Tweet Poems - #NotOfLikeMinds

Ur words r either lead or flotsam: dense sunken cynicism 

or forgettable debris of plagarised helium 

My #TimeIsShort mafren

Zena Edwards© 2012 
 

haiku red

Being Undermined


in just one place, there!
hot scratches of anger scrape
her chest raw, don't speak...


words will make it right
the wrongness must be felt hard
keep it a secret


exorcise at the gym?
To drive it into the ground?
Let the fire burn hard


patience. time knows when
there's dignity in the wait
trees come to blossom


strike! the moist moment
ripe to release with control
injustice: fair game

haiku yellow

You Joy


face ache, inner glow
thermostat set to 'roasting'
next joke, reload, go!

The prince and the poor bitch

i'm a raggedy rich girl with empty pockets
looking at those invisible diamonds on my fingers


you are a list of encores on my palms
an a to z of inhalations

exhalations

if these simple lips and tight tongue
could put voice to that breath
they’d talk the wind of a web
of the bind of supine spells that snare me
in the sound of your name


in a pitch night of flawless entrapment
fucking with monumental moods swings
in between the blades of these venetian blinds
shades of flaring orange and intrepid indigo
you kiss (like its supposed) to make everything ok
i rise and fall in turbulent tides, turning, forever turning

                                                                                     Dangling from the edge of a dawn chorus

                                                                                     over dreams of Onyx unicorns and fawning lilies

                                                                                              who turn their sex to a moaning misty moon


clouded in lost love songs not yet born

love so potent it’s daunting

haunting until my stomach comes out on my tongue

I give what I have

and I desire only to be here

there are wet eyes in the sky tonight
watching a rich girl
with empty pockets
slipping a diamond so willingly
onto his finger


Written by Zena Edwards©

Air port

Airports

in the efficient business
of separating, re-connecting
cheek pecks, slow kisses, embraces

corporate hand shakes and cold stares

In the market of trading emotions

That swarm over marble sky

hundreds of tons
love and lonely laden  lead geese
Knocking the roof of the troposhpere

Written by Zena Edwards

In A Walthamstow Old Peoples Home

They show up out of the blue
Fuzzy edged figures shaped like memories
bright brown circles rimmed with the pale blue yesteryears
of curdled dreams, clouded in 1950’s sepia dementia, so 
you asked the same question, “Wat your name again?”
 
In amongst the others you sit
a young old  man, Nevis citizen, England bound
a tailor’s profession proudly tucked under your arm
like a broadsheet - important, like folded wings –
a new life under the protection of a Motherland beckoning
fledgling, sure of the uncertainty
of migrating, certain of your manhood
 
Some time settling.
Enough to sever ties
enough to know when you’ve been lied to
Then something rustling.
a reminder, a soft alarm
like the syrupy resonance of a familiar calling,
a hunger, a wondering - “Back ‘Ome”.
 
Back then
never knew
how you were gonna get back home
just held a spirit
that wanted forward
 
In amongst the others
the other fragile catacombs
whose chairs are positioned to face a TV
who sit  so still so not to disturb the dust
you see them, familiar strangers who smile as they approach you
- your daughter and her child, they say.​
 
You talk and they listen
and you know you forget things but they don’t seem to mind
besides they feel warm and want to know you
they feel like home
 
and every time they make farewells, you tell the girl child,
“Look after your muddah” and that you thank them for coming
cos you’re not long for this world, you’re waiting,
 
“Waitin’ on di Lawd.
Waitin’ on di Lawd to call me.
To call me to com Back ‘Ome”.

Written by Zena Edwards

CHERIE - in her own words

Cherie is a character from Travelling Light, the new one woman show and she is anxious. She learns her anxiousness is so closely linked to her growing up in a deprived area of Birmingham, where women not much is expected of 'girls', said most times with a loaded sense of disregard when they have dreams.  She comes down to London aged 18 and falls into a similar crowd the one she left behind in Brum, a crowd where Sex is currency, and a "relationship" or "friendship" with benefits, is just something you did to pass the time.

Her new sense of womanhood only comes to light after an extremely traumatic 3 years, where she runs away from an abusive marriage, with Amy her 2 year old, and finds new love that she is not sure will come to full fruition if she cannot get healed from some of the damage done to her in her previous marriage.

Cherie - Dear Diary 12th March 2008

Cherie - Dear Diary 27th April 2008

written by Zena Edwards 2011©

Playtime

the bridge of your brow
the ridge of your nose
the arch of your lip
the hill of your chin
 
the paths my eyes love to run along
backwards and forwards, up and down
a child at tireless play
 
falling flat on my back with giggles in my belly
rolling onto my side  looking at them all again
 
jumping off the bridge of brow
freefalling off the ridge of your nose
sitting like a smiling baby Buddah under the arch of you lip
rolling pin down the hill of you nose
flopping down onto your chest
run rugged and breathless
laughing doing it all again

When the leaves have fallen
And the trees are asleep
When the snow reflects
The sun
And the Winter Moon keeps
The city illuminated and iridescent in her pearly gaze
I’ll treasure the sight of your breath
Escaping you lips
A delicate mist
And forever repeat the words that you uttered
Those silent dandelion puffs on the breeze of my memory
 
When the stars are extinguished
And the horizon is no more
My love for you will remain unpolished
cherished

What Eve said to Adam...

