Intangible Memories ... a poem (Part 3 of The Detox Trilogy)

Intangible Memories
(part 3 of The Detox Trilogy)

I can look but can't touch

the reels of underexposed film

that capture our moments

our memories

together but not.

I can look but can't touch

your hand holding the camera,

your finger on the shutter,

the flash flickering bright

before my hopeful eyes, blinding me

before I can recover cynicism.

I can look but can't touch

the globs of paint, the gluey paper,

the brush strokes of color 

that smoothed out a lone house 

on a deserted street

in mixed media and 3-D.

It hangs on my wall,

a permanent fixture in my memory.

I can look but can't touch

the pain behind your coal black eyes.

Passion slowly sparks a fire there,

but you let self pity and the determination

to suffer alone snuff it out and me out, too.

I stumbled from your quaint bluegrey stone home

choking on mary jane and incense,

the stench of responsibility smoked me out

and left me dazed and confused 

and missing you.

I can look but can't touch...

can't turn the page on the story.

Fate had begun to write about us.

You're a storyteller

and a prophetic dreamer.

You knew how it could end,

but even Fate gives us the right

to choose to change her.

I can look but can't touch

and can't turn off

my dreams that haunt me

whether I'm awake or asleep,

at my desk or in my bed -- 

dreams of you courting me --

useless, hopeless fantasies

of a Ghanaian king 

who had finally found and wooed

his ebony queen.

It's wise that I can't touch my memories

or I'd grab and fling them into the Atlantic sea,

anchor first, and watch them drown.

The chain locked and wrapped around 

my ankles and knees.

What's the use in saving memories?

~cdw~

03/22/12

Red Bird ... a poem

red bird

Perch and sit a little while

so that I may take my time

blowing kisses to you.

I'm looking for my true love.

I need your help to find him.

I purse my lips and close my eyes

and make a wish I hope you hear.

Bring me good luck

on the spread of your wings –

luck in love, as my grandma says.

Superstitious I am usually not,

but seeing your red feathers

flutter past my eager gaze

makes me a believer in you

and your awesome powers.

Every time you're in my presence

I'll blow sweet kisses to you.

What Grandma says is always true.

~cdw~

04/22/12

Apple Tree ... a poem (Part 2 of The Detox Trilogy)

Apple Tree
(part 2 of The Detox Trilogy)

high, high atop the apple tree

my juicy fruit swings
alone and untouched
Twenty feet tall
out of easy arm's reach
You've got to flex and stretch
if you want to grab hold of me

I didn't place myself high
God pulled me up
I just reached for the sky
I leaped toward my dreams
and lifted weights so I could climb
tall trees and rocky mountainsides
I thought fulfilling me
would indirectly attract the young 

and hungry herbivores
out to rule their world

But surprisingly, it seems
my height, smooth and shiny skin,
body - heart shaped and sweet -
Mind and Spirit, too
are just that intimidating to you

It's hard for me to believe.
I'm just a lone, seedy apple
germinating the ground
bearing some fruit
trying to reap what I sow
on a branch high, high up in a tree
Buffing out my blemishes
Working on my shine
Ripe for the picking
Reflecting the sun off my skin
Capturing the moon in my eyes
and waiting patiently
for someone hungry and determined enough
to desire me.

~cdw~

Intimacy ... a poem (Part 1 of The Detox Trilogy)

Intimacy
(part 1 of The Detox Trilogy)

Your full lips on my forehead

our lingering embrace

drinking pinot noir from coffee mugs

sitting on your knee

lengthy late-night conversations 

your long blinkless stare straight through me

three soft kisses at the nape of my neck

in the dark

your fingers tangled, tugging at my curly kinks

a tickle fight on my bedroom floor

eskimo kisses in your front yard

cuddling that never led to sex

listening to your tales of Ghana

my pet name, Abena

your rants about injustices at work

and in the world

your passionate musings about your next creative project

the story of your mother's illness

the story of yours 

your abstract painting that hangs framed on my wall

waking up the day after Christmas in your arms

your nephew's tears when I had to leave

and what became your final prayer of thanksgiving

What we had was intimacy.

But intimacy sans commitment leads to disappointment

and is the bloated stomach of a malnourished body--

Painfully empty.

~cdw~

03/19/12