Me Likey

Confession: Recently discovered guilty pleasure of mine?

You know that hollowed out spot just under the hip bone, but before the crease of where the leg meets the thigh, that defines the curve of the lower abdomen? I love that spot. It’s a visual erogenous zone for me especially on a male. We see it a lot on females because of bikinis and low-cut hip-hugger jeans and trousers, but it’s a hard find on the average male unless he’s a) shirtless and b) wearing his pants slung low or c) completely nude (don’t do it dude – also totally ignore the previous four words 😉 ).

I didn’t realize just how much I like that spot until an online friend posted a picture of himself and my eyes were immediately drawn there. Not his toned pecs, not his nicely muscled arms, not even the hint of “happy trail” all of which was very delectable eye candy indeed! No, my eyes were drawn to that spot just enough to be drool worthy over his pants line. And no, I most certainly am not sharing the picture here because he’d probably kill me!

In the case of that picture, the photographic angle was perfect. (To me) It looked like the deities themselves chiseled the perfect contours. It’s the duality of being a not quite public, but not quite private spot on the anatomy. Oddly enough, I prefer the visual tease of when they are clothed or half covered by a sheet/towel whatever. It always makes me want to have the pleasure of removing that obstacle from my view. It’s that last and final bit of modesty before, well — you know…

I’ve found myself looking for hints of that spot everywhere during the summer and enjoying it immensely when I do. Alas, autumn is on the horizon and all casual live shots will be gone until next spring. As to my friend who awakened this — thanks a lot for adding to my perv list dude as if I didn’t already have enough!

But for the next few weeks please excuse me while get my new-found perv on 😉

My Father

Family Tree Image from Google

My father is the earth

    dark, deep, rich soil
    soil tilled and turned
    from the sunrise
    to the sunset
    sometimes in sweat
    sometimes in blood
    from the day born from it
    to the day returned to it.

My father is the earth.

My father is the root

    of the mahogany, the ebony, the oak
    drinking heavily of
    the sweet rain of the clouds
    the salt rain of the tears
    drenched deep in the soil
    of my fathers before them

My father is the root.

My father is the trunk

    rough on the outside
    sometimes ripped by nature
    sometimes stripped by man
    but in the story of each ring
    hidden deep inside
    is the smooth beauty
    known only by those
    born of him

My father is the trunk.

My father is the limb

    raised forward in the wind
    raised forward in the rain
    raised forward in the snow
    raised forward to the sun
    because you can’t teach
    fathers to look forward
    by having fathers
    looking back

My father is the limb.

My father is the branch

    the extensions of faith
    the stretch of hope
    the breadth of a promise
    made long ago

My father is the branch.

I am the twig

    the latest incarnation
    of that promise deferred
    planted deep of the earth
    rooted of the past
    trunked on to the present
    out on a limb
    branched to the sun
    and if I seem to live
    off my fathers before me
    it is not to deprive
    my fathers give willing
    knowing I must survive
    for it is their dreams
    that are my dreams
    coursing through my veins

and in that I am the twig

  the branch
  the limb
  the trunk
  the root
  the earth

and in that I am my father.

========
Submitted to

Theme Thursday
Thursday, August 11, 2011 – Tree

Random Acts

“Time can bring you down
Time can bend your knees
Time can break your heart
Have you begging please
Begging please”
Eric Capton – Tears in Heaven

I’m on the train, going to work this morning.  It’s one of those rare days I’m standing because I gave up my single seat to a woman with a leg cast. To give the woman leg room (*ba-da-dum cymbal crash*), I moved to stand in front of some guy that was seated on the other side of the door from where I was. He’s an attractive Latino, goateed, around my age.  He had that physique of a male who used to be muscular but has gone soft over the years; fat over a solid core. He didn’t look thuggish, but definitely not someone you want to step up on.  Yeah, I was checking him out for a moment  – shoot me- I can only pretend to not see what’s dead in front of me, but for so long before my eyes get tired of staring hard left or right.  I was listening to my iPod (metal mode in full blast), and had pretty much dismissed him mentally.

Fully engaged in the I see you, but I really don’t non-dance that we subways riders not reading or sleeping do, it took a couple of stops before I happened to look down and realized his face was slightly shining.  Holy shit, I think he’s crying! He must have heard my thoughts as that was the exact moment he raised his head removing all doubt before lowering it more trying to hide that very fact. I looked to the woman sitting next to him, but I had already established that they did not know each other. What got me was in the microscopic amount of room allowable, she seemed to be trying to put as much space as possible between the guy and herself without negatively infringing upon the space of the woman on the other side of her.  I did not understand that withdrawal. It was obvious he would have preferred to be anywhere but there at that moment.  This was not the type of man who wanted to be caught on the verge of a breakdown while trapped around strangers on a NYC subway.  I didn’t even think about it, I simply reacted.  I got down on one knee reached out for his hands and held.   Obviously, he tried to pull his hands away, but I wouldn’t let go.