...hmmm.... yeah.... right....???

i'll take it from here then, shall i?

Drawing by Zena Edwards Dec 2010©

IF DADDY - A Poem for my Absent Father

Little girls need their Daddies too...

All too often we hear about young boys, particularly ones of African descent,  not having father figures and going off the rails.  We hear about them either ending up as fodder for jail, aimless wanderers with no idea how to behave as men and/or winding up being absent fathers themselves, with no sense of responsibility. Well guess what, sometimes those fatherless men end  up with fatherless daughters because these women  have no idea what it means to have an  entity around the house being a father or a man either. 

If there are no other male role models in their lives - friends, uncles  and such - then the journey to knowing what a 'Man' looks like is distressing.
Men are NOT the same as women purely because of that macho patriarchal socialization, programming and training of what a man is supposed to be.  Posturing Rap stars, magazines like FHM and bolshie arrogant banking city and media types have a lot to answer for.  But even then I think that idea is a confused misnomer. Who knows what manhood looks like these days when men can buy calf, bicep and pec implants, have as many cosmetic products as women  and expect women to pay their way out of spite for all the years they had to. Ok, maybe I'm being harsh there.

What I think is important though, is that there is a human responsibility to the nurturing of the future generations. Boy AND Girl children need good female and male ideals around them. Not perfect cos maybe that's too much to ask sometimes but they need people around them who are seen to  at least be trying to do the right thing. Kids are smart. They can tell the difference when someone cares or not.

Little girls need to feel the vibration of a man's voice that loves them. Then they will know the sound of Love. They need to feel the embrace of a man that respects them. Then they will know the touch of Respect and Love. They need to see the silhouette of a man wishing them sweet dreams.  Then they will know the shape of support for their dreams when they see it, the touch of respect when they feel it and the sound of Love when they hear it. No woman should suffer any form of abuse at the end of the fist or tongue of a man. It is unnecessary let alone wrong.

This poem is the for the father I have never known but who I love still for his absence. Part of my journey to finding out the true meaning of Womanhood has been through an unpredictable  and rocky path to understanding Manhood.
Click, listen, read, immerse, enjoy. Peace. Z

If  Daddy

daddy's gone 

            daddy's gone 

                   daddy's gone 

daddy's gone away

yes daddy's gone to stay gone

Was my existence braided on purpose

in to the journey of your mission bound spermatozoa?

where were they headed for real though?

meant for the long dark red of  my mothers fallopian tube?

to her open womb?

where i unfurled into this life

 a full thing with no name from my fathers side

just a black strike on my birth certificate

my fathers namelessness comes to me in dreams

or in the films of other peoples daddy’s

I’d turn my face ashamed of my dad

yes blindly ashamed and  blissfully proud

I’d be comforted, reassured and strong with my daddy

as he carried my 3 foot high body, my head resting on his shoulder

while he strided like palm trees sway

but I'd also be angry and hateful toward my daddy,

grateful toward my daddy, cuss him out in my pillow,

wish he were dead and call him by his first name for a week,

my jaw stubborn as the karma of my life without him

I’d be dutiful daughter and kiss him sweet on the cheek at bedtime

I’d want to smack my own dad in the mouth

disobey his rules / come back 43 minutes after curfew and not apologise

I’d be his sugar dumpling, loyal and smiling,

I’d be full of love  then  I’d curse in front of him  and back chat,

wear make up at thirteen and never bring my boyfriends home to meet him

I’d do all these things and more

just to test to my daddy

fling my arms around his neck and see if he’d forgive me

 just  to make sure,

I’d put my dad through hell

I’d do all these things and more

just to make sure

but where does the fire from all these impetuous tempestuous feelings go

in the of decades space, shoulder deep into an army back pack

smelling of johnny cakes mum made on Sundays and gunpowder

from the war that took him when i  was three weeks old.

my daddy was an army man with black cat claws

and couple of other women’s draws, notched on his rifle butt,

but he loved me enough to write a letter or two....

to do the right thing by his baby mama 

daddy should know his girls feet are strong

her shoulders are broad

that refined things don't pass by her ears and eyes unnoticed

no one can talk to her as if she’s

a fool

Daddy. Dad. Daddy.

How does that word sit on my lips?

a cluster of D’s exploding from my tongue

vibrating the air around me like an ectoplasmic echo

But I ain’t mad, just lonely

to know know what saying “Daddy” would be like

and a voice with bass in it

that recognised mine like keys in locks 

would call back

opening doors to safe and sound security

a full night sleep with my Super Dad snoring loudly down the hall

I ain’t mad

daddy’s gone away

yes daddy's gone to stay

Written by Zena Edwards 2008©

sleeping

i do not feel beautiful while you sleep
and I know this is wrong
i should not need your words or your gaze
but they make me feel good

i feel good, good
like all the badness i've ever done
were things that somebody else sung about
someone else wrote in the chords of their imaginings
i have no part of them

whille you sleep i wait up for your return
from the dogs, swimming pools, dungeons and rope ladders of your dreams
that you tell me about in the morning

I could watch you sleep for days
that way I'd know where you are
that way i can be next to you while you expose the underbelly of your vulnerability
knowing you trust me, trust that i think you are beautiful too