Spring stroll

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sidewalks shaded with the shoeprints of lovers

seem to entwine like fingers within hands held

there a two-step under falling blossoms

spins and dips stir sweet scents and smiles

leadito secret paths down dandelion dotted hills

goose bumps less caused by evening chills

more from butterflies swarming around

heart chakras and the Stars in their eyes

don’t sit under the apple tree

with anyone else but me…anyone

else

but

me

© michele mitchell, 2014

Photo credit www.natures-desktop.com

 

twenty years too early (crushed)

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dedicated to hm

imagine the bust of basquiat dipped in onyx

spun gold woven into his locks

each word uttered naturally

seduces like the Love letters of Rumi

empowers anarchists with clenched fists to abolish societies assimilation

demolish medias demonic hypnotizing while keeping commentary current

flowing like water

falling free like skywriters

special smoke allowing cloudy verses to kiss the Sun

opening its beams to reflect on realms with oceans to tiptoe upon

while waiting to wade in waves molded by Moonlight’s

new birth in the changing tides

© michele mitchell, 2014

Photo credit: http://blackartinamerica.com/photo/nijel-binns-basquiat-bust

 

 

 

soft serve with dusk jimmies

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rather be standing barefoot on soaked concrete

offering a strawberry from betwixt her teeth

she may kiss his smile

while the sun sets behind the skyline

making murals glitter with broken gutter glass treasure

children know

the importance of delicate touch

smooth stones

rain water rivers

the scent of corner store gladiolas

mixed with clove smoke from the hippie girl’s exhales

she wishes for sun showers

fruit and flowers

she has found her treasure

in his delicate touch and the kiss

tasting of strawberries

swedish fish and coca cola

on summer rain soaked lips

© michele mitchell, 2014

Photo credit globetrottergirls.com

Peace, Love, Understanding (Ghazal)

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sultry summer kiss ignited our new Love

over years we kept it aflame admitting this is true Love

 

trials, tribulations, sordid situations forced us apart

holding on to fragments of broken hearts. what to do, Love?

 

soothing the painful past with our passion that lasted

along with patience, faith and trust we’ll make it through, Love

 

too many had betrayed or may have led your heart astray

i understand as that had happened to me too, Love

 

but once you wished on that Star, Peace no longer seemed far

and i promise to illuminate solace for you, Love

 

© michele mitchell, 2014

photo credit:https://fbcdn-sphotos-d-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash3/t1.0-9/1017372_525645624155240_2067465526_n.jpg

 

 

the bloodiest truth

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guidelines for this poem

topic: black walk street, Tulsa, OK

10 stanzas

five lines per stanza

no more than six words per line

bullets have no names but bombs do

exploding with pseudo self-evident truths

contingent upon hues of skin

when someone blows up oklahoma

sets sentences according to color

envious blue eyes

combined with cowardly yellow bellies

make spiteful frightful slithering snakes

poisonous fangs pierce brown skinned progress

rip apart hope like paper rainbows

bloody confetti streaked smoky skies

celebrating murdered dreams prior to King

ignited by hate

fueled with fear

leaving burning crosses and questions…

who drops bombs on city blocks??!

empties automatic weapons into homes?

forces fire fighters to flee?

then doesn’t serve time?

oh, never mind…

even hidden history

repeats itself

if it’s effective

no matter how heinous

the stutter

let facts douse your doubt

osage hills, oklahoma

rebuilt their own then thrived

osage avenue, philadephia

cried inside chitlin and scrapple homes

built from shoddy blueprints

drawn with apathy

foundation haunted with screams of five

burning

black babies

right hand of the law

uses a tainted thumb

tilting

the truth

askew

no one parts their mouths

asks who pays for sins committed

contingent on the skin’s hue

lady justice isn’t really blind

she just covered her eyes

the firing squad

will be her executioner

bullets

have

no

names.

