wanted it, just the kind that gives, receives, trusts, and embodies you like cashmere sunsets.