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Class Queen—My Heart’s Reflection! 

a poem by Joseph Spence

It has been a long time since,

she was fine—flourishing!

She always seemed so

naturally desiring, nourishing,

My mind going lispingly loco,

she was like bubbling hot mocha

Such an awesome creation

made of fine ebony cocoa,

Imagination going wild

I bet she could have had the spoil

No doubt I would have been

captured with her winning style.

 

She was like the cool soft touch

of autumn’s evening breeze

Passing me just mesmerizingly

tickling my cheeks,

Hair starting to grow on the back

of my neck clinging to static

Transformation of her electric

tranquility illuminates like magic,

Feet felt like walking

on thin air of invisible clouds

My heart could not whisper

and started shouting out loud

—“Hello!”

 

Uncontrollable urges

wildly fighting my spirit

Battle within to win like a

fighting marine of great merits,

An about face I had to make

because she was my taste

Not lost in time and space

she was like Susie Q from the waist,

I was not a French Foreign Legion

soldier lost in the desert

Absolutely not a mirage before me,

passing me

—removing my shirt!

 

Soaking in the tan from the resonating heat

just drenched on my feet

She was so neat,

complete, looked so sweet,

creation could not repeat,

The street turned to pastures,

picnic baskets, butterflies, fragrance

Switching to white sandy beaches,

blankets, and building sand castles,

Voice weak,

I squeaked a peep,

she turned, my world stood still

Mind floating as if I had taken a pill,

like a flash

—Help me, I felt a chill!

 

She smiled,

lips parted,

tongue moved, I had a notion

Still turning, her hair moving slowly,

like a karate kick in slow motion,

Eyes blinking, I could not move,

“Yes I remember,”

she whispered

Her memory better than mine,

“How are you?”

My bread was buttered,

It has been years since,

queen of the prom,

homecoming queen,

My ship has landed,

“Coffee at noon?”

My heart whispered

—“Yes!”

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Alchemy of Creation

 

Alchemy. Taking blank material and transforming it into something else, is fairly spectacular. Sometimes the intention is not even apparent. This creative process is very interesting and inspiring.

There is such a unique beauty to go from blank canvas to an explosion of color or a creative vibrant script. I hope for the rest of my life to transform my truth into a reflective image.

xo

Original Work: “JSN” 12×14, acrylic on canvas, 2017

Check out more of my work at 19art81.com .

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Sinners Have Souls Too.

[It is a funeral in a typical church on the north side women are crying while fanning themselves because it’s summer. It has come to the time where loved ones get to share a word. The pastor declares a two-minute limit.]

Me: God is good all the time…

Audience: And all the time God is good.

Me: This raggedy muthafucka ain’t never been shit, and God saw that and killed that nigga. In addition, fuck boys cannot prosper spewing fuckery.

[An usher comes to encourage me off the stage. I motion with my pointer finger. One more thing must be said.]

Me: singing Come inside. Take off your coat. I’ll make you feel at home. Now let’s pour a glass of wine cause now we’re all alone. [There are two ushers now.]  I been waiting for you babe just let meeeee… [They’re pushing me off stage.] …hold you close to me… [I break away and run to the casket] cuz I been dying for you to make love to meeeeee.

Audience: [mouths dropped]

Me: [a distinct bow]

Me: [flips off funeral goers and leaves]

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The Ballad of the Lemon

The ballad of the lemon

 

(Small poem on chromatic prohibitions)

 

(Yellow sun-blinding yellow-yellow yellow)

If you eat lemons will not have your period

If you eat lemons you will not have satisfactions

If you brush your hair while you have “those” things

You block them for sure

(Yellow-green-yellow-yellow acid)

Continue reading The Ballad of the Lemon

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Artist Jennifer Shepit

Artist Jennifer Shepit resides in Abbotsford, British Columbia, Canada where she constructs other galaxies with her bare hands, a bit of paint, and universes of imagination, so much so that I found myself sending poetry over to her to request her visual representation of my work. When I laid eyes on this piece of art, I love it so much that I am not even sharing a photo of it in this post as it is the part of a larger project that I cannot wait to reveal. I will say that it is more beautiful in person than it was in the image that she sent me upon completion, and I am stingily am holding onto the painting only parceling out glimpses to others as though it is a secret lover.

 

Please go view and purchase some of her work. You can view her page at Instagram at @jennifershepit and click here for her Etsy.

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What is Poetry? Part 1

What is Poetry? Part 1

Poetry is the expanse of
the imagination that lies,
dormant though brooding
until it manifests itself in a bloom.

Poetry is a womb,
obsessed with itself
but self-aware enough
to know that it is bound for a tomb.

Poetry is a wound,
heartache expressed in words,
the reaction to how it hurts,
feeling how pain works,
like peeling back layers of a scab.

Poetry is a drab day,
suddenly lit by the sun’s rays,
bursting through gray cloud,
and splaying out, proud
to have finally beaten the gloom
and touching as much as it can.