I Feel Like a Ghost

So many days have passed.
So many hours have passed.
So many minutes have passed.
So many seconds…

It’s been so long since I last posted on here that I feel like a ghost returning to a place I used to know. Many of my followers (if I have any followers left :-)) might remember that a while back I mentioned some changes taking place in my life. I started a new job at a new school and let me tell you, whew, it’s been a whirlwind of changes. In the process of getting settled in my new teaching position, it may seem that I fell off of my writing, but I didn’t. I’ve been writing. I’ve even have a couple of poems published and I’m working on finding homes for more poetry and short stories. So while it may seem like I’m a ghost, I’m really not. I’ve been around. You just couldn’t see me. But I’m back. And I’ve missed you guys so much. 😉

I posted a new poem tonight, something I’m currently working on and I have a few other projects in the works. I’m looking forward to sharing them with you. And, of course, receiving your feedback.

Happy Days Peeps!

Rosalind

 

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Poem for the White Lady Who Couldn’t Stop Watching Me

What if I suddenly
took off running
like I forgot about
my black skin & imagined
I could simply exist
without always remembering
that my most deadly weapon
is the color of my skin

What if I decided that today
I will not engage in
self-erasure to make you
comfortable in your skin
that I will not concern myself
with existing in your imagination
while living in my own skin

What if I had chosen to
take off running trying to escape
the prison you’ve kept me in
locked into the judgments
you placed on me because of my
skin color? What if I had chosen
to run? Would I be alive today
to write this poem? Or would
my family be struggling beneath
headlines that read:

Future Felon Shot While Fleeing

Violent Criminal Shot While Running

Suspected Robber Killed Trying to Flee Scene

What if I suddenly
took off running?

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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The Fragility of Memory

the shock of
casting
a familiar gaze
upon
a strange face

trapped
in unrembering
the
life
you want to
continue
to know
to hold dear

discovering
that memory
is fragile
like a robin’s egg
revealing
a new life
one where
memories throb
like a beating
heart

until
death casts
a
glance
in your
direction
and life
slowly
seeps out

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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Untitled

Untitled
By Rosalind Guy

There were always too many of us
sharing that one space
Big Mama never turned anyone
away
never enough love to go around
but always adequate space
as long as we were all willing to
share beds and clothes and adult relatives
love was
roof over your head
food in your belly
a yard to run around in
the space in Big Mama’s bed
between your two cousins
reserved
just for you
but sometimes
one of the adults living in the house
would go to the store and
buy me just one pack
of my favorite candy
I would go down into
the basement that smelled like mold
and sometimes urine
so that I
wouldn’t have to share my candy
one thing I could be selfish with
this is how I love
you
I always want to keep you close
enough to smell your
perfume, candy-coated sweetness. To drink in
the elixir of your smile. I keep
closing the door to the world
so I can steal away with you
and keep you
all to myself.

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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Blood on Your Fingers

The word no
needs no translation
or legislation
just listen for
the resistance
and
know
tears and resistance
are never
signs of
submission

we never accepted
the position
you forced
us into
because
we know
you will one day
claim that we
really wanted it
as if though
we can’t
differentiate
between
love   rape   hate

Did you notice
how I
avoided you?
Why did no one
notice
the blood
on your
fingers? Or how
I worked hard
not to
be
alone
with you?

Forced fucking
is not
a solid
basis
for a relationship.

I never
thought you
loved me or
wanted me or
cared for me or
wanted to do
anything but
fuck me and
leave
and I
never thought
no
could ever
be translated into
me giving
my approval
for you to
use your power
to forcefully
fuck
me.

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

*Note from the poet: I am tired of men abusing women’s bodies and trying to convince them that they wanted it as if though we’re too stupid to know that if we really wanted to be forced to engage in something that in no way resembles love. We have been loved and we know what love feels like. So our feelings about being raped are not up for discussion.

