Sunday, July 23, 2017

THE UNBORN CHILD

you catch a glimpse of     the unborn child    running in the background                

she is on her way            moon beams light her path        she comes from the 
                                                                                                      sea

in her pocket is a string    tied around her finger                and today's post

a small blue letter            carefully penned within             is her name



nothing else                    all that she is                  and all that she will ever be

is carried in her name      her mama waits for her             it is a time of bliss

she slips out of her sandals        to walk in the sand       pink grains between 

                                                                                                her toes

she dons her wig-hat        and pinks her lips            draws on her face

a new mask  shakes the sand from her feet         delighted as she looks 

                                                                                       in the mirror

July 23, 2017 

Note:  I have combined the words from Sunday's Whirligig and The Sunday Whirl.  Not all the words spoke to me....but I give myself permission to use only the words that resonate in this moment.  The other words I will leave and let others find a place for them in their poems.

The idea of the unborn child came from the movie, Daughters of the Dust, one of my favorites.  The movie creates a scene, of the what is happening just before the birth...and in the background you can see the unborn child running, coming to the place of her birth.  The unborn child narrates the scene. 



"Languid look at the Gullah culture of the sea islands off the coast of South Carolina and Georgia where African folk-ways were maintained well into the 20th Century and was one of the last bastions of these mores in America. Set in 1902." (This is a description of the film from the Daughters of the Dust site.)
                          



                                 


         

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

A Mask of Words/ Poets United -- Midweek Motif/ Masks

A MASK OF WORDS           

the morning quiet                     not a sound                  except the whir of the fan

the pale blue sky                      empty                           i wear the death mask

made for me                            in the mirror                i see the young girl i was

no longer young           i hardly know myself                what was dark is now white



i count my deaths on my fingers           even if expected           a shock

each one a ripping away           like the ocean               that steals a bit of sand with each wave

tears like rain               cut deep canyons into my heart there is only silence after…

yet i wait              feeling beneath each rock         for your hand                                      



i cover my face            a mask made of two hands       i peep through my fingers

hide and seek               was a game we used to play      in the last light of day              

behind the mask           i hide my identity                     no one speaks to me

i walk through the crowd         all wear masks              our leader



ugly man                                  ugly face                      is it a mask

or his own face            he creates a mask                     with his words

nothing true                 masks are meant to obscure                  like words without meaning

he is the jester              without a punch line                nothing funny here


July 18, 2017