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Excuse me while I kiss
Her thighs
Because my mind’s eye
Is paralyzed by

Oceans of freedom
Masquerading as
Acts of sin
Swathed in velvet
And silk
And ermine
Enveloping an
Enclosed openness
Of limitless possibilities

Sating an endless, angry hunger
Red as rage
Attempts at smoothing over
A restless, fearless spirit
That’s been tamed
Into a petulant
resentful
Quietness
Seeking the warmth
Of raw, unedited truths
And naked realities
Piercing
Like arrows
Dotted tips
Of poison

Go and hug your "Michael" by Maya Angelou.

When a friend sent this poem to me - I felt I had to post it for my own personal reasons. Enjoy!

Go and hug your "Michael" by Maya Angelou.

Yesterday I cried watching the Michael Jackson memorial. I cried for a
little Black boy who felt the world didn't understand him.

I cried for a little black boy who spent his adulthood chasing his
childhood.  And I thought about all the young black boys out there who may feel
that the world doesn't understand them.

The ones who feel that the world does not understand their baggy jeans,
their swagger, their music, their anger, their struggles, their fears or the
chip on their shoulder.  I worry that my son, may too, one day feel lonely in a wide,
wide world.

I cried for young children of all colors who may live their life feeling
like a misfit, feeling like no one understands their perspective, or their
soul. What a burden to carry.

As a mother, I cried for Katherine Jackson because no mother should
ever bury a child. Period. And I think about all the pain, tears and
sleepless nights that she must have endured seeing her baby boy in
inner pain, seeing him struggle with his self- esteem, and his insecurities
and to know that he often felt unloved. Even while the world loved him
deeply.

How does it feel to think that the unconditional love we give as mothers
just isn't enough to make our children feel whole?  I wonder if she still
suffers thinking, "What more could I have done?" Even Moms of music
legends aren't immune to Mommy guilt, I suppose.

When Rev. Al Sharpton (who always delivers one "Awesome" funeral
speech), said to Michael's children " Your Daddy was not Strange . ... . .
It was strange what your daddy had to deal with" I thought of all of the
strange things of the world that my children would have to deal with.
Better yet, the things I hope they won't ever have to deal with anymore.

And as a mother raising a young black boy, I feel recommitted and yet a
little confused as to how to make sure my son is sure enough within
himself to take on the world. Especially a "strange" one. To love himself
enough to know that even when the world doesn't understand you, tries
to force you into it's mold or treats you unkindly, you are still beautiful,
strong, and Black. How do I do that?

Today, I'm taking back "childhood" as an inalienable right for every brown
little one.  In a world that makes children into "booty-Shakin", mini-
adults long before their time,  I'm reclaiming the playful, the innocent,
run-around outside, childhood as the key ingredient in raising confident adults.
Second, I will not rest until my little black boy, My Michael, knows that
his broad nose is beautiful, his chocolately brown skin is beautiful, and his
thick hair is beautiful.  And nothing or no one can take that away from him.

Now, ain't we Bad, ain't we Black, and ain't we Beautiful!

Maya Angelou

Death by Desire

Death By Desire

by

Rosalind Christine Lloyd

(its okay....its just a damn moment in time)

Incantations of “this ain’t no funeral,”

Whispering

Over and over again

As the slippery knot of

That disease called

Procrastination

Lodges itself

Inside a barren and wasted mind

Blocking any possibilities of release

The rumbling of repressed opportunities

Crowded by the weight of doubt

Swallowed by the heaviness of regret

Overwhelmed and burdened by aimless, shapeless, insatiable, haunting reminisce

Scratching, clawing out from beneath a reality one convinced is not their own

ETERNITY

Eternity
© 2007
Rosalind Christine Lloyd

Eternity;
Flung like a whisper of an aria,
against the thunder
of wonder
of an infinite, extended center
of waves of oceans that roam
and condone
the epicenter of
closed minds
that fail to find the soft strength
in endless waterfalls
that taste of golden inner peace.


The determined rush rush
of persistent showers that push push
into forever pools
that glisten like invisible jewels
that release a spectacular spray
of cerulean, slate, shades of blue, shades of grey
into bottomless vessels
of unlimited thresholds
of an undeniable existence
subconsciously conscious
or
consciously subconscious
Fluidly – Fluidity
Forever

Temple

This is a poem in progress. I've flirted with the art form. While I've discovered it is not my strong suit, I like to wing it when compelled.


Temple
by rosalind christine lloyd

Mind fuck-ing
Grey matters
Contorting, twisting into
Pinks, ochres, burnt sienna
Blazing golds across my mind
Body
Soul transporting
Sense of reality shifting
Time is slipping
Mind is slipping
Mine is slipping
Digitally enhanced
Filling empty fertile, greedy spaces
Lingering aches of smooth, supple surfaces
The salty sweet irresistible taste of reality
Heavy on my palate
Soaking my senses

Wrapping ones mind around the intensity of an unforgiving emptiness
That seeps into one’s cluttered, racing, conscious mind
Questioning the inevitability of a certain destiny
Deciding whether or not
to become some warrior against the war of fate
Wrapping one’s thighs around the possibility of what’s impossible
Wrapping one’s arms around the newness of something ancient
That’s warmer than the Egyptian summer sun
Heating the desert of
many lives past
A proverbial temple