Deyès Karayib...Caribbean Goddesses

Confession

2010-08-15T10:09:00.000-04:00

© 2010 Sandra Jean-Pierre

I feel like anything I write at this moment will be a confession
and I am not one to be confessing too much lately,
since I've not much to confess

but that I want to love you

like the stars
melding into the space that surrounds them,
to where there is no distinction between
the essence
of star-life and darkness

I want to consume you

the way poured molten glass
kisses room temperature water
with a sizzle - I will
evaporate my way into your skin
so that the only way out
is when you cum for me

letting lose your inhibitions
like the rivers flowing through the Serengeti

I want to show you

that the trail between your breasts
has more secrets
than the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs,
that your sweet love moanings
can be the basis of one hundred
seraphim song riffs

and that if we're patient -
oh sweet, profound, patience -
we might just find
the reason that
two women are able
to know the face of God
and have it make sense

since
blessed unions,
are only "supposed" to happen
between women and men...

but
admitting these things
would constitute a confession
and I'm not one for confessing
anything...

except how much the thought of
touching you (?)
keeps running through my mind
as each time the rocking gets sweeter and sweeter
and you giving up that surrenderer's sigh
in my ear
is exactly what I need to hear

because Our loving?
is enough to make
grown women cry,
enough to make devout clergy genuflect
asking God why
Us and not them?

and my answer?
You'd have to be a woman, loving this woman
to understand...

In Loving Memory

2010-05-05T10:07:00.002-04:00

She

She with her fall scented skin

And hope filled eyes

She who loved like

Love like time

Loved like I

Loved like love before the lies

Wrapped in weather worn righteousness

And spider webbed pride

I loved how her kisses

Came with a little wisdom on the side

I should have thanked her sooner,

But instead, I let time fly

Now I watch tired bones

Trying to hold up a spirit too stubborn to die

I should have hugged you more

Loved you more

I should have tried to see your side

Instead of trying to win this victorless war

I’m.

So.

Sorry.

Sorry that even in the little time left that we have

I still can’t seem to cross over the abyss of silence

Terrified of the day I can’t see you in my reflection

Yet still can’t say ‘I love you’ without a little hesitation

You

Withered womb warrior woman, you

I can’t believe I ever thought you unworthy

Just know that if I ever hold any power over our destinies

I’ll find some way to make you let go of prodigal dreams

The way I plan to hold on to your memory

Because you raised me better than this

A black woman to feed my spirit

2010-01-11T20:46:00.000-05:00

I want a woman to feed my spirit
A black woman to feed my spirit
Black inside and out

When I see her
I want to see charcoal fire ashes
Houses burnt down
Machetes
Revolution

When I lay my hand on her
I want to feel the raggedy
Roughness of the mountains
The rocks hurting my naked feet
Scars on her tummy
Bumps on her breast

When she menstruates
I want to see the blood going down her legs
River latibonit river
Fraying her way to populated lands
Carrying down the sand

When I touch her wetness
I want to feel the scream
Of all the women fighters before me
Marie Jeanne, Claire Heureuse, Catherine, Désirée

When we finally come
Together
When we finally come
Together
“Map antre o nan lakou a
Mape mande si nan pwen granmoun o nan lakou a
Map antre o nan lakou a
Mape mande si nan pwen granmoun o nan lakou a
Bonjou manman m
Ponjou pitit mwe
Bonjou manman m
Bonjou pitit mwen adye
Map antre o nan lakou a
Mape mande si nan pwen granmoun o nan lakou a

Amazon of the water
10/09/05

Untitled.

2010-01-09T09:36:00.001-05:00

I missed you
A rainbow reverie
A promise, a probability
A fantasy song playing in my head
I toyed with the idea of you in my mind
Hiding from mountains and roads
Seeking nearness
Then you came
Busted open
Popped the screw
And invaded my space
You burned me more than fire
I couldn’t sleep
My heart was racing
My genie got out of the bottle
How did that happen?
Really.
Please, would you? I beg.
Not now.
The emerald glass bottle is safer than my ribcage
Less commotion
My heart is old already. Tired and old.
Would you? Please? …go back?

"CHAPO BA" to the people who love me

2009-12-25T16:33:00.004-05:00

I wrote this piece on July 2nd 2005, one year after my unforeseen return back to the United States.

These words still resonate with me 4 years later while I am about to embark on a new journey. This crossing over may be called new if I interpret life as sequential moments added to make a whole. But life is a continuum, a range of experiences which are linked to each other, and a non-ending pilgrimage. There is never an old or a new. I am carrying on.

I bow to the people who love me.

To the people who love me

This year has been a year of great realizations, achievements and painful letting go. My birthday was associated through the years with some painful moments, the death of a dear friend in 1988 and of my brother in 2003. And through all of this I was never alone. Haitian history was shattered in blood when hundreds were shot on that same day in 1966.