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The Beauty of Chaos

He stood for hours
gazing into chaos
A Banusic painting
hanging on the wall of
a museum or languishing in
a friend’s hallway or
some other space
Later
when he disappeared
I knew he’d started to
unfold himself
into that painting
the afternoon
we first saw it
and that he’d gone back
many times before
and that my presence
had pulled him away
temporarily
but his soul yearned
for chaos, soul-rending pain
the ultimate beauty

I should have known
I’ve always been a fan of
Kahlo

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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Poem Reminiscing about when Love was True

If I’m completely honest
with myself
I would finally admit that I
miss dearly
that time when I could love openly
that time when love
glowed on my face like the sun
on a summer afternoon
when every day was summer
and winter was far away

A time when words flowed
from my pen like water and
poems bloomed like flowers in my garden
Love once presented me with a bouquet
of poems and I
sometimes still hold them
in my hands, careful to avoid
the thorns

Who would ever believe it was
once okay to long
for love and to feel it reciprocated

I remember longing for love
on a Sunday afternoon
Caress me with your eyes.

Finger my soul, open it

as if though it were the

opening of my sex accepting you.

Fully. Washing me over in waves,

a desire to know you like no other.
I tremble. I shudder with anticipation

awaiting one single touch from you.

 

It was like existing in a dream
from which you never wanted to awaken
like holding your breath and wishing
to never exhale. It was love.
People saw it in our faces
were drawn to the light
like we were but

 

people also wanted to put out the light
so many prefer the darkness to brightness
of a love that shines from deep within
plotting behind closed doors to know
what you know never realizing
it was never theirs to know
looting and rioting stealthily removing
all traces of light
until every day becomes swathed in darkness

 

You can’t always remember to
guard your heart to preserve your light
but you can safeguard the memories
and mine are still fresh
I kept them stored in the freezer
to preserve their freshness
I’ll take them out today and remember
how it felt to long to make love
on a Sunday afternoon how it felt
to bask in a love that was wholly reciprocated
how it felt to cradle a love so full of light
it couldn’t help but touch those around me

 

I’ve decided today to just lie in my bed
and caress my memories like I once
caressed my love and tomorrow
tomorrow I will wrap it once more
in aluminum foil and begin to forget
what it was like to long for a love
that longed for me just as much

I will step back into the darkness
denying the cold denying that I ever knew
what it was like to love and to
want to make love on a Sunday afternoon

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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Survey Says

Forty-five percent
of men surveyed
said
they feel
trapped
in marriage/ so
what does that say
about the state of
love
has it been
gentrified or
marginalized or
just abandoned
Love
like our brown girls
seems to be missing
but no one is looking
for it/ the last time
I saw love
I could tell something
was wrong/Love
avoided looking in my eyes
but held me
extra tight
I should have known
something was wrong
but now that I know
now that we know
what are we
gonna do?

Forty-five percent
of women not surveyed
just might
have the answer.

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

 

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The Final Flight

I can’t remember whose idea it was
which one of us chose flight for our first
sojourn away    maybe the decision
derived from mutual desires to face our fears
head on or at least give it the old Facebook try

No parachutes were stored aboard for a hasty
escape   all exits signs were ignored
as we folded ourselves into the
safety of our seats at the front of
the plane     with my headphones
stuffed in my ears I could not hear
your deep sighs at once the audible cries
a last-ditch attempt to save who we’d been
unable and unwilling to accept defeat

We soldier on ignoring the piles of artillery
surrounding us. Bombs fall from the sky
lies construct walls too burdensome
to lug on the plane as our one piece of carryon
luggage  so much already in our memories

When the plane finally lands like starving
abandoned passengers we sift through debris
of our lives together unable to identify the pieces
so we leave the rubble behind for someone else
to look through searching for something
to salvage when everything’s already ruined

One day I know I’ll have blisters to
show for all the walking away I’ve done
but I’m tired of pretending I know how to fly
and I’m tired of pretending I wasn’t always alone

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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Vocabulary of a Rapist

You cannot use
kind words
to fend off  a rapist
even the romanticized
rapist, when preceded with the adjective
date – you must use
vocabulary he
understands
curse     yell   scream
otherwise
he’ll use your
cotton candy nos
to choke you &
silence your protests
so no one ever knows
all you ever wanted
was to walk away.

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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