“Whatever it is, it will be okay
” I said quietly.  I have no idea what expression my face held, but when he looked at me, he stopped trying to pull away.  In fact, he gripped tighter as he tried to regain control of his emotions. “No, you need to let go now”.

When I kneeled, I accidentally pushed into a woman’s space behind me. Before I could say anything, I heard her mumble a nasty comment and push back, holding her ground as it were, but I ignored her.  I’m guessing she turned around at that point, accessed the situation and thought about it because I felt space open up around me.  He looked at me, opened his mouth to speak, but only a barely audible sob came out.

“Just let go…” I said a little more forcefully to him, and he did.  It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t manly, it was just raw and my hands took the brunt of the punishment as this man did everything short of bawl in his pain.

I don’t remember what train stop we were between when I initially reached out to him. I know I was there for a several stops, making people navigate around me as we were right by the door. The woman who initially attempted to distance herself now touched me on the shoulder and offered her seat.  Not letting go of his hands, she helped put my purse in my lap as I sat. I had presumed she was exiting at the next station, but she stood in front of us for a couple of stops before disembarking.  Other than to nod my thanks to her, I did not take my eyes from him as he cried. Someone else silently slipped a pack of tissues in my lap, because they just appeared, as I saw no one put them there, so thank you whoever you were.

Eventually, his shoulders stopped their subtle trembling and he reached for the tissues with one hand, still gripping mine with the other. It was another couple of stops before he was in enough control to pull out a pair of sunglasses and cover his eyes.

“Thank you” His voice was understandably raspy.
“You’re welcome.” I nodded finally withdrawing my hand, flexing my fingers.
“Did you miss you stop?” He sheepishly half-smiled at my finger flexing.
I looked up, realized where we were and grimaced, “Oh hellz yeah”.
“Then why?”
“Because you needed me.” I shrugged, it really was the only answer I had.

We both exited the train at the next station.  As I went for the stairs, I felt him grab my hand and squeeze lightly.“Don’t you even want to know why?” he asked when I turned.
“No.” I shook my head honestly. “That wasn’t needed to help. Like I said, “Whatever it is, it will be okay””
He gave his thanks again and let go.

I looked for him once I was on the other side and saw him sitting on a bench further down the platform. His posture now better suited to the image I initially had when I first stood in front of him.  With his sunglasses on covering the pain in his eyes, he was just another guy on the subway again.  My train pulled into the station and I boarded, finally on my way to work.

He didn’t need me anymore, I was free to go.

“I have always depended on the kindness of strangers”
Tennessee Williams – A Streetcar Named Desire

NaPoWriMo — Know That

BBBHM

Know that you are formidable

And while your strength
Is not necessarily in the physical
The sheer force of your physicality
Cannot be ignored
As the masses yield
For you to pass

Know that you are king

A giant among men
That everyone sees
Yet so many are so blind
To the fact
That for all your might
You still

Know that you are human

A sizable imperfect in a world
That demands
A smaller perfection
Near impossible to attain yet
Unlike many who share
The burden of your weighty crown
You are blessed

Know that you are desired

For the sight of you
All that is without
The yielding solidness that
Deeply moves me
To the very core
Of my inner soul

Know that you are valued

Just as deeply
For the thoughts of you
All that is within
The concrete essence
That moves my heart
In ways which
need not be understood
By anyone but me

Know that you are loved

Beautiful
Brilliant
Big
Handsome
Man

Yes, if nothing else…

Know that.

Black Man (a Valentine to the Brothers)

Carrying the past on his spine, but his back in not bowed

You’ve passed him on the streets. You’ve seen him in offices, in schools, in stores. In anyplace and everyplace. There’s something about him-his presence. It’s always been there, but now its something new-fresh-different. The way he occupies your time, your mind, and maybe even your heart. He is all of many, yet one of few. Who is he?

He is Black Man.

Black Man comes in many shapes, many sizes, many colors. He may be a part of the new generation of tomorrow or the old generation of yesterday. He was there at the beginning. He will be there at the end. Be he leader or follower, sinner or saint, Black Man is there.

