What's sexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxy?

What it's like to feel sexy in the summer?

First off what is sexy to me?

Sexy is the way I move when I strut down a busy street and feel the summer breeze tickling my behind and lurking eyes caress my flowy skirt.

Sexy is a watermelon candy in my mouth and while i'm sucking it, a fine ass brother walks on by and cause me to almost choke when he winks at me with a Crest-white smile. Yeah, a chocolate mousse kind of brother, and all I can do is stare, lick my lips and stare...lol

It happens all the time in the streets of NY, I always wonder when a man flirts with me, why he doesn't casually pause long enough to exchange numbers?

Maybe he's married?
Has a boyfriend?
Has a girlfriend?
Has too many friends?

Men to me are like appetizers, you get your pick of raw USDA meat, pork (if he's fat), turkey (if he's lean), chicken (if he approach me and can't keep up a conversation), personally I prefer the beefy ones...they go well with my spiciness

What's your choice?

Magical and Timeless

It is good to be home, to be surrounded by silence and to write. You know that feeling when you hit that sweet spot, that's how it felt when I sat in front of my laptop and my fingers hit the keys. Boy, what a feeling. So, I came up with words rambling in my head...I had to write them down

RAMBLE ACT OF THOUGHTS
I curled passion and thunder last night in my belly
Woke up with contractions
Gave birth to his love
He hurricaned lust to me
And like a virgin with goosebumps
I swallowed him whole

Time to go home

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What Is Passion?

Definition of PASSION...

strong feeling or emotion
heat: the trait of being intensely emotional
rage: something that is desired intensely; "his rage is lust filled with passion"
mania: an irrational but irresistible motive for a belief or action
a feeling of strong sexual desire
love: any object of warm affection or devotion;

Passion is like the taste of the sun on a bare flesh, the kiss of the moon repeatedly nurturing us with evening bliss...

Passion is my daughter's smile, the pitter-patter of laughter she rings in my ears

Passion is the feel of my fingers when I write on my journal creating new words with love

Most of all passion is poetry, the love of writing and the path of self-expression that becomes edible and highly perfumed, while the texture remains silky on our mental state

Passion is what I seek every day

My angel in pink

My baby is 7 years old...she means the world to me (dressed in pink Cinderella gown). It's been over five years since I've been away from Cali, I can't believe how grown she is. Each and every time I visit her, she sounds so mature...I miss her a lot. I haven't been able to find the strenght, the gutts to write a poem about her. It's not that I can't, I know I'm good with writing poetry and stories but it just hurts to put into words how I feel about her. It hurts to write about why I left...I wish she knew how much I love her. I know she understands a tiny bit but not enough...not enough to know how much it still hurts.

Live life like it's your last day

I couldn't sleep last night, I ended up falling asleep at 2:00 a.m. First I must thank my niece, she was the one who while we were watching movies in the basement kept saying to me that she hears noise coming from upstairs. My sister lives in a 3-story house, so with them being out of town and me babysitting it has been an interesting experience.

I arrived in Ohio on Thursday night. I didn't think I was going to make it there alive. The turbulence in the plane from NY was ridiculous. I saw my life coming to an end when the plane tried to make it through rough weather. It was storming severly in Ohio, I couldn't believe it when the captain landed. I was so shaken yet I wanted to kiss the ground. It was the worse turbulence I had ever experienced. I thought about my daughter, about how I didn't say goodbye to her. I thought about the last conversation I had with my sister, my closest best friend, and also my mom who called me a few days after my birthday. But then again I started to think I lived a good enough life so if it ended this way with me crashing in a plane it shouldn't upset me.

Would I prefer to die this way? No, actually in order for me to welcome death in a plane crash I would rather have it noise proof, without the panic and screams of any passengers. If there was some jazz music playing in my ears while the plane dissapeared amidts the storm then I think I would be cool...but that wasn't the case when I sat there huddled on my chair and with eyes closed tight and legs shaking. All I heard was screams from the passengers and the pilot telling them to calm down and to fastened their seatbelts. When I made it, a friend of mine asked me a question which made me ponder. He asked if I prayed. "Did you pray when you felt the plane going down?"

Then I realized. No. I didn't. Sad but true. I should know better because I always say to myself that I need to go back to God, I need his food back in my life but I fear his disappointment in me. I fear he might turn his back away from me.

I was thinking for my last supper on earth I would want a huge slice of Junior's cheesecake and a tall glass of soy milk, weird, huh?

Also one last grand bal party should be thrown in my honor and my sister and I would dressed up for the occassion. I thought about the picture here (top right) to display our attire. For me to die with class, to die with stilettos, Jimmy Choos to be exact.

Meanwhile since it wasn't yet my time to leave this earth, I will live it like it's my last day. I will smile more, laugh harder, lover harder and pray...yes...I will start praying today.

Life of a Haitian Writer

I spent four days online networking, spilling out the beans that I have a new website. I thought it would be easy to get people's attention but it's a lot of work, much harder than I thought. I know I must be aggressive, that's the only way I will get visitors to stop by my web. So far, I've received great reviews. One author I did invite to check my site was Chris Abani, he is a favorite writer of mine.

