Walking Still includes treasured memories and heartaches of everyday people. It examines the relationships between men and women, falling in and out of love, the environment and nature, life's challenges such as infidelity and domestic violence, family values, and many other provocative themes.
Walking Still takes you beyond photographs, conversations, and dreams as it delves into the depths of life's experiences to capture the essence of the unforgettable memories that touch our souls.
The author takes us on a therapeutic journey by sharing comic moments, love stories, and tragedies through narratives of friends and family. She unveils the beauty of life, along with its mishaps and collisions.
Whether you feel yourself "venting" along with the author in "Cleansing," experiencing the warmth of "Two Grand Divas," exploring the love of "Husband," or just pondering, "... How many tuna cans can you open before enough is enough?" In Walking Still, you will find enjoyment in the rich imagery and emotion of these poems.
As you read some of these powerful, emotive poems again and again, you will find yourself laughing and crying with the author. Their tenderness and honesty will surely find a place in your heart.
Walking Still
Poetic Reflections of Friends, Family, Life, and LoveBy TaajiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Taaj
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4401-9865-6Contents
Preface..............................................xiA Friend ............................................3Wishbone.............................................4Broken Fidelity......................................5Aesthetic Clarity....................................8Apparent.............................................10Iceberg and the Lighthouse...........................11Bound in Circles.....................................12Aging................................................13Survivor.............................................14Schoolhouse Blues....................................15Keeping It Real......................................16The Magic Belongs to Me..............................17Cleansing............................................21When Daddies Were Home...............................22Natalia's Butterfly..................................2519 Months............................................26Dinky's Apples.......................................27Crying Wisdom........................................28Mama's Soliloquy.....................................29Cruel Rhapsody.......................................30Blue without Yellow..................................31Grand Divas..........................................32A Grandmother's Plea.................................34Epiphany.............................................37I. Stage of Awareness................................37II. Stage of Discovery...............................38III. Stage of Recovery...............................39Splendid Image.......................................41Natalia's Curls, Kamilah's Waves.....................43She's Called Missy...................................44The Making of a Girl.................................45Ode to Responsibility................................49Who Killed the Cypress Tree?.........................50Menopause............................................51I Will Not Forsake Thee..............................52Admiration...........................................54Sleepless Laments....................................55Unrest...............................................56Solitude.............................................57Quiet Moment.........................................58Suffering............................................59Faith................................................60Life.................................................61Compassion...........................................62Whistler.............................................63Poems from Maui......................................64Warm Good-bye........................................66Sugar Break..........................................67Seattle's Summer Soup................................68Husband..............................................71Honey Child..........................................73Devotion.............................................74Arousal..............................................76Renewal..............................................77My Fantasy...........................................78A Hymn for Him.......................................79By the Lake..........................................80Voice................................................81A Privacy Screen.....................................82Poetry...............................................83A Request............................................84Whispers to Scream...................................85A Finite Unit........................................86Umoja Means Unity....................................87Song for My Sisters..................................88
Chapter One
*Poetic Reflections of Friends*
Everyone needs at least one friend whom they can trust with his or her stories. Life's lessons are learned from making mistakes and sharing what we have learned with others. It is easy to share the comedies and even the love stories, but tragedies are difficult to bequeath to other people.
Friends have inspired the following poetic reflections. Through their stories, I have learned ways to lift myself above life's pain and heartbreak. I have a better understanding of how experiences allow us to heal and transform challenges into opportunities that will ultimately improve our lives and relationships. It is my sincere desire to honor these narratives shared by friends through poetry, while encouraging others to share their experiences in a similar manner.