His skin may be ebony or damn near ivory. His eyes gray or black or any where in between. He may be large in size, but never in ignorance. He may be small in stature, but never in spirit.

His pride is as tall as the redwood. His honor as solid as the oak. His soul as deep as the dark earth his pride grows in and his honor firmly stands upon. His strength inner or outer is as mighty as any hero, fact or fiction. His passions can be as explosive as the erupting volcano, or as quiet as the rising dawn. He may be put down, but as many have learned; Black Man can not be put out.

Black Man has loved-hated, been loved-been hated.
Most of all Black Man has lived, he has endured, he has survived.
He has proven his self worth.

How do I know this? I have been there with him. I have brought him down when he got too high, raised him up when he got too low. I have fought next to him, stood with him, laid beside him. I have often known Black Man better than he has known himself. Who am I? I am his mother, his sister, his wife, his daughter, his friend, his lover.

I am Black Woman and I am proud of Black Man.

But when…?

I have now attended a funeral for the third weekend in a row.

Third weekend. IN A ROW.

This new year is only 22 days old and so far I am not liking 2011 at all.

I walked out during the third or fourth person speaking on today’s dearly departed to go to the bathroom. I had my coat with me and instead of going back into the service I put it on and walked out the door. And kept walking;  I just wanted to go home. I was dressed very warm and could only really feel the cold on my face. It wasn’t a deal breaker and i really needed to clear my head so I decided to walk towards home until I became too cold and/or too tired.

That alone should have been a warning bell, but I was in no state to hear it.

As I’m walking I’m going through a tsunami of emotions.   I cycle in and out of insomnia, going two-three days without sleeping, then coming home and being out cold before 8pm and not rising until my alarm goes off at 5am.  These near weekly snow storms and work related issues have added to the stress. I bury one friend for infinity last week; then in a completely unexpected turn of events a former friendship I had emotionally buried suddenly finds itself resurrected this week, which brings in a whole new set of emotional turmoil as we awkwardly work out trying to find our way back to some state of what was.  Add in I went out, got completely wasted and had to go to work the next day with my head all over the emotional scale. And yesterday, I learn another friend has made the decision to move to another state and will be doing so relatively soon. I’ve put up a fantastic front, but I see this past week especially is taking its toll.

I was  five blocks from “home” when the warning bell I did not hear earlier went into full on Star Trek red alert klaxon mode. I was heading towards the wrong home. I was heading towards the home I lived in when I was still married. It is in the exact opposite direction of where I live now and had been walking out in this freezing ass weather for a good thirty minutes before I noticed. What the fuck? The enormity of it comes crushing down on me and suddenly I am freezing and exhausted. I hop in a cab and go home.

So here I am. In my warm bed, partially on my lap top typing this, partially gazing at what’s left of the sunlight bouncing off the snow-covered rooftops,  trying to defrost from more than the weather that’s left me feeling cold.  As I sit here, I realize, with all the emotional turmoil I’ve gone through, I’ve yet to cry.  Yes, I’ve shed tears. But I have yet to have that long hard, crawl into a fetal position, full-out, deep ugly soul cleansing bawl. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks hugging people, holding people, reaching out to people giving them encouragement, letting them know they’re going to be okay.  Yes, I could go and have been to my friends where I find succor and loving support.  But me being me, keep moving on. I’m moving on so well in fact, I head towards the wrong home. Why?  Because it was the last place where I was loved.

That no questions asked (because they already know or have a good idea), loved. That pull you into their arms, holding you tight loved. That not letting you go until it’s as out as it can be loved. That maybe it takes a few minutes, maybe it takes an hour, maybe it takes until you fall asleep exhausted loved. That’s what I need. However, only the Powers-That-Be can say when I’ll known such once more.

I know that breakdown is coming, but when? I pray that the tipping point does not occur in the middle of the work week, because that would be just craptacular to fall apart at work.

In the interim, I write and I wait…

Sigh…

Embarass versus Humiliate – How Much Is Too Much?

My then twelve-year old I think three or four friends over and they were in his room playing video games. I’m in the kitchen when he comes in for –I don’t remember what now– and says something outlandish but just barely within the guidelines of acceptable to me. Again, I don’t remember exactly what was said, but it was just annoying enough for me to react. I happen to be filling a pot with a four-quart pot with water to put on the stove at the time.  I jokingly held the over his head reminding him to watch his mouth and don’t think because he’s getting bigger he can get crazy. He looked at the pot over his head, folded his arms across his chest and just stared at me as if to say I dare you.  Because I really was just semi-chastising him and really did not want to clean up a lot of water, I carefully tilted the pot so only a small trickle landed on his head.  Mr. Man, Jr. then puffed out all of his mighty twelve year old frame, rolled his eyes and with an arrogance worthy of his father (those that know my late-husband can appreciate that), and declared.

