On September’s new sun you came to me with the strangest sound
Toes and fingers stomping
In your eyes I saw God
Understood the spiritual side of birth
You glowed like the moon while you slept in my arms
The hardest part about loving you was letting you go
Across the West coast boarder I hear the beat of your heart
Try to reach for you in my sleep
Pray one day you will comprehend why I left you behind wrapped with my doubts and fear
I cannot justify
Cannot restore
Cannot rehabilitate
Cannot resuscitate the past
Beneath my belly you grew quietly
Unable to cry infant tears
Years hitches you a ride to forgetfulness
Sandstorm clouding your mind
My once a week phone call waters you with smiles
Therapy not enough to vanquish guilt
Deep-rooted pain strike joints
Jab the anguish stars I created for us in acrylic paper
My ink runs through your blood
With Haitian revolution translating confession
I am committed to make you mine someday
Determined to make you see me as your mother
I will hand you my own script of multilayered disappointments coupled with hope
Never meant to be your weakest link of confusion and aggravation
It’s 8pm today
Your father wants me stoned with his words
Sign on the dotted line to allow another woman to take over my joy
Can she have the ability to love you like I do?
I am not dead yet your father is mourning my name to neighbors
“Die bitch,” he whispers behind closed doors
I purge my anger in brush fires
The Santa Ana wind sings flame of prayers to God
Reality is to hate
But doing so is useless
The smoke thickens
And your smile and laughter disappears
Dear daughter
I’m sorry
Mommy will not sign on the dotted line
©10/07 by C. Delaleu
art by KJ & the dreamy giraffe

I was compelled to write this piece based on a true story of a woman who lost custody of her daughter because she moved out of state and was given visitation rights by the courts. She has made the effort to keep in contact with her daughter weekly by phone, sending her letters and toys and traveling 2-3 times a year to visit her. Her ex-husband remarried and now wants her to sign adoption papers in order for his new wife to become the legal custodian.

TO A GIRLFRIEND

Sister Love you know who I am
Where I’ve been
Where I’m going
You know why I warm up my insides
With this quilted heart
Why heartache is a heeled boot
Worn as a side zipper for easy entry
Shaped like rubber
Tapered with feelings
I’ve written to you before
I don’t believe in Hell
For once love was fundamental
The notion of Heaven on earth
Without the need of slip-ons or double-wrapped belt
Reborn over with this gift from God
I was allowed to sleep forever
A purpose to daydream with eyes closed

Sister Love I haven’t been myself
Giving this body freely to the male ego
My spirit ruptured repeatedly
I have not been saluted as his queen
My soul is a gift
You told me I was conceived twice without stipulation
God wanted to make sure his feminine art was opened
to endless possibilities
instead his poetry collection is found nestled
in a man’s sack
nipped and tucked

Sister Love only you can understand this strange convulsion
This anxiety that causes me to die repeatedly when legs are spread open to him
I am never too hungry
Yet he is the addiction at my corner store
I don’t need him to make me complete
I look in vain for his approval
For his body is a temporary cubicle
Not-for-profit
Simply liberating
Does it make sense to you?

You have been my mentor
And I have disappointed you
Disappointed myself
I feel lost
Again
And again
I am never too hungry
A full plate is meaningless when all I use is a saucer
I feed him without intellectual flirtation
more than he gives of himself

I’ve written to you before
Avoiding the harsh truth
That he is not the one for me


This non-nurturing comfort is meaningless
I am losing my sense of well-being, my balance
I seek some part of myself
My identity in him
While we dance this one mile song
I have flown with calloused feet
Sinking deep into his dark mud
The best moments are when I’m alone
Self-contained
Self-preserved
A woman I am again
Persistent to find this love
No matter how many times I fall face forward on concrete...
I scramble quickly to my feet
To emphasize
That he is not the one for me

You’ve said it before
The best is saved for last

The night is still young

© 2007 by Cathy Delaleu
Painting by Mystikalart

THE DANCER IN ME
She’s dancing naked with wolves
Dancing back and forth
Side to side
Arms flailing
It’s hilarious
She is followed like an event calendar
Like a weekly newsletter
A black memoir
The New Yorker with the sexy accent
They brag she got soul
A genius with too many ideas
Has no time to write girly longings on paper
She’s a chick lit with no drama
Almost 40 years old with 50,000 words stored in her blog
Programmed to edit secrets discreetly
A good girl with a freaky side
She’s hurricane
Tequila in your sunrise
Chile in your tamale
Garlic in your chicken
Hot pepper in your lambi (conch)
Pimento in your rice and beans
Cream of your coconut
She’ll ride your lonnnnnng ranger like an energizer bunny
Her movie idea has no screen name
Sees herself as the million-dollar baby without cash
A broke ass writer rich in grammar
Ashanti conquering side streets of Brooklyn with notepad and markers
Nefertiti dancing naked with wolves
Dancing with words
Dances with burning toes and fingers
Swings hips without a routine
No one sees her sweat
No one has time to admire her features
The painted toes
Caramel sweet skin glistens
Her Harlem shake glides, pops, jerks its way to your loins
Then you see her
You inhale her
Catch her locks with your eyes
With your breath
Believe she’s your thigh master
Will deliver you from this dull life you call confrontational
She makes it painless
Sends your body to earth and air
You swim religion and lust with your feet
Parts of your body feel her matrix
She is what you need
Your cliterature
Your hot bath
Your hot book
Your hot sex
Your hormonal support
Your self-cultivation
Your self-indulgence
Your self-contradiction
Your struggle
What feels good after you shower
Steams your spirit in cold winters
Responds to your kind words
Lights you up
Knocks you down
Link between the gin to your juice
Your displaced eruption
Your undersea explosion
Your impulsive force of nature
Force of gravity
Your other half
Your better half
Your tender soul
queen
goddess
femininity
She is Venus
She is woman
©2007 by Cathy Delaleu
pic by Hertiages Art