In 1965, the sister I never met was also born on that same date. But I wouldn’t change a thing, I am glad that I was born on April 26, 1966.

For more than 10 years now, I offered myself a trip alone to some place where I would enjoy the pleasure of who I am. This year my transition has made it impossible for me to travel but I have never felt more loved by you, dear friends and spiritual partners. I guess I didn’t need the travel; I have been enjoying the pleasure of who I am all year long.

Having been a workaholic, it’s been hard for me to stay at home, to be a stay at home mom and a student. Having provided for myself since I left college, it’s been hard for me to depend on family and friends. Having fought and worked for my country since I was 16, it’s been hard watching it being destroyed by the day. But you know what; I wouldn’t change the experience for nothing. I got to be introduced to parts of myself that I didn’t know were there. I really got to love myself naked. Naked with no attributes, no fancy clothes, no title, and no big money.

I’ve experienced fear, hatred, frustration, anger, but more recently sadness and peace. I’ve numbed myself to the deep sadness inside of me and slowly released it to the universe. I’ve been mourning some dreams close to my heart.

I’ve reconnected to some of you, I’ve met new people, and I’ve deepened my existing ties to some of you. Some of you I had let go.

To the people I let go. I initiated it not because I ceased loving you, but because I needed to love you in a different way. From you I needed something you couldn’t give. I am sorry for needing…I am really sorry for needing….. I am in the process of understanding myself better and maybe come to the realization that I will never be fulfilled by just one connection. Maybe it will open the door for me to wonderful and unique connections.
I long for a new way of relating with you where love can flow freely.

To the people I met, I consider myself as a traveler, a baby, a learner. Please be patient with me when I stumble... I welcome these opportunities to get closer to Spirit. I truly cherish you, each of you in your own rights.

To the people I reconnected with, I accept your re-coming into my life as a treasure. You searched for me and found me. Some of you in funny/bitter sweet situations…I am so happy for this makeover, love and friendship edition. (Wow, I just got the name of my new TV show….lol)

To the people who never left, you deserve a standing ovation from the angels and the stars. Putting up with my bitchiness sometimes is a big challenge. Oh God, what wonderful gifts you are!

(Chapo ba means Homage to, bowing to)

Andrine, be smart!

2009-12-19T13:15:00.005-05:00

I can now see where I've gone wrong in my search for a partner.

I've started by looking for people to whom I was attracted for whatever reason. When I would find one, I would try to fit her in my mold of what I was looking for.

The process should be completely reverse.

I should first meet people and establish a connection regardless of what my clit feels in the moment. Meet them, know them.

Does she correspond to what I want in a partner? All of my wants and needs are based on who I am today, my background, my life experiences, my struggles and my triumphs. Can I communicate with her at all levels of my being? Can she recognize me? Can she understand me? Can I see through her? Do I like her as a person? Would I enjoy her as a friend to just hang out, chill and share deep secrets?

I've put so much effort in building my own career and my family life. I've been smart, strong and determined.

I am now choosing to be smart too in two areas of my life: my health and my relationship. Eating right and exercising. Loving myself, my body. Using my skills and my intuition to gauge who can be a journey partner when the time comes. And trusting Spirit......

Be smart my dear. You are sacred.

your first love,

Andrine

A journey partner

2009-12-16T21:35:00.004-05:00

A journey partner
Not a girlfriend
A matriarch to journey with

An Intimate
Not a lover
Intimacy here and way over there
Intuitive Palpable

A conversation connection
Not a date
Communion revelation

A partner
Not a significant other
To grow with
Consciously spiritually

A journey partner
This is whom I want
This is who I am

Why I love Butch Women by Skye

2009-11-29T09:47:00.004-05:00

There is something about being in close proximity to a butch woman that makes me go a little fluttery inside – kind of melty and shy, and occasionally, bold. Perhaps this is accentuated by the fact that butches are becoming rare and precious in my particular corner of the universe, but when and wherever they cross my path, something within me sits up and takes notice – because I share the other side of the secret. I know the special magic that happens when female yin meets female yang, and the opposite polarity locks us together like magnets caught up in each other’s sway.

I’m beginning to see a trend, where lipstick lesbians and glamorously androgynous sirens rule. Many of the women that I meet definitely trends more towards feminine women seeking the same. Believe me, I appreciate that dynamic. I’ve been there, and still, on occasion, find it lovely country to learn and love and grow in, but for me – it’s not quite home.

I am a femme lesbian who desires butch lesbians. I derive from this identity, from this dynamic, a sense of satisfaction, of completion so sweet that I can hardly begin to articulate it. And yet, from time to time, I hear this complex, richly diverse way of relating boiled down to something like, “If that’s what you like, why not just date a dude?”

