Poetry for the Naked Apes

Fallowing Pages


I'm sorting my shirts
between the seasons
placing my boy band cd's
in boxes
with robes grown old.
I'm shipping off my
childish trinkets;
broken seashells,
forgotten birthday cards,
journals never written in,
phonebooks glittering and empty.
I'm packing away
the stuffed mammal faces
whose fur are well-loved,
worn shaggy and thin.
I'm hanging new coats
donning cozy, warm sweaters
boxers and glasses
sipping cider
barefoot in my downy bed.
Tipping the brim of 20,
saying good morning to newspapers
and novels thick with intellect.
Not minding the transition
the newest mirror image reminds.
Growing up finally fitting
as a stage to last.






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Mover




I've never raised my middle finger
to a person
or an establishment
or a cause.
I've never hated so terribly that
my tongue has run foul.
I do dream of love.
I hold respect for our government.
Imperfect as it is.
I know I am nothing
because I know there is a God.
And in Him lies our greatest possibility.
I have hope in my heart.
I want to be a mother.
I walk down streets in cities and towns
and see souls in the bodies
of beggars,
beauty in the writings stained
on cement walls.
I honor my parents.
I bake, and clean,
and change my own tires.
I look forward to breathing in
the stories of my elders,
rejoicing in their lives
past and present.
I giggle.
I do not use my pen to kill,
to uproot or destroy.
I write to coax dew onto mornings,
smile creases into faces.
Drawing minds to blossom
not to a grinding stone.
If that makes me soft.
If that makes me cliche.
If that makes me conformist,
Wrap me up
ship me out
Give every body in this land
the choice to open me up
and vote.

Maybe they could do
with a bit of joy.
Maybe being happy
is not being blind.
Maybe it is a greater work
to abdicate anger.
Maybe understanding is more
than knowledge plus attitude.
Maybe this 'black soul'
that you love so much
that you've deemed so rich,
could use a couple angel tears
to loose the grime,
and slip in a little light.




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