HOPELESS

Your first day in NY
I made you nervous
I was nervous
Feeling your presence in my space
Like a sensual light coming through open windows
A man who molds life with his hands
You make it beautiful without effort
Our longing connected through a silver screen
Where lonely hearts seeks adventure
We’re unsure yet willing to swing
Hopelessly with our valves
And why wouldn’t it work?
We are two beings in love with the idea
Of alterations
©2007 by C. Delaleu
"Life and Love" painting by C. Delaleu

BATTLE OF THE FLESH

Beauty queen on her 36th year on earth
Has tasted forbidden fruit too many times
Lost count of what 100% reality feels like
Please
Please
Please
God save the queen
She’s the one with the broken smile
Tilted sideways
Carries her heart on canvas
Protects this organ with colors and journals
Knock on her door
See if she’ll open and greet you with a smile
She ignores the doorbell
You didn’t call
You’re not invited in
I don’t see your name on the list
She writes them alphabetically
From C’s to V
The list is reserved for men who fingers promises of
Stability
They yawn their way through her dreams
She holds tight to the wrong path
This path of longing with brief laughter’s
Impressive conversations lead to stretch of limbs
A born again Virgin
She has them singing how tight she is
You’re a true gem
But why don’t they stay?
Why don’t they leave their affection on her pillows?
She’ll sleep better at night only if they sympathize
Their devices leave her too weak to weep
Too weak to whisper to herself that she’s a beautiful black woman
There are no Emergency Instructions for heartache
After the heart is fondled
She hides her flesh under soiled covered semen
It’s called heartache for a reason
It’s called rain for a reason
It’s called anger for a season
It’s called rage after the treason
And for this reason
the alarm will sound
if you pull her down
to your false sermon of love
©2007 by C. Delaleu
artwork "Emotive Rain" by C. Delaleu

For the women in Blog world who lack appreciation from their men, i'm sure you'll relate to these two poems below. Have you ever felt that all he does is throw you crumbs here and there and you're left hungry for more of his attention?


Many swallow whatever crumb is thrown their way out of desperation, not realizing their self-worth. In society we put up with a lot of crumbs so why should we settle with excuses and drama at home?

Aminah Love and I came up with the idea of writing a poem on the topic of "Crumbs". If you'd like to write your own piece and share with us, feel free to do so.


Crumbs

He calls
I jump
Let’s meet
It’s been a minute
I hurry
Get dressed
He's waiting
We see
We kiss
Have dinner
Make love
Spent
A moment is shared
Always busy
Never has time
Throws me a crumb
Dares to say he's mine.

To be used
When he’s horny
Is this fulfilling
No
The crumbs that are thrown
Is not what I want
I am but one
Of those
That he uses
When he's on the spot

Do I accept his offer
When it's thrown
Or do I walk away
And leave him the
Hell alone?

Crumbs are for those
You have no emotion for
or are not attached,
I am much more than that.

A full meal is what I crave
Not starvation that fills me
With loathe & decay
Of an individual that cannot
Fulfill my needs
For he has only crumbs
To feed.

Aminah Love
© 2007 Sonia Roman


CRUMBS

Drip
Drip
Drip are his excuses
Short notice on cell phone
With a red tag for disaster
Danger
Procrastination
His lust makes you his Tylenol PM alleviates achy joints
Crosses toes
Firm up muscles
You even suck your thumb after the explicit melt-down
With ice between the legs
There is only one in your universe
He accentuates your sweet tooth
Penetrates your ocean like a whale in search of his chicken of the sea
Hold up
There is silence again
Day 3
No phone call
Emails are scarce
Your stomach growls
Day 5
You’re hungry
He throws you a text message
I think I’m in love
You laugh at the gesture
It’s a joke how he does it flawlessly
An amateur
Your piece of ass who swears he wants to be your one and only
He’ll rock your world when his midnight shift ends
First he needs a shave
A shower
Needs to call his mama
Pay the bills
Nothing is guaranteed without another kiss
Without another Red Bull grind
Without elevation
Your recreation
Day 8
Your battery is low
He hasn’t scored since the last date
What’s up boo?
Phone sex not an ultimatum
Give me a better story
Tell me your dog ate my number
Or you were running late for work
Better yet you couldn’t Tivo our last madness in the car seat
Drip
Drip
Drip
Tick is the unseen clock
Imagine your cock as the main entrance to my twin towers
How quickly it crumbles
Waiting
And waiting
for you
Drip
Drip
Drip
© 2007 by Cathy Delaleu
Painting "Season of Wet Dreams" by C. Delaleu

The beginning is sweet
Like the first taste of strawberry sherbet
On a hot summer day
You can’t get enough
You want more to savor the palate

The beginning is a battlefield of rain and sun
Unpredictable
He turns it into a merry-go-round with his tongue
You contemplate the possibility
Of opening your heart without bleeding
Wondering if he will be the first Knight
To rescue you out of Brooklyn with his
Mighty sword
©2007 by Cathy Delaleu