I don’t pretend to understand my preference for women on the masculine side of the gender spectrum anymore than I understand why I am attracted to women in the first place. It just is. It’s the swagger – the strut. It can be as understated as her steady gaze, but if you look for it, it’s there. It’s the written language of her body that reads, “this is who I am, this is the way that I am comfortable, and if that makes you uncomfortable, that’s your problem.”

The musk of good cologne clinging to curves does wicked, wicked things to me. My particular cup of tea happens to be butch tops, which, as a group, have elevated the art of pushing a girl up against a wall and kissing her into senselessness to searingly electric new heights.

I love the confidence, and if you throw in the occasional moment of innocent bashfulness, that melts me to my core. I love the smirk. But that confidence thing, that phantom butch phallus thing – that slays me. And I’m not just talking about sexual head space; I’m talking about a particular kind of masculine energy residing in a female mind and body, and the way that turns traditional conceptions of what it means to be a man or a woman upside down. I’m talking about the underlying strength of character required to live and present as a butch woman not only in mainstream society, but also in a gay community that all too often fails to appreciate them. I’m talking about the power that comes with unabashedly just being who you are, even when it’s not the popular thing to do.

I love the way a butch can walk into a room and command the attention of everyone in it. I love that uniquely self-assured way of moving through the world and the safe haven I’ve found again and again in those arms.

I don’t think there is anything sexier on the planet than an intelligent, articulate, well-mannered gentle butch, who knows when to take, and when to yield – the perfect marriage of hard and soft, before I ever enter the picture. I love butch women and the ways, in which they define themselves, describe themselves, manifest out in the world as women who embody butchness only serve to further pique my interest, my esteem, and my longing.

Maybe I’m just looking for Prince Charming in a woman’s body, heart and soul, but the point is, I’m rewriting the fairytale to fit who I am – my strength to match hers. We compliment each other, coming from different sides of the spectrum, reaffirming our very identities in simply wanting one another. We meet somewhere in the middle, and make of it what we will. And in an L World that all too often seems to offer no place of honor, if any place at all, to my beloved butches – consider this testament a love song.

(Skye created the ning network Black Lesbian Friend 40+ at http://blfriends.ning.com/. I am thrilled to have her piece published on Deyes Karayib. )

Left Behind (Finished for Now)

2009-11-11T17:58:00.000-05:00

Left Behind

© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre

No

Not in that same place-

the barefoot on wet shower floor space
the dry heaving, chest collapsing place
not that half sleep/stumbling pace

Not from that place

where these lips crack
from neglect and under/use
where this brow furrows
from deep incandescent
soul searching truths
where thieves take from pockets
unearned souf (breath)

not in that place

of broken-words
and broken-ness
and un-done seams
in broken dreams

not from that place...

where I laid

naked

in those wilderness parts
frail hands my only guards
against the elements
against the malcontent
within this heart...

...that I gave

under the absence of pretense
without the guise of
repentant lies

I gave

the cradle
where my soul sleeps
the moments
between my heart beats
the womb
where my children speak

in a word: all of me

In Miami

2009-11-11T17:53:00.000-05:00

© 2009 Sandra Jean-Pierre

There is a place in Miami where you can get American Processed Cheese Food for pennies per pre-wrapped slice. Imagine my surprise and gratitude the day I discovered this. Surprise as Abuelo casually shuffled the tepidly chilled slices in the cold food case with deft fingers, dropping slice on slice till he reached my desired 1/4 pound request. Gratitude that thankfully, I was not the first to make such a demand on his time. Time I can only imagine could be filled playing dominos while reminiscing about days that would have never left their history in my blood or dared to course through my veins. So that in the silence that hobbled together English or broken dreams bring, Abuelo handed over my parcel, taking time to stare at me through hollow semi-glazed Cuban cafecito eyes. Never seeing me nor marking my existence in this life, however brief; though his quick retreat back behind the cold case, ready to serve no other patrons at that moment but me, signaled his notion that, It is hard times for us all Mija.

Papery cast-off onion skins, dried salt fish, thawing chicken leg quarters, mottled sour orange, bagged star anise, boniato and ripe-too-long bananas lend each other their scents, shake hands fiercely, hurl common insults to one another and greet you at the door. The very same that had it belonged to a chain of stores say, would have been fully automatic and in functioning order. Instead, this door, hangs dejectedly on its hinges, while remaining propped open with a wad of old store flyers or maybe even a rock.

The first time I entered into this Saturday morning market day place, I fully expected to see free range chickens, if not a baby goat running loose. Though it is inside of doors and I am sure the air conditioner would work, if they would have just turned it on. But they didn't. Not that day or for many of the other days I made my way through their aisles. Aisles that seemed to have no particular rhyme nor reason, order or concern that there was soap next to cereal next to canned items though the over-head aisle marker said that pet food and bug spray were supposed to be there, even though there wasn't any that I could find.