© michele mitchell, 2014

Prompt from k/d/morris

Photo credit: http://richmalley.com

 

moaning oaks (prompt from class)

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*** my big brah/mentor/fellow poet teaches an accelerated poetry class…since I am unable to attend, he told me this weeks’ assignment.

rules:

content is to be about lynchings between 1800-1900

no rhyming

remove ego (I, Me, My, references)

do not start lines with prepositions or conjunctions

so um, yeah that ish took a LONG time to write…here is my submission:

crimson was once only a shade of autumn leaves

then streaked over one hundred and fifty branches

bloody drops of hunted tears

dripped onto the ground

creating a cold calculating rhythm

because ice devils love to dance

backpedal from karma

stomp on skulls of the forcibly aborted after a short

“little cry”

listen to the ghosts of the moaning oaks

mourning a southern belle’s  muted clapper

ripped out by rape and mutilation

robbed of pleasure and purpose

cursing her femininity

plus shade of skin

multiplied by the 1900’s

equals exploited and expendable

disposable and damned

a man close to Jesus asked to be hung upside down

mrs. turner didn’t have a choice

couldn’t question it

the gasoline was poured over her

did she pick out baby names

the match was lit

did she say a prayer

crack a joke as she was riddled with bullets

the devils were laughing anyway

cackling like witches

listen to the ghosts of the moaning oaks

crooning lullabies to blessed babies

never born

never loved

who never clung to mama

were never sung to by pappy

who never knew happiness and freedom

were one

the same

all that remains of the unnamed angels

blood soaked bark

whose drops nourished

an already all too fertile

Spring soil

giving birth to over one hundred and fifty deadly stories

told by the ghosts of the moaning oaks

listen

the wind cries mary

do you hear it

florida?

© michele mitchell, 2014

Photo credit: www.valdostadailytimes.com

innovator (tanka in 3)

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go against the norm

a picnic in the winter

Love will keep us warm

there’s a blanket in the snow

holding delicate tea cups

why wait until Spring

there’s fresh air between snowflakes

filled with perfect Peace

puffs of lingering prayers float

from exhales of bated breath

let us all giggle

in between sips of earl gray

with tarts and fresh jam

singing songs around campfires

melting all the chills away

© michele mitchell, 2014

Photo credit:

www.parkerfordchurch.com

against the grain/instead of the prompt

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so today’s prompt is to retell a story about “your first crush”…cute… but I didn’t want to do that…I don’t celebrate Valentines Day because I think it’s stupid. All year long I am Loved and I Love back, so I don’t need overpriced roses (I prefer lilies and orchids anyway) cheap chocolate in a cheaper box to have my VSF express how much he Loves me…my Love can’t be purchased nor do I hold it over his head like an obligation that drops at the first sign of deviation or loss of control.

however, for those that do celebrate, i mean no disrespect…do you

…so that being said, the below poem i read to him as we were curled up together…i remember the stunned expression on his face, the way he cupped my face in his hands and said “you are SO DOPE” …the kiss that followed was like…well…

lets just say…THIS!!! talk about the BEST way I have ever had Love expressed to me *blushes*

below is the poem

i wish i were a prophet

with a universal following

derived from distant lands

with sands the shades of royal skin and rainbows

traveling in droves

just to hear me speak

their lips would ever so slightly part in awe

as they saw my words with closed eyes

and felt me with empty palms ascending in praise, yet

i do not desire any fame or fortune from my following

i just want my scribing to be sacred as i share the story

of you

the world should know about you

the world should know about majesty

integrity and sacrifice

when the world chatters about character

the color of your essence should do pirouettes off their tongues

leaving chiseled onyx in their laps

and with gold and silver, crowns are crafted

reminding them that the existence of Kings is not a myth

despite deception

mockery and the maligning of your esteem

you are a man whose heart is as pure as a child’s first prayer to God

and there aren’t enough witnesses to your greatness, that’s why

i want to write your tears into floods of testimonies

rebuke anything that comes to destroy the purpose in your life

demonstrate to the demons that dwell too damn close to your dignity

that if my words have any power you will never be defeated

so yes, i want people to read my poems

hear me speak, stand in awe

fight back tears

and know…there was this little poet girl

who prayed to the All-Mighty one day for just the right words

to immortalize the man she loves

He chuckled at her

then wrote this poem on her behalf.

© michele mitchell, 2010, 2012, 2014

prompt: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/02/14/daily-prompt-its-friday-im-in-love/

photo credit: http://www.pintrest.com

More Love:

http://wordpress.com/read/post/id/55200719/4057/

http://growinolder.wordpress.com/2014/02/14/daily-prompt-its-friday-im-in-love/

http://marthakennedy.wordpress.com/2014/02/14/whats-luv-got-to-do-with-it-daily-prompt/

http://edwardhotspur.wordpress.com/2014/02/14/the-girl-from-italy/

http://dragoneystory.wordpress.com/2014/02/14/a-journey-begins-proud-eagle/

http://robssurfreport.com/2014/02/14/i-was-a-teenage-girl-watcher/