Wounded Woman (Drawing by Aida Correa)

I have found her seated in coffee houses and poetry lounges. She has stood behind me in the supermarket; beside me in church and we have fellowshipped together at lunchtime on the various jobs I have held. She is often African-American; visually sharing the same features, mannerisms, and characteristics as myself. But on many an occasion, I have found her to be of any and all ethnicities. She has been Catholic as well as Muslim. Baptist and Pentacostal. She is educated and well-groomed, or just as easily, ghetto and unrefined. She is the Wounded Woman and you can find her almost anywhere. To the average person, she may not be so readily recognized. But for one with a trained eye, she is easily spotted in any crowd. There are years of torment on her face and her eyes look to you for an understanding that she knows you can't give. So often she is hurriedly trying to cover up her scars before you notice they exist. Don't mistake her tough exterior as indifference, it's just a mask she wears to hide her insecurities. She is an expert at laughing instead of crying and if you look very closely, underneath the make up she is wearing to cover up imperfections that aren't really there, you may just see the tears of a clown. Hurt by rejection, wounded by friends and family and life; she is a broken soul longing for healing and freedom. As crazy as it may seem, sometimes she doesn't even know that she is wounded. She couldn't tell you where it hurts if you asked her, or who inflicted the wound, but it is quite apparant that some type of trauma has definitely occured. If you see her, don't neglect to read between the lines of her subtext. There you will find neatly printed between years of heartache and pain the message: FRAGILE - HANDLE WITH CARE!


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Diamonds are Pearls of Wisdom.

My father is a wise man. He gives me advice about work issues, relationship issues; how to discipline my kids. But the best piece of advice I have ever gotten from my father came when I was a junior in high school and not really taking my studies seriously. I had everything but school on my mind. I was resentful of his new family and can remember writing him a hot little letter giving him a piece of my mind. I thank God for the gift of words. I have always been able to express myself best on paper. In one of his responses he wrote to me, "The world does not applaud mediocrity." I didn't even know what the root word, mediocre, meant until I went to the dictionary. In short, I found that mediocre meant average. It meant as much to me then as a lump of coal. But I never forgot it. And over the years, that lump of coal that I tucked away into the far corners of my mind, has proven to be a diamond. In essence, what he was telling me was that I can't expect to succeed at anything if I blend in with the crowd. I have found that advice to be valuable in virtually every aspect of my life. Even as an African-American woman, I have come to terms over the years with the fact that every thing I do must be done with a flair of excellence if I have even the most remote desire of being recognized. In the workplace, the theme is very much the same. I have always felt the need and the drive to work harder, do more. Even in relationships, my aim is to set the bar high because the playing field of love for black women is far from being level. I found myself reiterating the same advice to my teenagers last night. As the words spilled from my lips I felt like my father must have felt the day he took pen in hand and tried to give me some words I could feel; some heartfelt advice that carried weight. I told them average black boys and girls don't get noticed, they get passed over. Mediocre talent is not recognized, it's overlooked. I wonder if they got the message. I wonder if they know my heart breaks for them each time I see them settle for less than their own personal best. I wonder if my words carried any weight; or if, like me so many years ago, they treated them like a lump of coal and just tucked them away. Only time will tell.

Beauty Is...

implied and not stated
simple not overrated
it is subtle and more gentle
than the softest touch
it is a feeling and not
a vision
an actuality as opposed
to a premonition
it is rare and subject
to scrutiny
from those that don’t
understand it and confuse
it with something
less significant
you can’t touch it with your
fingers
but you can feel it in your
heart
it soothes your soul
like hot coffee on a cold day
beauty is
intangible

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i was his woman

first of all
let's get one thing understood
i was never the other woman
to say that i was the other woman
would be characterizing me as a
cheap opportunist
a damsel in distress pleading
for the affections
of a taken love
i am so far from that
i was the woman
the woman that didn't take anything
from anyone
every secret
every kiss
every conversation
every orgrasm
was given to me willingly
without coaxing or persuasion
no invasion of privacy
this was love
on its highest level
and because i am a woman
i won't berate it by kissing
and telling
divulging or confirming
instances for the purposes
of scrutiny
no
you won't be analyzing this
comparing it to that
or downsizing it to make you
feel better
as far as
i am concerned you were the
other woman
the one that was never made mention
of we didn't think of you
or discuss you
for any reason
there was no room for you
in my bed or at my dinner table
there was only bliss
there were dreams shared
and tragedies exchanged
and fears comforted
and for a time
your man was mine
and i was his
and we were
and we are
and we did
everything we felt
obliged to do with the time we had
the time when he was my man
and i was his woman.