Here is what he had to say:

Dear Cathy,I just looked through your website. It is fabulous and really well put together. Impressive. The poems I read were good too. Perhaps when I am next on the East coast I will get a chance to see you perform. Be well, Chris

I was so thrilled when I got his e-mail this morning. He is truly an inspiration. I always admire when a writer takes the time to respond to readers. The smallest gestures says a lot about the person's character.

I am very proud of the work I put into my webpage (www.delaleuwritings.com), it represents me and my culture. My goal is to help others with their writing skills. I hope to meet more Haitian-American writers who are also lacking sleep all for the love of writing.

What I don't get is when people still make comments like "you don't look Haitian". I think it's pure ignorance on their part. Haitians come in different shapes, colors and sizes. As a matter of fact when I vacationed there back in '96 I met Orientals who were speaking Creole, of course I was surprised but it justified to me not all Haitians are created licorice "black".

With actress, Garcelle Beauvais (top pic) and singer, Wyclef Jean being in the limelight, Hollywood's perception of Haitians have increased. Both Garcelle and Wyclef have secured their place in Hollywood's animal kingdom. Proving we can rule the world and show them what we got. There are others crawling their way up to the top such as Samuel Dalembert (NBA player), actor Gabriel Casseus who has been featured in many films. But we still need more to represent in our community. I would like to see more Neg Mawons and Anacoanas on the red carpet and in the literary industry.

Sensuality's Miseducation

Yesterday I tattooed his love on my back

His butterfly landed there
I caressed him with one finger
He fluttered cyan wings
Using his greed to sing to meI puckered lips and soaked him with a kiss
He flew away stirring in the air the strong scent of desire
Leaving behind one unforgettable winter night

Must he leave and return in the spring?
Must he love only during warm seasons?
He returns to me
With whistles of a new song
Showing off his bright purple wings
Expect me to welcome him like a king

He doesn’t realize I am not the same woman he left behind
Without his lubricant touch
His salutation is the taste of stale coffee
Words like “I miss you baby” nothing more than pulp fiction
A cheap validation of bootleg words
I walk away to avoid any more heartache
Stand on the back porch watching the sunset
I confess my affliction to strangers, the birds, the clouds, and the trees
Wishing the man inside could comprehend my sensuality
©2006 Cathy Delaleu

Hurricane whispers

Her whispers seem to have found me as deaf as i have thought to be, her written whispers seem to scream and each whisper of pain and love and lust and ecstasy is a pleasure to me as the desert of my eyes finally receive the nourishing rain of her bits and bytes of whispers.

Ssssssshhhhh...just enjoy the moment where the soul of two rivers and the river of two souls converge and merge then surge under and atop waves of lingual, verbal, lyrical poetic passion

only to subside with each long distance whisper, as wisps of words mix with metaphors and similes, it seems to me that the caged bird that sings also writes and reads to escape the cage of bondage. If not for seeds, where would we be? For our seeds and their growth keep us happy in the cage of solitude. Solitude, broken promises and thoughts of the horizon and the past are nothing more than tourniquets that turn our souls into charcoal briquettes, fueling the heat of poetic passion.

Visceral thoughts are given birth to through whispers wrapped in silk scarves of solitude, and as the day to day wind of loneliness blows, we wrap ourselves in these scarves, and keep our heart warm...and still beating.

Minutes turn to hours turn to days turn to months after burial of love,
and nightly on the balcony of pain and mental dismemberment
eyes look up
not to watch but to ask God,
the moon, the stars
why...

Written by Makendal (c) 4/2006

This poem was written by a friend of mine, it's a lenghtly yet emotionally driven piece. I just thought the pic would mesh perfect with it.

SPERMARY WAR

Mount Vesuvius weeps thick lava without the use of protection
Sun swallows heat not burning the flesh
I threw away the grocery list I had stashed inside my jeans for months
No longer needed
My hunger strike is finally over
I run towards him for more
Legs quiver anticipation
With implication his body demands a heavy investment
I fondle his shaft again with patchouli hands
And his huff sounds more like a monstrous horse
Strong gallops of air when his toes curl
Eyes turn into beams of thunder
And I become his spokesperson by gently squeezing heavy balls
Blow hot air on his mouthpiece kissing him with goose bumps
I take him in like a rumbling flute
Glistening his brown cork with flickering flames
Sucking my homeland with inexorable force
My pushpin makes him groan
The sweet, salty tamarind flavor is organically delicious
This cornrow action tortures him
But gives me pleasure
©2006 by C. Delaleu

My own gift

I gave myself a gift before I turned 35. The gift of confidence. It feels damn good to know that I can do it with or without anyone believing in my craft. I used to doubt my writing a lot, especially after last year's hurricane. Yes, I call it exactly that for that's how it was. It started small and ended into a huge mess with nasty debris.

I've recovered now and I'm stretching my smile like a woman's pregnant belly, lol. My website being up and running gives me great joy, that's my #1 baby, and now my #2 baby is my poetry book due out in the summer, next will be baby #3 in 2007 with Sweet Orchid Among Thorns.

I can't wait. I've waited forever for this deliberation, this exhilaration. Today, there are no clouds in the skies.