A Friend ... A friend sent two poems, Reaching deep below the surface, Not skipping across the water Like goslings in surprise Or dunking briefly for morsels. She sent words that submerge Into the lower depths like a submarine As its crew scrubs out the belly Where it's lonely, dark, inescapable, So courageous. A friend sent two poems That spoke of stories, evoking Reality with ebbs and tides, Companion to honesty And like a mighty pelican, Her words make me dive With determination Not to come up empty. Wishbone A gift of a "wishbone" For changing age, She picked up a box, Opened it up And really, There was the bone, End to end; marrow stuck, Representing hopeful intent Sucked of flesh, Gnawed of skin. Scrubbed of grease, Said was clean. Just a piece of skeleton, Was it a gag? A laughable rib? Not these fowl limbs From friend to friend. This trinket was accepted Without a gasp. In fact, when asked, The wish was made On molded carcass, Broken in half For potential order From familiar structure, I sat in amazement That this illogical present Was actually given As an eventful relic. With a yuck shiver, Of all the nerve! My birthday's next In a relationship Far less intimate, Perhaps an exit Receiving bone from chicken. Broken Fidelity Infidelity recycles itself, Parents getting treats from tricks, Destroying their offspring's security, Thinking what children don't know Won't hurt them. But these natural beings Believe in normal things. They're not foolish, Observing what parents are doing Lying to the ones They should love. Too many bedtime stories Were never read And only one tucked them in. Staged illusions Endowed sons and daughters With polygamous futures. Smoky memories of failed good intentions Are now worn like family apparitions Of unicorns who left in the morning And didn't appear until the next day, Or fairytale queens lustfully sighing While kings were away. Dull recollections of wedded bliss Held under stale arms, Between unwashed teeth, Stuck in uncombed hair. No need to clean Where caresses won't be Or kisses no longer linger Both now in the streets. Until the invitations arrive For the pity parties Lovers' leftovers are offered In repentance, Not fine dining But enough to stave off starvation. Kids need to eat, Mortgages need to get paid, And to assuage the lonely For being alone, Doggy bags are accepted With the stench of decay Replacing the romantic fragrance Of a once healthy marriage. Weeping children Who don't understand their anxiety, Knowing something is wrong, But can't call it by name. Their potential for "happy ever after" Shaved off As one parent condones While the other does it, Both pretending Children aren't learning Love means betrayal And betrayal is expected. But the forked tongues Have poisoned the honorable ones And the venom soaked with disgrace Is like waste, Floating where it was conceived It stinks! Cheating should have ended Before it began Or begin to end Before it got started Or started to end What should never have been. And with false spousal regrets They attempt to flush the mess. Knowing it's a matter of time That the head will be hard And the beaver will be wet. Aesthetic Clarity Female Color, Breathless! Shaded in earthy pastels, Rich black with undertones Of purple, delineated Blue or red Hershey's kisses Soft gradient browns, Pinks, ivory, Porcelain white Painted figures of past Love affairs Everywhere. Woman Shape Speechless! Impressionistic, Flat back Aligned with bottom Middle canal Or backward "S," under exaggerated, Slightly round, Dimpled where accentuated. Feminine pillars, Expressionistic! Appendages Meeting head, feet, and hands Long, sleek, or short, For dance, romance, nurturance, Perfection at any age. Holy Grail, private places, Temptress! Orifices, Eyes, mouth, inner lips, View the soul, Feel it, exist in, Enter at risk if uncommitted, Specific beauty Acquired taste, Requires class, Desires only art appreciators. Apparent Lack of discernment Is desolate. Vision anatomically Lost, Eyes impotent The dunes swirling, Grainy winds Making the traveler A blind wanderer Feet bleeding for the road Less traveled. Can there be clarity? Yes! A compass Constructed from life Where cancerous cells Died. There is a choice, An arrow that points Downward Toward pain Or upward Toward the cure. Self-love is an Obvious direction. Iceberg and the Lighthouse A young boy with a tender soul Became lost beneath the deep snow, From storms of youth with bitter cold That eventually caused the blizzard. The turbulence reigned far too long, As ice moved slowly and spread beyond Male adolescent endurance. A glacier stressed of polarized drugs Decimated the familial structure, Breaking in half, leaving instead An iceberg against the current. But a lighthouse in the distance dauntless, A tower not deceived by the image Of an obvious tip viewed as the trouble Was aware of the hidden bottom. The mast threw light down below To reveal the stronger substance, Faith, maternal dedication, viability, A foundation to stop the mass destruction Of perpetual life disease. With the lighthouse's illumination, The depth is fully