tree talk.

i was tired of being another sprout beneath the surface.
so,I decided to branch out today.
show all my true colors.
that way you can enjoy the beauty that I am.

i was tired of bending backwards for the rest.
twisting myself up over something I could not become.
so,I decided to stand tall and firm today.
that way no matter the result I had always spoke my peace.

i was tired of waiting on others to provide.
only to wilt away at the hand of their forgetfulness.
so,when the sun went down and families in cozy houses began to settle
i sent up my prayers in request of rain.
when I became tired with waiting on others,
i decided to live.

something real.

It's been a day, but I have yet to think of you.
My thoughts no longer travel the same ol' path of wanting to track your every move.
I've been creating an illusion that only I seem to see.
Publisher of artistry that only I believe in.
I'm tired of it being just me.
You see, I've grown too old for these stories of make-believe and I think it's high-time I moved to a level of higher learning.
The bells ring of the same song yet I tend to hold on to hope's illusion like the seduction of Circe transforming men into swine.
It's only a matter of time before I am taken over by a form not of my own.
This heart of gold turning to cold stone weighing of heartbreak and oppression.
What more can I endure before pain settles?
How long will this fear of progression dictate my decisions?
I'm sorry.
But I have to live.
Not just for me,but for this soul that cries deep for a caressing love that expresses mutuality.
I've wallowed in these fictitious feelings for too long.
I want something real.
And it's necessary for me to realize that I shall not live in your security alone.
The stability supplied in lying idle does not begin to compensate for the sharp pierces in my esteem.
I want something real.
So you can keep your fantasy and make-believe.
I'd rather keep the strain of my dignity and stand firm in my own conviction.
I've got to make this happen.
Even if it means placing you back on the shelves.

freewrite part dos

Life is so rich that I dare to taint it with the tartness of your nonsense.
I mean much more to me than your puppy-love colored words that pant for affection. The corners of your mouth swivel with drool as you bark at every piece of meat filled with hormones and preservatives that trot in your vision.
You stroll along with the flow and lose thought of your companion.

I don't want another line in your love song
or a peck on the cheek.
I want a love that inspires.
A love that reminds me of the beauty in life.

Dear Lovelies,

I know I have been later with material than usual. There has been an enormous amount of events that have taken place in my life.You would not believe the stories I have to share. Note, they are on their way. Bear with me lovelies.

Sincerely,
Poetic Satin Doll

i am my heart.

I have loved me since forever.
Whether or not you choose to do the similar,
will not change a thing.
I've to learned to live and love throuugh my being.
I am the artist articulating my message through colored canvas.
I am the writer with the pen in the passenger seat
while God is driving my life's car.
You can hop in the backseat,
or stand on the curve watching us low ridin'.

no title,just freewrite.(part 1)

Fog clouds stain my eyes
as I suppress tears of shame.
I exhale the breath of inadequacy with every inhalation.
Somehow I just don't measure up.
No matter how hard I try I am sill lagging behind.
Always a breath behind your footsteps.

I'd like to wrench my heart of loneliness in a bucket of your assumed completeness,
so you could swim through the pains of my love.

I may reach out my hand,
but it's too far for you to grab and snatch away.
It does not mean that you don't dance in my head.
I am just trying to prevent you from tap dancing on my feelings,
and b-boy breakin' this heart I keep on the opposite side of your floor.

I've tried to write through sadness but love words bleed through my ink.
For I cannot bear to share the the heavy pain that anchors me at every waking moment.

I slip up,
and let thoughts of you slip in.

Only to push them away,so that I can reuse and think of you again.

glenis redmond

I was so ecstatic to discover she is from Asheville here in North Carolina.Her poetry is lovely,and it evokes this southern feel I am so comfortable with.

If I Ain't African

If I ain’t African
someone tell my heart
to stop beating like a djem‘be drum.

If I ain’t African
someone tell my hair
to stop curling up like the continent
it is from.


If I ain’t African
someone tell my lips
to stop singing a Yoruban song.
Someone speak to my hips
tell them their sway
is all wrong.

If I ain’t African
how come I know the way home?
Along the Ivory Coast
feel it
in my breast of bones.

If I ain’t African
how come my feet do this African dance?
How come every time
I’m in New Orleans or Charleston
I fall into a trance?


If I ain’t African how come
I know things I ain’t supposed to know
about the middle passage-slavery
feel it deep down
in my soul?

If I ain’t African
someone tell their Gods
to stop calling on me,
Obatala, Ellegba, Elleggua,
Yemaya, Oshun
Ogun!
Tell me why I faint
every time
there is a full moon.

If I ain’t African
how come I hear
Africa Africa Africa
everywhere I go?
Hear it in my heartbeat
hear it high
hear it low.

If I ain’t African
someone tell my soul
to lose this violet flame
someone tell their Gods
to call another name.
someone take this drum beat
out of my heart
someone give my tongue
a new mouth
to part.


If I ain’t African
someone tell my feet
to speak to my knees
to send word to my hips
to press a message on my breast
to sing a song
to my lips
to whisper in my ear

If I ain’t African
If I ain’t African
If I ain’t African
PLEASE
tell my eyes
‘Cause if I ain’t Africa
I ain’t livin’
and God knows
I ain’t
ALIVE!





Mama's Magic

My mama is Magic!
Always was and always will be.
There is one phrase that constantly bubbled
from the lips of her five children,
“My momma can do it.”
We thought my mama knew everything.
Believed she did, as if she were born full grown
from the Encyclopedia of Britannica.

I could tell you stories
of how she transformed
a run down paint peeled shack
into a home.
How she heated us with tin tub baths
from a kettle on the stove.
Poured it over in there like an elixir.

My mama is protection
like those quilts her mother used to make.
She tucked us in with cut out history all around us.
We found we could walk anywhere in this world
and not feel alone.
My mama never whispered the shame of poverty
in our ears.
She taught us to dance to our own shadows.
“Pay no attention to those grand parties
on the other side of the tracks.

Make your own music,” she’d say
as she walked,
she cleaned
the sagging floorboards of that place.
“You’ll get there.”
“You’ll get there.”
Her broom seemed to say with every wisp.
We were my mama’s favorite recipe.
She whipped us up in a big brown bowl
supported by her big brown arms.
We were homemade children.
Stitched together with homemade love.
We didn’t get everything we ever wanted
but we lacked for nothing.

We looked at the stars in my mama’s eyes
They told us we owned the world.
We walked like kings and queens
even on midnight trips to the outhouse.
We were under her spell.

My mama didn’t study at no Harvard or Yale.
The things she knew
you couldn’t learn in no book! Like...

How to make your life sing like
sweet potato pie sweetness
out of an open window.
How to make anybody feel at home.
How at just the right moment be silent
and with her eyes say,
“Everything’s gonna be alright, chile,
everything is gonna be alright.”

How she tended to all our sickness.
How she raised our spirits.
How she kept flowers
living on our sagging porch
in the midst of family chaos.
My mama raised children like
it was her business in life.
Put us on her hip and kept moving,
keeping that house Pine-Sol clean.

Yeah, my mama is magic.
Always was and always will be.
Her magic?
How to stay steady and sure
in this fast paced world.
Now when people look at me
with my head held high
my back erect
and look at me with that...
”Who does she think she is?”

I just keep on walking
with the assurance inside.
I am Black Magic!
I am Jeanette Redmond’s child.

I am so on the lookout for this book,

and an upcoming performance.




personal website & source of poems.