“I THOUGHT so!” That was a bad move on his part; a BAD move.

Without a second thought, I turned the entire contents of the pot over on his head. I not so nicely, reminded him that he was a twelve-year-old child and he was to never, NEVER think he that he predict what I would or would not do to him as his mother. I then ordered him to go to his change clothes, come back, and clean up the water so I could continue cooking dinner.

It was only after I went to change clothes, as I had also spilled water on myself in the process, that I remembered he had company. I have no idea what he said to his friends, when he entered his room-dripping wet, but I have to imagine it was not pleasant for my child to have to face his friends like that.  I only learned several years later when the subject somehow came up, on how embarrassed, he was by that and that “I still haven’t forgiven you”.

All parents understand that some unforgiving moments go with parenthood. I never ask after the fact, because I didn’t care.  He needed a reminder, right then and there, on who Mama was before he got out of hand and that was that.

I mention the above to serve as a precursor to the following.

So, there’s this video that has run a small circuit.   Please note, while the video linked to in and of itself is not necessarily offensive, the site it comes from can be very much so, thus those at work, don’t be surprised if your company’s filters block it from showing.

http://www.worldstarhiphop.com/videos/video.php?v=wshhBtdQvDJLQy55M05q&set_size=1

Here’s the Cliff Notes version: A young black male (twelve to fourteen years of age) was seen “acting hard” in his Facebook statuses etc. The youth’s uncle, who took considerable objection to his nephew’s online persona, somehow saw the entries.  What was the uncle’s response? To force the boy to use his webcam to live stream a video of him (the uncle) “whipping his ass” with a belt while he explains that their family does not come from such (the gangs and rap culture). He makes the boy renounce not only his behavior online, but that all rap and gangs are “fake” and “bullshit”.  You really need to view the video to understand it all.

Now I love that the uncle is obviously involved in this young man’s life. He obviously commands the respect of his nephew; how the nephew represents himself, and by reflection, his family outside of the home, including online.

What I question is it necessary to take a belt to the boy in this situation?  I’m NOT saying there should never be a belt in raising a child, for that is a parent by parent decision, I’m just asking was its use necessary for the lesson here.  Was the humiliation of live streaming it necessary to the lesson.

As I said before, all parents inherently understand there are going to be lesson taught in which the method of teaching that will not be forgiven. These unforgiving moments are usually something that involved humiliation. It is a tough call to choose to teach a lesson that way, but sometimes it is the only way to deliver a message that may not otherwise be heard. Still, there is huge difference in embarrassing your child (which I fully own up to with mine at that moment), humiliating a child (the same scenario with the uncle, but only in front of the uncle’s peers) and complete humiliation of your child, which is what I think was done here.

I’m sure in my son’s case his friends teased him about it for a while, but it was over with in a few days.  This boy had to go to school the next day, with the knowledge that most of his friends and countless others saw this.  If the comments that followed the video are an indicator, it’s going to be one long hard row to hoe.  How long can this run before the novelty dies? This video is the kind of thing that can, and most likely will, pop up years from now. This level of humiliation on a young soul has the backlash of possibly creating the “hard” person his uncle was attempting to discourage. How much is too much?

I’m hoping that the uncle truly takes his “this is not where we come from” lesson to heart. I do not want some over zealous person to report the uncle and he goes through ridiculous legalities for this, but neither do not I want to see him on BET or  YouTube or wherever grasping his fifteen minutes of family values on his nephew’s back. Even if the initial video isn’t deemed bad enough, certainly this would be too much.

My Sin

‘Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
Sin from my lips?
O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.’

– William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

i bask in the feel of silk across my eyes
i feel Him come so close then walk away
A teasing touch, but one that causes sighs
He knows i pray that this time He will stay
i arch my back with all that it implies
He reads me well i am His open book
He opens a window making me shiver against my will
Under the autumn’s breath He knows i can’t keep still
He parts me with blunt threats to more than look
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

Whispering that only i make Him yearn
i know the svelte voice misleads
It’s an unexpected pleasantry i earn
Flechettes, blades, ben-wah beads
His tirade wicked and wondrous in turn
As i, His personal armiger do equip
His tastes for things shiny and steel
Their icy touch a torture surreal
Halts a Freudian slip
Sin from my lips?

