Proverbs 18:21
21 Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruits.
This is a poem for sad women.
It belongs to that ubiquitous, yet peculiar sect of
women who are destined to lack necessary
qualities which reap lives of gaiety and
terminal bliss.
Those who nurtured us should have warned
that women of talent encounter
ice walls which melt only for coquettish smiles.
At best, we could have known to conceal
our natural resources.
I let the nails grow and petrify
over the toes of an old lady.
Nina, whom I love to care for
says it takes podiatry now.
Using water will clean the tool
but cannot sharpen.
That takes metal-hard strength.
Water seams weak to me,
yet it is strong enough to soften and
make a file unneeded.
Her skin has wrinkled so it must be ready.
The water proves itself and
erodes neglect that stiffens nature.
Smoothes aging lines that go deep
like basement rock
Boars through without fizz or drill
And lets me trim and buff and
Polish eight – blood red.
I leave the big toes clean to see my work
And gain some balance.
I am enjoying collecting the creative ways that people are keeping #HAPPY!
This morning I watched a Black woman cross the street
in a white dress
She was blue collar
We were problems for the other
Separated by class or degrees – –
And the books I’d complained were heavy
lightened with the weight I felt watching her
Young and tired of being yanked at by
men and kids who gave validity
and took away hope
We knew to speak
And she smiled with contempt for my freedom
She must be the strong one
For cementing households and raising the Black children
For putting up with the men and that little bit…
Her stamina moves her
Forward and out of sight
Between buildings that lose us