forced recovery

fair warning: i'm in my feelings.  i titled this post forced recovery because i'm forcing myself to write for one.  and two, it's poetry--it's super personal (for lack of a better term). 

people go through thangs, poets go through thangs, we all goin' through something--we in a got-damn pandemic.  so my heart and soul goes out to all of you.  

this is for you, whether you be business owner, or mom who left her family, or dad who has been drinking through all this, or teen who is just trying to figure this ish out.  this is off the dome, don't give a damn kind of poetry.  it's 30 for 30 right??  well here go part of that 30......

The Idea of Essential

Push, protrude;

pick and nit-pick till 

the pumping of life-

blood through veins 

pop!

Pressure.

Call it a sickness, 

dangerous; pandemic

proportions  to pause your 

pockets till pituitary glands 

claims--

That’s Enough !

I am in Business

At least for brief 

moments,

I am. 

But brick & mortar 

be the base 

and sales be slipping to 

the basement.

More is needed 

than this 

raggedy-ass 

jump-start;

this so-called 

forgivable loan leverages.

Telling me I have to 

put my livelihood aside

and ride out this 

masked necessity time,

till peaks level out?!

Leadership is shit, and 

a joke. Leaving me broke.

Labeling me,

Non-essential. 

__________________________

prompt: Incomplete 

Pieces, like puzzles 

missing parts, or leaves 

leaving seasons behind;

I was no longer there.

In body but

soul secreted so much fire 

a smoldering spot

was all that was left.

Stepped on still,

unable to climb hills

heaven became a 

darkened stain unable 

to sustain any sizable fight.

you ever felt the feeling 

of trying to co-exist & 

every word, thought & emotion

was met w/sarcasm & an 

exit

for even the most 

simple idea.

your self esteem gets shot.

you try to fill the empty

spot w/substances bad 

for the body--

but you’re just trying to 

get full again.

get whole again. 

find right in your spirit

b/c your righteousness had been 

ridiculed to depths of 

ignorance & blame.

Ignored it in attempts to rebound

Pick up old pieces 

and speak existence into wind

till manifestations remaster 

right and left cranial 

cracks, closing the gaps

to become whole again--

my friend i am

incomplete

But working hard

against the ash

to become

free.

___________________________

Present, Pre-sent, Sent

            (for you)

     This is 

given. A gift,

questioned through five senses

because cents

don’t even gather.

Cash app--

     appalling be the balance

Paypal--

     pals ain’t payin

Given, blogged, free

will be total of 

30

even though

support low

and attempts to create 

an economy

is failing, miserably 

Tagline speaks of 

recovery; words be

in remission, while 

missions still made up 

in membranes, the

soul-brain still believes 

in dreams

so take this, as a gift.

no receipt to 

take back, cost is free.

space unsubstantial--

yet hopeful

an experience was had--

Bringing In New Poetry

It's been a few days since I posted, and this won't be the only post today (hopefully!)  Through everything that this month has thrown at us I feel we are getting stronger for it.  We are still doing #vss we are attending online open mics, we are writing posting, selling books, and supporting each other.  So for this I give thanks to you, and the strength you've shown.  Ase'

It is morning

which makes the day.

Shade cast,

confrontation cornered,

soul so callous, couches 

became safe havens.

Mornings made from 

firm boundaries because

crazy, manic, and out of 

control anger 

can become 

a comfortable pillow 

in eye blinks.

We think midnight 

where fights and royal 

rumbles erupt. Laid out 

and displayed for neighboring 

ears and opinion.

But it is the morning,

rising like sun parting clouds 

or pandemic parting parents;

it is heir apparent

that people aren’t participating 

positively

in this partnership.

Good thing about mornings,

it is beginning.

Gives time for rest, reflection, and 

planning.

It is morning, un-laid 

heads at rest, finally 

rise.
_________________________________________

#Mittens,

masquerading as helpers

are held up

by grand government 

honchos--

“You are not gloves!”

they glare, a tenseness

in their throat.

“This is a pandemic!

Today, we practice 

digit distance”

________________________________________ 

The possibility is 

still beautiful. Still 

unknown, great care

conceived like 

virgin births.  Born from 

necessity’s pain,

heart go out to open 

wounds and traumatized 

trembling hands.  We 

hold them tight.