It’s me He chooses first to disrobe
A weakness rarely on display
A hard pinch to already tender globes
Signals it’s one for which i must pay
Oooohhhh! He increases the speed to the probe
To the point where nice and naughty converge
Yes i do accept the blame
When His sacrosanct name
Is moaned in passion’s surge
O trespass sweetly urged!

And as His desire burns faster
Mine is halted as His get
Stark and hard He is my Master
Pliant and supple, i am His pet
His liquid heat drips as blessed oil from pastor
But my crescendo He orders to abstain
i tremble for failing Him won’t endear
With a brute mercy He releases me from my fear
Until naught but unrepentant memories remain
Give me my sin again

====<>====

Glosa form with borrowed lines from you know who.

The glosa is a Spanish form that also works well in English.   Glosas open with a quatrain from another poet, called the cabeza, followed by four ten-line stanzas terminating with the lines of the initial cabeza in consecutive order.  The sixth and ninth lines of each stanza rhyme with the borrowed tenth line and is the only required rhyme of the poem. There is no set meter or syllable count for a Glosa, however, a good flow is always recommended.
Submitted to:

Thursdays Poets’ Rally Week 44 ( May 19 – May 25, 2011)

One Hand

Old Man in Window
The stories of the street are mine, the Spanish voices laugh.
The Cadillacs go creeping now through the night and the poison gas,
and I lean from my window sill in this old hotel I chose,
yes one hand on my suicide, one hand on the rose.
~ Leonard Cohen (The Stories of the Street)

I spy out my window, pan the changed neighborhood
And decided all this change is not for the better
Variety has its place, yes, that’s understood
But it suits neither me nor my aging setter
And I’d change it all back, if only I could
Tales of old I tell to ones who know not hoe from staff
With cheeky little chuckles some listen to my lore
others, not so politely pretend not to snore
All too quick to set upon any misspoken gaff
The stories of the street are mine, the Spanish voices laugh

In my country youth we rode the roads on horse
Potential fertilizer the only cause for alarm
Yes there were the rich who had cars of course
But that was a life far from my sharecropper farm
Get through the toils of the day our driving force
But a bend of brutal winter came to pass
And my quiet country road became a bustling city street
With days filled of noise glaze the tons of people to meet
Fragrant airy fields gone as different scents amass
The Cadillacs go creeping now through the night and the poison gas

Not to say this city life did not have its good days
you’d note me as a liar if I told you so
It has been no bed of roses as the old folks say
But there are sweet things I’ve come to know
Oats have I sown in many ways
Yes, I’ve known my measure of passion’s throes
I’ve rented flats and owned several places
But with time and finances I’ve lost those spaces
My remaining sunset days spent in SROs
And I lean from my window sill in this old hotel I chose

Some concern fills my advancing years
As I outlive those who knew me well
The ones who get my sudden laughter and tears
Without a long explanation to tell
Only my Josie’s left to indent my fears
But even the end of her dog’s life draws nigh and so it goes
As I enjoy the lovely flower paid to entertain my night
I eye the bottle on dresser barely seen in the dim light
And I oscillate between my joys and my woes
Yes, one hand on my suicide, one hand on the rose.

====<>====
Entered in:


Thursday Poets Rally – Week 45

National Poetry Month: All For Not Knowing

April is National Poetry Month, so each day I will post poems that I have written. Enjoy!

All For Not Knowing

We met at the worst I thought I could be
After my life was crossed by a rouge star
Life between the worst and the best to come
I hike my joy on our mock verbal spars
Such was the mode of our sharp biting wit
Mine under the belt, and yours just bizarre
Crossed that line between acquaintance and friend
All for not knowing how far was too far
Ache held tight to my emotional cage
Still half living inside a past memoir
Knew my pain gave nix but a rough sketch of me
In time drained the hurt of that soul deep scar
“There’s no place like home” said with arms held wide
And I opened mine too, we were on par
Crossed that line past friend but not to lovers
All for not knowing how far was too far
Seemed that Fate was not quite through with me yet
And released the hold to stability’s bar
A new fix of hell crashed through my soul’s gate
My path, once clear, now so muddied and marred
Too much too handle you turned tail and ran
Showing exactly the colors you are
Crossed that line between true friend and just friend
All for not knowing how far was too far
Letting slack what you once begged to hold tight
As I needed you more than gold to czars
The sun sets shadows on what you can’t give
You withdrew from me as though I’m eschar
Where to go when home is now closed to me
With no chance of door being left ajar
Thus crossed that fine line between bend and break
All for not knowing how far was too far