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Category Archives: poetry

When my Papa passed away
although painful
it wasn’t tragic

His funeral was the most beautiful gathering I had ever been to
Black people
of all shades
came together in celebration of his life
Black people
of all degrees of enslavement
came together in celebration of their own lives
We wore colours
We ate soul food
I sat with snot and tears like candle grease on my face as I filled my tummy
filling the room
with an extra pair of shoes
an extra prayer saying grace
I’m telling you like it is because it feels like it was
just yesterday
just an hour ago
when my father
burst into my bedroom
woke me from an afternoon slumber

sun shining
but no light in him

I distinctly remember how hot-damned-well that sun was shining
beaming
bitterly
as I hurried to pick up a lamp that knocked out the light
from my father’s pretty dark brown eyes
and held him
trembling
like he was child again
trembling like he was small again
in my Silly String arms
sucking air and bellowing back, “He’s gone! My daddy’s gone!”

At the funeral, a youth gospel choir sang “One Glad Morning”
and I always confuse that one line for “One Black Morning”
probably
because
that’s what death means to me:
running out of light to give

Thankfully, my father
still has light to give

He found it on a highway, I believe
where he was beckoned to an honourable memory
of his hero
Sometimes
the signs are designed
to reach us at eye level
and others greet us
6 feet
under sound

Britta B.

You look
so
divine

You must have discarded
a whole heap of dirty garb
to get that clean

How did you
shed the rust
of your unhelpful relatives?
How did you free
the remedy of your inherent habits?
Can you take it for what it is
if you bring
it out of me?

Nature has Her ways, souls
rubbing souls
for Earthly calibration
I am the catalyst
You are the Scientist’s prescription
for a healthy heart
Good health
is sensitive to unhealthy servants
and no one knows it more than you
how even the undeserving have a purpose
“There’s nothing more necessary
than the unnecessary”
There’s nothing more divine than losing your religion

As I sit
with you
under the toenail of a
closed cathedral
I wonder, what if
out of the 144,000
you were the first

When the question hitches a ride with
the westbound wind
you catch on too with your photo-maker
causing a traffic jam raising the blade
of your eyebrow all to say without sound:
I’d be the first to refuse

See, this is why I like you
you’re no anchor
no black hole ether

You just haven’t met anyone
who catches light
like you yet

Britta B.

Manipulators don’t like
to be manipulated
Facilitators don’t like
to be facilitated

But a fool!
A fool loves to be fooled…

Britta B.

In the liquor store
I don’t put things back
where I found them

What makes you think
when you’ve reached the bottom
you’ve been put back in your place?

Britta B.

Stewing in the skin of my inward eye
probable and prone to tunnel vision
I satisfy
the perversity of repetition

When impulse takes me by the hand
we give substance to silhouettes
We do what we must
to quiet the fuss

Out to seek
what is seeking me
Hunting for a higher Truth

People hand the best they can
not the way
you want them to

When I say, I have no words
I’m not trying hard enough
When I say, I have no choice
my mind’s been made up

We do what we must
to quiet the fuss

With my voice, I collapse
I’ve never had my heart broken
only an ego scratched
and my desire requires many reminders

Harmonious woman, you deliver life
everything else passes or purely assists
Don’t try to make love
it already exists

And excuse
my imposition
but consider the privilege
it is to consider the position

you’re in

Forgiveness
isn’t as much as what you leave
as it is
to where you return

When will you learn you have so much to learn?

Oh, we do what
we
must

Britta B.

Ever since I was born I can remember
I both hated myself and wanted
to make people’s lives better.
I learned very slowly
that these two energies don’t
work together, they work against each other.

Sometimes, I still hate myself
but I know this is a passing feeling or thought
that I am stronger than. That I am loved despite this.

But what will always be a part of me is my
undying urge to make a difference.
                                              To change somebody.
                                              To inspire and encourage.

Britta B.

One night, I was walking
hopeless 

I remember this moment

when I was tired

and I was loved

I was tired
And I was loved

I thought I was empty
I thought I was done

And still

I had love
to give

And still

I am FILLED with love to give

I am filled with love to give
I am filled with love to give
I am filled with love to give
I am
filled
with love
to give

Britta B.

For pictures from the shoot and more eye candies, check out Andy’s blog: http://andyjuma.blogspot.ca/

She who has yet to learn to love landscapes, not men
Loses herself in thought, constant thought, thinking and feeling
Her imagination is cruel
She’s obsessed, addicted to
Nature, and her attempts to nurture it
(she’ll die from natural causes anyway)
She is a mountain lion on a public beach
She is but a loose thread from a ripped sleeve
Wrapped around a thrusting heart
A heart that pumps and bumps into many things
All she wants
Is to be still

Growing old in her mid-twenties from looking
At love through the eyes of the past
Compulsive thinker she is,
Her mind uses her
All she wants
Is to be still

With candles lit, hot tea sips
She begins now to
Break free, open
Puts her mind between her hands and into a good book
She watches where her mind goes, loses it
Enlightened, she
Realizes she is not the thinker she thinks she is and instead
Watches her self think
Observes her self feel
She disconnects from mind and body
She is a soul again
Resting alive in peace

“You are one with all that is”
Here
Now
Please, be still.

Britta B.

one hazy morning
i awoke
to a glass of mystery and a splash of some fresh sun 
a brown-skinned mister
a warm brown-skinned mister wearing nothing but his sleeves
lay next to me, quietly, watching me dream

he declared a nightmare he battled and won as i
dragged my palm across scars bruises burns
touching him on purpose
where i’m sure it once hurt 
but then the fool kissed my hand
as if to take all that pain back, I
couldn’t wipe the smirk
off my face
he had me wrapped
in his warm
didn’t want a blanket to do his job
this hazy morn’ i was
beside myself with him

perhaps, there was no return to reality

Britta B.

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