I simultaneously loved and hated that place in the way that my last four dollars were able to buy a loaf of bread, 1/4 pound cold case sliced turkey, 1/4 pound pre-wrapped cheese slices, 2 25¢ bags of chips and a two-liter Sprite-like soda. Hated that this, was the only place left where I was able to spend those last four dollars. And I knew there would be more money to come, I knew there would be a check in the mail, on its way to me, with about a years worth of salary typed on it. My prize, my retirement come to usher me into a new Life. But that would come later. Right now?, my hope began to wane under the taunting of hunger and silence, those Devil's Advocates and the embarrassment that I had four dollars left and that this, was how and where I would spend it.

This was also the place I remembered my Mother the most. I saw her face in the faces of those other Haitian women. The ones who wrapped their heads in dire cotton scarves and pulled a hat over it all, like no one would notice or see. Though my own Mother, never left the house without her hair at least in a ponytail. Those women who carried their purses in the crook of their arms and expertly maneuvered the shopping cart with their free hand, while eyeing the produce with suspicion. Though my own Mother, seemed to approach the produce with a vengeance, determined to make the pile of fruit or vegetables give up only their best to her. I saw my mother in the bags of finely ground cornmeal used to make la bouye, in the speckly red-brown boniato she would boil during winter and serve with warm milk and sugar. I smelled her in the busted plastic bottle of Florida water that she would use for spring cleaning; in the hurricane candles, brightly sitting in their tall glass containers, waiting on the shelf to be bought for lighting during a storm or maybe in prayer to a saint. That place haunted me with pieces of my Mother.

Upon returning home, I would always feel at a loss, like I left something behind, like I needed to go back and pick up one something more. Once more to that place and I would peer in the watercress maybe, in the carrots, in the celery, the malanga, red skinned potatoes, onions, stew beef, the Maggi seasoning, hoping maybe the sweet boniato would bring it together for me. Once home again, stirring and slicing, peeling and browning - all would bob up and down, nodding recognition like long lost neighbors in the big pot, half filled with water, a bit of salt, some tears, a pinch of regret and maybe, if I could find it, love. As the smells mingled and hurtled shouts to one another in the bubbling boiling pot, I found the history of my Haitian people in my veins, the roiling unsettled nature of a people in revolt. A revolt I managed to stage every time I left my house or opened my mouth in opposition. I saw the stories of my Mother and her growings up take shape in the fierce steam rising above the pot. Heard those unspoken words of my Mother whispering to me from the tear-salt broth.

And for the first time since leaving behind the security that my life had amassed in the past ten years, I felt okay... I was okay.

When You Cry

2009-08-18T20:37:00.001-04:00

© 2009 Sandra Jean-Pierre

It came like turbulence from a butterfly's wing. She barely realized it had been a kiss; if it were not for the mango and slight metallic woman taste left on her lips and in the air exhaled into her space, she would have just assumed it, this was all a dream.

Her brow furrowed, afraid to open, while stinging tears punched their way from beneath her lids. A slight breath, almost a hiccup, almost a moan, not quite a yelp, fought for existence outside of her throat. Her eyelashes turned pitch black from the moisture as her nostrils flared and her bottom lip and chin quivered.

She wasn't sure, in the way of picking between two pairs of decidedly black shoes, in the way of choosing between equally ripe fruit, in the way of giving to this now or giving into it later. It was not even really a matter of choice, it was more like a matter of small realizations and resignations that this was happening and either she held on for the ride or she got off... for now. But much in the way of all things, some thing had to happen.

The rustle of clothes or movement confused her further and before the wave of indecision could subside, firm, hot lips pressed onto hers, then backed away, then came in more gentle; not demanding her lips part but not taking her non-reactive 'No' for a definite answer either. Those firm lips brushed ever so gently, prodding ever so slightly with mango/metallic scented tongue, which captured her top lip and tickled it feathery soft. What was there to resist?

With nothing left to do she opened her lips, loosened her clenched jaw and let go of a dry sigh that managed to escape captivity from her chest. She felt it then- the warmth of hope, the nervous heat of desire married with abandon. She flinched.

I cannot do this! I cannot do this again - Oh God! OH GOD!

With eyes finally open and through a blurry haze, she focused on the woman before her. Backing away, she spied the heavy sad drops that rolled down the cheeks that were in such proximity to hers. Those eyes though were closed. Those lashes though were golden and dark with tears. She saw the well worked hands reach up and wipe away their owners disappointment.

"I was hoping..." The words whispered onto themselves, almost lost to sound.