Steadying the suffering 

for life ain’t fair.

We press for recovery

with speed and accuracy 

even if minds are mush

and bodies beset with 

addiction--

we. don’t. give. up.

Sunday Morning

It is Sunday, and about 8:19am here I am sitting in front of my computer thankful for having time at work to pen off some poetry.  Last night wasn't bad; patients ok for the most part, and co-workers worked and team happened. 

I am grateful and thankful for your presence here.  I am thankful you are reading my words.  I am thankful you are spreading the word. 

This month has been more than just writing poems.  It is watching the news and governors and president, and waiting on the word to get back to work.  It is hand-washing and stimulus checks, extended time with immediate family, and figuring out how we bury our dead.

So I offer these poems which have nothing to do with what I just wrote above.  These are #vss365 poems.  These are poems about the word #blue or the color #blue. 

However I wish you wellness in whatever form that may be.  I wish you comfort, smiles, and a speed recovery back to whatever your normal looks like.  And if this new normal is better than the old, than I wish you greatness in your new recovery.  Ashe'

Untitled 1

The flu may be #blue,

but 

that other virus 

is black--

Communities under 

constant attack,

but we already knew that.

Sickness political, 

like the color of the pachyderm 

red hot, unstable spot

but that be what happens

when 

The Vote

flops, and we get this germ

__________________________________________

Untitled 2

Say trombone!

blow me some #blues

Dig Lucille up,

and put her on the track too;

help put this 

evil behind me,

and tell some livin’ truths.

We be strong,

but lies be a battle,

takin’ sticks 

to glass ceilings 

and makes them sucka’s 

shatter. 

Am more than

the stereotypes, the hype,

and shit bout 

super-predators

need to re-write the story

with a bomb ass editor

So the tale is told

#blues is written, 

life ain’t perfect, but

life is still kickin’

________________________________

We'll do a third poem maybe later today if things go well. If not, then enjoy the two that are here. 
And be well, I mean that.

Five Days, Four Poems

This might be the worst poetry I've ever written.  It's honest, but cryptic; not direct for two reasons: Brown and Fear.  But the challenge continues.  I'll do a count maybe this weekend or next week and see what we need to whip up.  It's Covid times people, times 19--I'm missing stuff tonight, but that's ok...

Past the Ideas

keep it short,

save the ink;

save self--

For reflections are rougher

than the scruff

that some would refer to 

as a beard.

But 

keep workin’, keep

writin’, keep pushin’ self

past limits of Ok.

Because you’re not

Key keeper.  Keeper of key

holding unkind truths

Locked away.

Let that pen pick that 

Lock.

Be scared, Be open.

    You’ve earned, be earnest with self

    Ain’t easy, therapy rarely is.

We’ve learned to be tight with 

drunk texting, and calling and talking

    see if self can rebound

    and be therapeutic

    with those 

    closest.

___________________________________________

Close

Face Brown and being who you are,

    Alcoholic.

Keeping from showing sickness

    to shining creations

Are selfish

    may not be the worst 

attribute

    Are cautious because eyes 

are catchin’; concrete

    block can grow legs in 

    nightmares and passed out

patterns

    rarely receive 

second chances.

__________________________________________

30 For 30

should of stayed

sober

for 30.

    somber be situations

    & scared be people

so on some aspect

    (hopefully)

shit’s understood & 

some kind of pass is 

caught

    Be well people.

I am no longer hopin’

I BEEN prayin’

& if God only speaks 

    sign language--

then somehow I feel like 

    we’re all fucked.

Yet I’m drinkin’ & writin’   

    And you’re readin’...

somehow balance is baked

    of white beams

    as that 

Dust

    rises high to the sky

________________________________

tryin’ & failin’ -- back on the couch

want to pick up drunk daddies, bring them 

to a sober spot. clean them up.

and deliver them home.

want to pick up unsure daddies, take them

somewhere safe, give them potions, show them 

portals

and take mistakes totally off their plate.

we ain’t perfect.  by any means.

but i know we do our best. it just that

our best, be our worst

and womanly looks lash out like whips 

and we know about running 

because sometime….

we just ain’t bout that life

and we linger,

and get judged, 

then go to work,

or get a job.

and still can’t do right

we scared too.

want to pick up

drunk daddies

and take them

to sober spots.