viewed, For the iceberg to scour his potential To turn turf into fortitude. Bound in Circles Her eyes sunk deep into her head, Circles with shadows of disillusionment, Life was to go the other way. He was born to wear silly grins. No one was meant to be like him, Her only child, her one true love Found webs of entanglement. The man he was suppose to be Is snared and strangled in misery. Holding his mother captured, Their webs are bound together, Circular traps until unwrapped, Allowing them both to imagine. Aging An osprey bathed on the beach. Two surfers rode the waves. Nearby, several seals played, She walked, soaked in sand, bare feet. None of them looked her way Or saw her smile that day. Did they choose to ignore her? Perhaps the rooftop was too white Or they just didn't see Because the canvass was too dark. Once, when the lady was younger, Surfers whistled in delight. Forget the dear osprey, at least The seals should have barked. Survivor A girl child lifted above the bed, Crying for someone to save her soul As he did his business below, Trust raining from her heart, Telling her it was none of her business And not to tell anyone, It wasn't their right to know, Only his, To do what he wanted; to his daughter. Her eyes formed unlit sockets No glimmer of hope, The girl child or the soul. Apertures that held all that he did Without her permission, Losing dreams of a future beau Doing the same thing For infatuation. Replaced fantasy of ever getting it right With flesh burning from the touch of shame, Tears sizzling into blistering skin That melts into the incestuous plight Of bed sheets, changed by the real wife, A woman who lost her sight In her own family of pain. So as the virgin floats down from the ceiling And merges with the broken ghost, They wait for daylight, Planning how to save their siblings, Vowing to protect their innocence But gone already, was the purity. Because they were not caregivers, Only two adults consumed by chores They could not ignore Staining the sheets at night Cleaning the beds at dawn. Schoolhouse Blues There's nothing to learn From padlocks on doors, Washed-out budgets, Stale tissue lining floors Where kids once migrated Are now brown corridors Of scat from rats Roaming the halls, Self-appointed janitors Keeping the building inhabited. Rodents! Parents! Adolescents! A shrine for education Now a shed for crystal meth. Medicating their evictions With a stimulus package Not depleted yet. But it won't clean the trash Or bring the teachers back, 'Cause no one endures Anymore, Now that welfare Goes to the rich Instead of the poor. Keeping It Real "You ain't no girl no mo," Momma told me so. Even though She knew I thought I was Just too afraid not to be one, Still talking high pitched Like I don't know nothin'. Once cute With dimples front and back, Stomach flat, Chest at attention. My giggles continuous, Long after cuteness was gone. What were smiles of admiration Is banter now for being ridiculous? A woman who didn't Leave her youth behind After it drooped from gravitation. So Momma chided, "You ain't no girl no mo." The Magic Belongs to Me You don't own my spell. You've been a Heartache, Headache, Backbreak; Don't take any lovemaking kind of spell to me. But you don't own my spell. You can't even spell it, because you can't Feel it, Touch it, Taste it, Only waste it. Being nice is too nice for you. You don't own my spell. Because no one taught you to Cuddle when it's warm, Snuggle when it's cool, Just sex when it's hot, And you only do that to be a spell spoiler. But I am a spell caster And the next star of my spell Baby, won't be you! Because you made me Whine in the summertime, Cuss and fuss too many times. My mind been twisted Around a dream with no fruition. My heart been thumping To a drum made of glass, Splintering sharp pointed edges of pain Into the very fiber of a spell I called love, You called convenience, I called happiness, You called "Only your way," I called family, You called, "Get out of my way." But you are not my spell anymore. I gave you the power, Today I'm taking it back. I'm not asking you to give it back, It wasn't yours when I gave it. Spells only belong to those who create the Magic!
Chapter Two
*Poetic Reflections of Family*
Stories shared by friends have allowed doors to open deeper, more meaningful memories that although sometimes painful are, nonetheless, an important journey. This journey helps us to connect to our personal family narratives.
Family naturally inspires poetic reflections; these are the most treasured people in our lives. They hold our deepest love and have the greatest impact on us. The diversity in families makes it a complicated process toward achieving cooperation, cohesiveness, and just plain peace. But we never give up trying. The following poetic reflections of my family became a therapeutic exercise. A family member inspired each poem, and like my friends, these poems are narratives about real people. Additionally, these are shared experiences with my most beloved relatives. It is my hope that these poems inspire you to find poetic expressions that will set you free.