She gazed before her, trying to beat the emotions that had eviscerated her speech, into submission, trying to find one more justification, one more phrase that didn't sound like 'I'm Sorry'. Because she wasn't - not for sending her away or brushing her off. She wasn't sorry that this woman in front of her kept on coming back.

But she was sorry that her hardness, that part within her that would not relent, made this woman cry. What heartless beast had she given birth to in her chest? From what fount of self-loathing or hate did she nurse it? And worst of all, why did she keep it so close to her heart?

This isn't just about Ano'i... it's about Me too, what I want. The small needful space within her pleaded. I matter in this, I have a choice... I-

She placed the heels of her hands on Ano'i's thighs, inching closer to the crotch of her jeans. Ano'i kept her eyes half mast, daring not to move in this moment. Nava leaned in closer, rubbing her nose against Ano'i's, running her cheek against her's, putting their foreheads together. She closed her eyes and absently found Ano'i's lips. Tentatively she kissed them, pulled back slightly, forwards again she took Ano'i's bottom lip between her teeth, then let go, kissing this time with more intent.

Without asking permission, small mournful moans bubbled up from what felt like the seat of her yoni. She couldn't stop them, couldn't quell the plaintive sounds that accompanied each kiss. Ano'i seemed to be responding in kind - her own moans sounding like small whispers of ...oh..., apologetic, reverent, honored, coy - like a well pleased partner, proud.

Then the sobs came - from Nava. She pulled away from her kissing and put the back of her left hand to her lips. Overwhelmed, she did not expect that it would feel like this, even now. Her body shook with the need to be touched again, to be pleased again, to be loved. But she didn't know that it would be like this, this vivid smell of sex and wanting, fear and fucking. She fully expected to be detached, just enough to get through the entire thing not to actually enjoy and want it.

Ano'i responded with more kissing, on her cheek and neck. Reaching beneath her blouse she felt for Nava's smallish breasts, kneeling between her legs, she pulled her bum forward on the chair cushion and kissed her belly, burying her nose in Nava's pant crotch when she was done. Looking through star struck eyes she inquired:

"Is this what you want? Is this okay?" Her voice seemed to dip an octave, adding fuel to Nava's already mounting fire.

Nava let out a small yelp of a yes before leaning all the way back in her chair and letting out the sobbing within her soul. It was long and low and primal and left her breathless. She reached down to her thighs and pulled Ano'i up the length of her body; their breasts touched through the fabric of their clothing, Ano'i's knee came up between Nava's legs, forcing out a satisfied whimpered.

"I would have waited for you... no matter how many times you sent me away. I would have waited..."

"I know. I know."

Nava kissed Ano'i deeply, as she felt the weightless shift from the comforts of her chair to the nothingness of the air in Ano'i's strong arms, then finally resting on the bed.

"I will cry through this... " Tears already lining up at the corners of her eyes.

"It doesn't matter. As long as this is what you want, it doesn't matter."

She realized this was more than what she wanted - it was what she needed. Like rain spilling through sun-cracked ground, she needed this loving. It wasn't like picking shoes or fruit, it was more like air and breathing. More like finally choosing to live rather than die.

I Don't Know

2009-08-17T16:54:00.000-04:00

© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre

I Don't Know
... that I would be human if I didn't miss some of these things
some of these touching things

but I do

miss the way you smell after a shower
that clean sweet scent
of Dove and your skin

but not like that
not like
you'd think
not now

how I miss the
feel of your skin
against my palms
as I contemplate
how your hair between my
fingers will be both wiry
and soft

but not like that
not like
you'd think
not now

I miss those moments
in general

but not with you
not like that
not with you
not now

finally
your face has been
replaced
by this
all loving
all caring
place marker, in my mind

she has replaced all that
you never allowed
or conceded to,
and like that
I am realizing that I don't need you

to be those things
I've been so heartbroken for
those things that youth and living
have convinced you don't matter
after all

when they do
but you won't know that now
won't understand the
wealth that passed through
your hands
like gently held wind

but I am alright
with knowing I won't be there
in that 11th hour moment
for you

not like that
not like
you'd think
not now

cause I've finally
recognized the strength
in walking away.

Control

2009-04-29T15:25:00.004-04:00

How do you think I make me feel?

When I throw myself at you like warm spaghetti clinging?
Only to slide down your wall of disapproval.

You think I don't know that there aren't enough plugs to fill the hole in my heart?
You think I can't feel that your kiss doesn't moisten a child's dry swollen eyes
or lips cracked while trying to get scream for her parent's attention?

Do you think I'm not reminded in every hug
that I can count on one hand every moment I've ever felt truly loved.

I slit my wrists and judge you for not knowing how to sew with no needles.
I jump off ledges knowing that the impact will probably kill us both.
I let you see me smile, laugh and dance like the Goddess invented percussion to the tune of my thighs

Knowing you won't be able to resist me.

