Write a Bathroom wall limerick.

I'm here to keep you clean,

I see a lot of hygiene.

Don't worry I won't say a word,

About that turd.

#BENOTEWORTHY

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How hard was it for you to face all the wrongs you've done? What was the hardest part?

Facing wrongs is part of life.

It shouldn't cause you that much strife.

Just face your fears,

And you'll get cheers.

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Describe in detail an everyday object-a peice of fruit, a water bottle, or your beat up old wallet.

I hold your money,

I hold your cards,

You usually sit on me,

But that's okay.

I am used to that,

And still love you.

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Darkness

M. J. Fraser

When darkness closes in, ensnaring the mind

You find the thick tendrils gripping

The black holes ripping

At the soul

It can’t be whole

With wounds of past and days gone by

And wondering why

As nightmares attack

And the demons snack

They grip with iron fist

Pull and twist

For yesterday is done, it can't be won

No place can break it, not even the sun

Sky

M.J. Fraiser

Stars glitter in the deep Night

Peering from the black

Watching down from Ethereal flight

No turning back

As the enveloping dark enwraps

and deep thoughts entrap

the stars forever glitter

The fairies flitter

to and fro

nowhere to go

to look back is to sting

as regrets ring

and yet here and now

there is no how

of escape

And so the bars fall

From sky to ground

Silent, never a sound

And yet they surround

On all sides

As the stars glitter

i know the grandmother one had hands

Jaki Shelton Green

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always in bowls

folding, pinching, rolling the dough

making the bread

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always under water

sifting rice

bluing clothes

starching lives

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always in the earth

planting seeds

removing weeds

growing knives

burying sons

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always under

the cloth

pushing it along

helping it birth into

skirt

dress

curtains to lock out

night

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always inside

the hair

parting

plaiting

twisting it into rainbows

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always inside

pockets

holding the knots

counting the twisted veins

holding onto herself

let her hands disappear

into sky

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always inside the clouds

poking holes for

the rain to fall.

Breath of the Song: New and Selected Poems (Carolina Wren Press, 2005).

Dear Mama

Wanda Coleman

1946 –2013

when did we become friends?

it happened so gradual i didn’t notice

maybe i had to get my run out first

take a big bite of the honky world and choke on it

maybe that’s what has to happen with some uppity youngsters

if it happens at all

and now

the thought stark and irrevocable

of being here without you

shakes me

beyond love, fear, regret or anger

into that realm children go

who want to care for/protect their parents

as if they could

and sometimes the lucky ones do

into the realm of making every moment

important

laughing as though laughter wards off death

each word given

received like spanish eight

treasure to bury within

against that shadow day

when it will be the only coin i possess

with which to buy peace of mind

From Heavy Daughter Blues by Wanda Coleman. Copyright © 1987 by Wanda Coleman. Reprinted by permission of Black Sparrow Press, an imprint of David R. Godine, Publisher.

Sleeping in Late with My Mother

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

She apologizes. It’s not like her. She’s usually up by six.

But it’s the weekend, you tell her, there is no need to rush!

The plan for the day is breakfast somewhere and walking

somewhere else. I’m happy, but Mom can’t believe that

she forgot to bring conditioner, or that she slept so late.

The housekeeper at the discount hotel knocks. We’re still here,

we’re still here! she shouts back. Girls’ weekend, just us two,

and still we have to remind each other it’s okay to take our time.

No rush, we say to each other, firmly. I’m writing two poems

a day all summer: one every morning and again every night.

It is morning and my mom tells me, Write a poem about this,

but don’t mention I slept in so late! Just put down that your mother

is taking it easy, that your mother is taking her time for once!So I do

what she says, sort of. And the housekeeper knocks again.

But this time, my mother doesn’t jump. Instead, she leans back,

comfortable, and shouts: Still here, Still here! We are still here!

Copyright © 2018 by Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz. This poem originally appeared in How to Love the Empty Air (Write Bloody Publishing, 2018). Reprinted with permission of the publisher.

From Grandmothers Garden

Meena Alexander 1951 –2018

I am in another country. On a morning of clear sunlight, I walk into a garden thousands of miles from where grandmother lived and died. I speak of the Heather Garden at the mouth of Fort Tryon Park in upper Manhattan, a stone’s throw from my apartment. 

I stroll on the curved path past a lilac tree with its gnarled trunk. I stoop to touch purple fuzz of heather, I try to avoid earthworms twisted at the roots. In between the stalks of heather I see tiny snails. Their shells are the color of laterite soil in the garden of my childhood, a reddish hue with shades of indigo from the minerals buried in the earth.

Close by a baby gurgles, its limbs held tight to the mother’s chest in a snuggly, its tiny head bobbing. A dragonfly on iridescent wings glides by the mother and child. Overhead clouds shift and pass.

Later by stone steps that lead down to grassy knoll I see a child.

He wears clothing at least two sizes too large for him and on his feet are sneakers of a dull green color with frayed laces he has bound to his ankles. He is standing on his tiptoes, rooting in the trash bin.

He picks out a half eaten sandwich and clutches it tight. Then he brings it to his lips.

I stand very still. I do not want to scare him and I watch as he runs hard, a brown streak of light, past the lilac tree, out of the park.

Dare to Soar

If you dare to soar above the rest,

You will be the very best.

Your life is a miraculous bouquet,

It unfolds at it's own pace.

Don't be jealous or vain,

Because it's better than being the same.

Even if it's only a game,

Just remember to be your very best.

#BENOTEWORTHY

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