Cleansing I want to pour all of me out. I want to spill all over concrete. So no one dare wipe me up, And if they dare try, Let their knuckles bleed For just not letting me be. Please, please Let me pour, Until I'm empty. When Daddies Were Home Afternoons were familiar, The way the sunrays dropped On the dull concrete Like fool's gold, it sparkled. The click clack of the city's rhythms, Mixed with laughter Street beats that made kids skip To nursery rhymes. Smells that caused long whiffs, Impossible with open eyes, No need to see sweet potatoes, chicken, and greens Or peach cobbler That gave us tiny tickles. We disappeared at dawn Didn't reappear until dusk. Playing was as natural As boys chasing the prettiest girls Or always being warned, "Don't hang with those bad kids," Delinquents that chewed gum Or threw wet tissue in restrooms. Those were the times when mamas yelled, "Stop! Get in the house." Our youth had a different color. Life glowed with a happy green hue As if the lens in our eyes were mixed With sunny yellow and sky blue. We were superstitious, Afraid to step on sidewalk cracks Or black cats If they crossed our path, Or to walk under ladders Knowing that fate May deprive us of the Schwinn, A doll that peed, scooter or skates. Just urban urchins Talking in code secrets, Blood mixed brothers and sisters Because the real ones were pests. Those were the days We didn't worry about HIV or hepatitis, Just our kid dreams. We were Jacob Lawrence's paintings Turning long-legged somersaults; His visions, Until our mama called a second time, "Get in the house." We knew she meant it. This time she meant business, Which was no fun. Belt, twig, an ironing cord, We had no choice But to return Calling out in our "John Boy" repetition, "See ya," "See ya, Nedra," "See ya, Silas, Tony, and Renee." Daddies greeted us Each day after work Watching black-and-white TVs, Listening to Billie's moans On LPs, Present! Never absent. We washed our hands A spot on a face As supper was prepared In kitchens for every member Like soldiers in a mess hall, We were seen, not heard. But it didn't matter As we fed dogs named Foxy and Max under the table, Retreating into bunks Stuffed with love and tall tales And bedtime stories from big mamas and nanas, A lullaby called "Summertime" With wistful smiles Telling of their childhood Tinted in blue. Those were the days Families were more than a house, street, or name. A community was a neighborhood. Mamas and Babas raised us in villages, Taught us to read, think, and obey But most of all, Allowed us innocence. So, "as He laid us down to sleep," We remembered, Like Dorothy, In her world of blue sky and yellow sunlight, She was right, When she said every Xmas night, "There's ... no ... place ... like ... home "There's ... no ... place ... like ... home "There's ... no ... place ... like ... home" He's home! Natalia's Butterfly The energy above my head Asked me to look up I saw you fluttering over me And beneath you was beauty, Not me but you. Perhaps you thought I was beautiful too? 19 Months She's rose petals bouncing in spring water, Blowing fresh air kisses into northwest wind. She's sparkling eye stares with curious recognition, Entering in a soulful door, a first time visitant, She waved. Did she sense the love from a matron's heart? Was it the joy ringing from appetent ears? In sweet anticipation did she hear, "There's Grammy's baby"? She smiled. She's an enactment of parents' preparation And I reached out gratuitous arms In absolute amazement! Dinky's Apples I had an aunt named Dinky. She wore apples In my eyes, The larger ones Worn on her cheeks, The sweeter ones inside. Wavy hair, golden skin, Curvaceous as a pear She laughed, joked, pranced around And danced like Martha Graham. Until the day, an accident Took her joy far away. She thought she lost her good looks, Which stole her marriage and faith. With lesser body, brokenhearted, She buried her dreams away And flooded her soul with alcohol To keep the ghosts at bay. But even weaker, broken, buried, Motherly love, she maintained Pride in family, whatever she had, Where once, someone called vain. She was "sweet auntie" of my youth, Distant relative of my older age Someone I loved then, still love now, Though I may never see again. If I'm blessed, and if He ordains, I've one prayer for God above, Put Dinky's apples back on her face And show her how ripe they are. Crying Wisdom My mama said crying is good And she wasn't talking to girls, but boys. That's why the boys I know shed tears And they aren't boys no more, but men. My mama said crying grows wings And not the kind on the backyard sparrows But the kind that catch fallen queens, Wings with muscle, bone, and fiber. My mama said crying builds homes And not those with wood, brick, and mortar, But shelters that withstand challenge and trouble, Understanding the "how come" of tomorrow. So I say all men should just start crying, Embrace what is naturally inside. Tears were there on your first birthday Yes, they'll be there when you pass away. You don't need these events To show this expression, Some of the most secure humans Like it and do it. You know them, love them, and respect them And they aren't called children, girls, or women.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Walking Stillby Taaj Copyright © 2010 by Taaj. Excerpted by permission.
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