I LET you objectify me
I LET you make me question my beliefs
I LET you make me
Over and over and over again
I LET you make me

Hoping that one day you won't rise to the occasion
and maybe, just maybe, I'll feel strong enough to walk away

Sacrifice - Another One from the Archives

2009-04-08T14:35:00.002-04:00

(I tear every time I read this one...)

You ARE life...

I barely knew you
Yet I mourn your life
As if my own
were being taken
Instead of yours

I looked into my own eyes
And felt your essence
pulse in my veins

I loved you
As much as i love you
And you always knew the difference

Blessings and Love

This might not be good poetry
But it's honest

Grey - An Oldie but Goodie (I Think...)

2009-04-08T14:27:00.002-04:00

When we first met, I thought you were the most beautiful shade of grey I had ever seen.
I mean, you were the perfect proportion of black to white
Of day to night
Of blind to sight
Of wrong to right

And I just wanted to be a single pixelation in your makeup
But little did I know how easily thrown off you would be
Before you threw off me
And made your retreat

See I saw you in color and you saw me as imperfect.
A reflex I had thought to help you grow out of
But despite my best efforts, the fight ended with me hurt
And you moving on

And now your grey is covered in shades of delicate pastels and hues
that turn me green cuz i was supposed to be that person
and you are trying to paint another me
And it hurts in a way that I never expected it to

She isn't supposed to have the same thing as I do
we transcended mere conversation
You were a part of me as I was in you
And none of those parts equaled a third

I needed you to need only me for certain things
I needed others to fall short every damn time
Cuz no one could see you in all that matter

besides me

Salt

2008-12-08T15:19:00.001-05:00

© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre

paper

like that torn
too close to the fire piece that no one notices

I crinkle and curl up
turning light brown and smooth around my edges

bright embers
lava bright in the pinched darkness
dying to ethereal grayish smokes

to the sky

reaching to the sky...

at the bottom
the silt's silt

smooth
through my fingers

over my tongue
tasting the ocean's essence brine
back of my throat
choking on the raw bouquet

I swallow

looking only to the next

the other
this tomorrow I can never seem to catch up to
or with
to be beside

lost in right now
where everything seems fine
where every day
plants each foot in front of the next
where maybe, just may be things are just fine

just like I need it to be
so that I can make sense

in all that no one expected

more words few
existed

Winter Over My Shoulder

2008-12-08T15:14:00.000-05:00

© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre

we were supposed to be bound like
fresh cut
sugarcane stalks

in the bundle
of our lives -
intertwined
sweet,
reaching towards our sun

better
like how I wanted to be for you

under one roof
sharing one bed
meals of chicken parmigiana and sweet plantains
culinary fusions

straight dream transfusions
of Mamma, Momma and kiddie(s) make three (or four, more)
me for you
you for me

thinking back
to that imaginary time line
I can only think forward
to how many months
we would have been in connubial bliss

yet
I am this
side of changed
this side of coming to know
that I can love the wrong person

this side of wondering how much
I did and would have done
for your love

this side
of no longer catching feelings
of calculating decisions
of existing for reasons
other than love

my life
has never looked
the same
since you said "I love you"
faintly into the phone

I wish
even now
that you could
fade away as easily

Lottery

2008-11-12T10:56:00.003-05:00

What if I live in the parallel you don't exist in?
Somewhere else where we are happy and I (hopefully) am thin
Having found the perfect balance of without and within
We recognize the difference between privilege, hope and relevance.

What if you are too busy with your destiny?
On the verge of curing world famine or on the cusp of world peace
Your determination never meets my average feet
Me, in my office chair and you, in your presidential seat

What if I met you and I messed it all up?
While wallowing in my sea of insecurity and mistrust
You offered me water in gentle hands cupped
But I saw them as a my own masochistic hand cuffs

What if we have yet to meet?
And I have acquired wisdom and self esteem
Conquered my fears and history
Even balanced it all with a little therapy

What then?
Who would you be?
Even if you were in a good place,
would you be ready for me?

Life is nothing but chance
Love is a privilege denied to many
All wise, but it doesn't make me feel better

Reincarnation

2008-10-15T14:48:00.003-04:00

Forget Me Nots long forgotten
in a sea of ever eroding memories
I thought I'd live forever in your eyes
Now I can't recall the last time I lived at all

Menial tasks distract and placate, but never prevent
Novocaine is dripping in my heart's I.V.

I am terrified of not wanting
of giving up
of settling

It's never fair to barter crosses for validation
or burdens for contact
but i did

So even after the bumpy terrain
It might still be me leaking oil

What if intention cannot triumph over doubt?

Am I destined to be the hare?
So sure of my inability, that I won't even try to compete?
I refuse!