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Teardrops on Paper

these teardrops
on my paper
leave an indelible stain
traces of salt remain
as proof that
grief was here
my pen releases
the fear
the frustration I feel
it acts as the referee
between my words and
my emotions
I wrestle not to control
the anger rising up inside of me
instead I choose to set it free
to write like a mad woman
ranting and raving about
the senseless loss of life
unleashing and releasing
writing in red
symbolic of blood shed
another young black man
left for dead
and these
teardrops on my paper
leave an indelible stain
and no amount of
‘i know how you feels’ or
‘must’ve been God’s wills’
can erase the pain
retrace the stain
back from whence it came
five minutes before he took
his last breath
it was already too late to cry
too late to try to turn back the
hands of time
he wasn’t even a friend of mine
and yet try as I might
I can't seem to stop this
stream of sorrow
flowing from my pen
written evidence of these
literal tears that imitate
a mother’s cry
teardrops falling freely
onto my paper
leaving an
indelible stain
and only traces of salt remain
as proof that
grief came by here

My co-worker, Charlotte, lost her nephew last night. Ironically, I heard the story on the news about a young woman that drove into a McDonald's parking lot asking for help for a man that had been shot. No one knew the details at the time. News at 11:00, I guess. She lived. He did not. He didn't even make it to 25.

You Can't Move Forward Looking Back

Aida and I went to dinner tonight. Kinda like a waiting-to-exhale- moment. We both needed to inhale/exhale; breathe deep about situations and circumstances in our lives. Sitting in the cozy, relaxed atmosphere of Crush, sipping on some wine the color of a late summer sunset, we conversed, and vented and began to unwind and travel deeper into our friendship. It was clear to me after our first bowl of mussels, that we as women are more alike than we are willing to admit. I was finally able to share with her a part of my life that I had been surpressing for a long time. I do that when I don’t want to feel the sting of a particular situation. I push it down and get busy. Busy writing, busy working, busy being a mom. Anything to keep me from healing and dealing. She told me about Man; the thorn in her side. How she had loved him until it hurt and let him go because the time was not right. And even though she loves him still, she was adamant about pushing forward, bringing new love into her life without regret. We drank wine, listened to jazz music, and laughed like school girls over the silly things we have done in the name of love. My respect for her grew and after 2 years of cultivating a friendship, I was able to tell her all the details about the time I loved hard and blind. Re-living a time I wanted to forget proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated. I hadn't talked about it or him to anyone in months. It wasn’t easy letting someone into my soft spot. But I shared openly. Hell, a bottle of wine will make you give up your coochie, your ATM pin, email password, and your inner most secrets. It could have been that, or maybe it was that in discussing it, I was finally able to listen to myself for once. I heard me say I wasn’t loved totally. I heard me say that I was loved in secret and behind closed doors. I listened to myself clearly state, with much dismay, that I was wrong about something that felt so right. The benefit in doing this was coming to the realization that after years, months and days, I was finally at a point where I can say, I’m over it. There is no more anger. I learned the lesson and won’t have to take that class again. I like Aida a whole lot. She has read every self-help book known to man. The valuable resource I have in her is that I don’t have to read them because she is quick to provide quotes and anecdotes fit for any and all dilemmas. We were done eating and just relishing in the atmosphere when she dropped some of her book knowledge on me. “You can’t move forward looking back, Bridgette.” Even though I was a little dizzy from drinking so much wine, it made perfect sense to me. I had still been looking back wondering; Why this? Why that? The answers to those questions were irrelevant. What mattered most was that there is so much more for me that lies ahead. I was doing every person that has come my way since him a disservice because a part of me wasn't even ready to move. Anthony Robbins, world renowned self help guru, said it best when he said, " You can't drive a car if you are looking in the rear view mirror."