I appear before myself
conscious and willing
aching and triumphant

Finally ready to be hurt again

F(f)ear

2008-09-06T21:39:00.001-04:00

There is something to be said of fear.

Fear of some thing, often makes us not do, act, respond – which can often save us from harm. For example: fear of getting hurt, will cause us not to get in the way of a moving train.

With something as extreme as a moving train, the “positive” side of fear, can be seen, its use can be regarded. But more often than not, our fear of a thing unseen, thought up, imagined, is a lot more subtle, a lot more demur – it comes like a thief in the night, quiet as the wind and doubly unseen. Yet the stealth of fear in our own lives is no less catastrophic. We often live the train-wreck of our fears day in and day out and don’t even realize it. We often allow fear to steal right from our bosom (!!!) the very dreams, hopes, faith that aims to keep us going. We allow fear to go unchecked, like that bull in a china shop, till there is nothing left but pieces of what we once held dear.

I will be the first to say that fear drove many of my decisions and to an extent, drives some of the directions that I travel today. When I was a young adult and faced with the very real and very grown adult decisions of taking over the care of my siblings, our house, our living or dying – I experienced fear in a way that I hope and pray many people won’t ever know in their lives. Fear of letting our household go hungry, of being out on the streets, of sickness – those fears slept with me like a bridegroom in an arranged marriage. I felt like I had no choice, like things were set and there was nothing that I would be able to do to change the course of this arrangement.

I ate with Fear - that this would be one of the few meals I would have that week.

I worked in Fear - that I would not do well enough in order to keep my job.

I prayed in Fear - that I was asking G-d for too much all the time (for our needs were great).

I lived in Fear.

Then one day, I decided that Fear began to wear out its intrusion.

If Fear of not having enough to eat wanted to sit with me when I ate, then we would break bread and enjoy the meal that was before me.

If Fear of losing my job wanted to spend its day working with me, hovering over every decision and action I preformed while doing my work, then we would work all day, like work was going out of style.

If Fear of asking too much of G-d wanted to kneel down and pray with me, then we would do the thing and pray till G-d’s ear damn near fell off from my incantations, from my asking, from my sheer audacity.

I came to the conclusion that if Fear wanted to live around me, then it could but I was not going live in it.

And it was difficult at first, to find the courage, to summon back my dreams, to reassert faith in who I was made to be. It was a daily intention to take back my Self from the Fear that surrounded me.

Fear kept me, in many forms and permutations, from living.

I have to state this – we are not born with (F)fear. It doesn’t appear right beside us when we emerge into the world, it’s not playing hopscotch with us when we are children and no, that is not it pictured on the right, in our vacation pictures. And no matter what anyone tells you – (F)fear does not become us.

So, imagine my surprise when it occurred to me that Fear had crept into my bosom once again. I mean, it might as well have been the underwire to my bra, the taste in my breath, a slightly veiled sensation on my skin.

Again.

Fear has a way of making us convince ourselves that we cannot achieve what we were tailor made to do.

I was having a talk with my sister-in-law the other night, about school. She was in the kitchen cooking and I was at the dining room table reading one of the 50 bazillion books for this semester.

It is probably with some exaggeration that I am assuming that nearly half of Miami has heard about my trepidation in continuing my education at FIU (Florida International University). If I could have a tantrum (of which I am wholly capable, mind you) it would sound something like this:

…but I don’t WANNA GO!!!!!!! I know a lot of things!! I read a lot, I can write… It’s just a STUPID piece of paper!! Ggggaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh – I DON’T WANNAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! :::tearstearstears:::
Please don’t make me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyway, in talking to my sister-in-law, I was trying to detail to her, exactly how asinine and ridiculous this whole thing was…

…I mean, I have three classes and three papers to write in each – between 8 to 10 pages EACH PAPER!! How am I gonna have the time to do that?!? It’s only like 12 weeks or so of school! Plus I have my graphic design class where I’m gonna have to build soap boxes and crazy things! And I just realized that I have a steep set of classes to take.

And to imagine, I have already decided that I want to get my MFA in English (poetry) at UM where I’m gonna have to write a book of 150 pages worth of poetry!!! (!!!!!) :::bigSIGH:::

And my sister-in-laws’ sagacious response?

I haven’t heard you say anything that you can’t do.

That statement made all the whizzing thoughts in my mind come to a stand-still. I took one proverbial look to my left and realized that F(f)ear had its feet propped on top of my most prized wishes and dreams. With his shoes off. Did I happen to mention that F(f)ear has really stink feet?

My belly-aching concerning attending FIU has been in large part, due to fear. It’s not the young adults in attendance, it is not how far the campus is, and it is not the difficulty of the classes.

I fear failing at the things I have held so dear to me – poetry, writing, and reading. Imagine that.

I fear going through all those classes (that might reveal :::gasp::: any weaknesses!!!) and not actually acing all of them.