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We Got Khemistree (Wicked Freestyle from Overseas)

(k em i-stre )
by Soulflower

She said....

We got khemistree

Like honey bee’s got

honey sweet

Like Sunday morning got

Hog maw’s and black eyed peas

We blend

splendid

Easy

Our chemical composition is

Nice and easy like

Hennessy and coke

Sliding down your throat

Intoxicated

Get you high

Like good dope

We mix and mingle

This mutual attraction

Causing a mental metaphysical

Reaction

Our molecular structure somehow

Intertwined

I got rhythm

He got rhyme

We got khemistree

Like Diana and Billy Dee

Like the moon and the stars

We go together

Fit together

Like a key to a lock

We open

Put the joint to your lips

Old school

Cause we tokin’

Mind blowin

mind sex

Given birth

To brain child

First name: lyrical

Last name: verse

Go ahead and check the

DNA

You’ll find that we are one

And the same

We got khemistree

Unrehearsed and unscripted

Call in the FBI

Cause this shit is

Encrypted

Not all will understand

How one woman and one man

Could flow so

United

When in reality

By many seas and many moons

They are divided

See I never understood

Chemistry

I flunked it in school

But the second time around is

Always the kicker

Right

Right

Can we kick it?

Yes we can

Cause we got

Khemistree




Then He said...
by Carimflow

We got Khemistree


We are

Chemical reactions

Of sexual attractions

Arroz con asoulful

Flowered lyrics

Radiantly felt contractions

Throbbin walls up in brains

Until

Cataracts be fuzzed refractin'

In-spasm

Jerk Chicked

Mutually made

Concoted curried smoove contraptions

Spit

Then sprayed

On time

We be khemistree

Loyal

With B I am royal

She’s my loving concubine

My own lady don’t know

How she be up in my mind

Chillin

Pen dot connecting

All her flowin wit mine

My lines cum

XXX’ed grimey

Contemplating her grinds

Black coffee

A pack of sugar

Carimflow

On this rhyme

Can I kick it (yes u can)

Can I kick it (on a panamanian beach with an ass fulla sand)

Can I kick it (to the vibe of the band)

It's the mecca'd out one

Back 2 where we began

We be K-he-emm-I

Streamin cess in yo mind

Even if u try 2 mute us

Our shit’ll go pantomime

Brailed on cables

Across the seas

Like smoking ganja in rewind

Elevated

Toked fully

Naked

Truth

Spit

Hood

And

On time

We Khemists...












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What in the World???

My REAL friends wouldn't have let me got outside with my hair like this!


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The Best Sex I Never Had.

(First Draft)

It almost seems like fantasy
To good to be true I
Struggle within myself to just let go and
Feel
Experience the waves of emotions that
Are swelling
Rising and falling
To meet my hopes and dreams
on the shores of anticipation
You touch me and a chill
Begins at the base of my spine
And I feel
I feel tempted to ask you if you will stay
But I’m too afraid of the answer
So I opt instead to softly whisper your name
It springs forth from the center of my heart
and glides off my tongue
creating an unchained and unrestrained melody that
Drifts into your ears and allows
You to feel
The vibration of my soul
It is the soundtrack of our experience
Heartbeats and deep moans
A melody too sweet to sing
So instead we hum our tune
Of passion to the rhythm of
What we feel
It is hypnotic the way we communicate
Through hands and lips
Fingertips and arched backs
It’s almost as if no one and
Nothing else exists
And time stands still
If but for a brief time
I feel
Connected to you in such a way
Seems too deep to just say love
Too pure to call lust
It is infinite and indescribable
And unbelievable because
I haven’t had anyone make me
Feel like this in a very long time
Or maybe not at all
I wonder
Is it possible to make love to someone
And then at the same time not make love at all?
And if so then this has to be
The best sex I’ve never had.


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