I fear disappointing myself, most of all.

But what I am failing to realize is that I’m not just any person taking these classes. I am not meeting these classes, nay, this degree, cold. I analyze, think and write about the world around me ALL.THE.TIME., I’ve been writing poetry since I was 13, I was part of a poetry group for a number of years, where I had to actually get in front of PEOPLE and perform. And they liked what I wrote. They liked how I thought about things. They enjoyed hearing what it is I had to say.

There is this movie I watched the other night (thanks to Netflix) called Babette’s Feast. It is one of those international numbers, subtitled like no one’s business. And I won’t give the story away but into the laps of these pair of sisters, lands this woman named Babette. Unbeknownst to the sisters, Babette is a chef of the kind that people would come from far and wide to eat in her restaurant. So good was her food.

For allowing her refuge, Babette becomes the cook/housekeeper for the sisters. Years go by and this once renowned chef, brings small rays of sunshine into the belly’s of some of the townsfolk by cooking for them, while the sisters deliver the food to the towns’ shut-in and infirm.

Word arrives via a letter, to Babette one year that she has come into 10,000francs. This also happens to be the year of the sisters’ fathers’ 100th birthday (he had passed some time ago). In thanks, still to the sisters, Babette asks if she can prepare the dinner, in honor of the sisters’ fathers’ birthday. Reluctantly, the sisters say yes and caution Babette not to use all of her money.

Well, the check Babette receives is changed, Babette takes leave and preparations begin for this memorial dinner. Chest upon chest of specialty foods arrive with Babette’s return.

The day of the memorial arrives and Babette had spent all the day before and hence cooking. She sets an elaborate table with fine china and wonderful crystal and the most pristine tablecloth. Using a young neighbor as the waiter, Babette turns out course after course, over course over course. Wine and champagne flow. The 12 guests, not used to such luxurious eating, are beside themselves.

Once everyone has gone home for the night, the sisters go to Babette in thanks for such a wonderful memorial dinner. They find Babette sitting in the kitchen, exhausted. They thank her and ask her, now that she is done, what were her plans, for surely she would be on her way back to France.

She tells them that she has nothing left in France and besides, there is no money.

The sisters are shocked.

Babette tells them that at her restaurant, a dinner like that, for 12, would cost 10,000francs and that was what she spent.

The color drains from the sisters’ faces. How could you?! We asked you not to spend all of your money! Now, now you have nothing, they told her.

Babette raised her face to them and said,

…I am not just a cook. I am an artist, I will always have something.

Before and after this part of my journey, I will have something. I will have my unique perspective, I will have my ability to touch the world in a way like no one else can. This diploma and any and all that may follow, will serve only to acknowledge and formalize by society’s standards, that part of what I know, that can be put into conventions.

I am an artist, I will always have something.

I wasn’t put here, I wasn’t made, I wasn’t given these gifts to be small and peevish about them and let F(f)ear of what may or may not happen, destroy what I can only come to understand as G-d-given talent.

And that is what I must carry with me through this journey called FIU. That is what must become my mantra, when it feels like F(f)ear is about to overwhelm me.

Realize that in you too, there is always something. Regardless of what F(f)ear tells you, no matter how seductive the deceit, how promising the thought of staying small. You always have something. Even if F(f)ear slides in under the covers of your confidence, whispering sweet perceived failures in your ear, or flashes the fruits of in-action before your eyes, you will always have something of Self, with which to create your dreams with, to pull your courage from, and to exert your faith in.

Don’t be afraid… go.

You can do it.

Cause you know what?

That Fear, can’t live here…anymore.

Learn

2008-09-06T21:38:00.001-04:00

© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre

How will you meet me?

hands out front
alluring
luring me to you?

How will you
coolly meet this primal
gesture of affection?

palms out front
hands to the sky

How will you meet me?
Out on these roads
walking the walk of living folks living

revisiting the melancholy
of your love and loving

arms out front
hands above your ethereal hair

how will you meet
me this day?
this hour?
this direction?

I am finding myself
veering into
away from
converging

standing in this mire
knee deep in this shit

I am running into you
You are slamming into me
I am meeting your flame
You are matching my fire...

heart to heart
hand in hand
fear to fear
lips a kiss

and we are not moving
we are not running
life is not un-doing
itself like cellophane dreams

fist full of doubt
from my chest
to the sun

burning
I scream (!!!!!)

the scream of warriors
not afraid to die

you staring down my apprehensions
me singing incantations of your truth
getting lost
lost in the words of words of feelings with no names

meeting me there

meeting me in the
fires' centers' center

NO! NO! NO!

I've no warnings
no strings
no survival guides

How will you meet me?

If...

2008-07-28T16:43:00.000-04:00

If...

If...

If...

If you exist
Then I exist for you
If you resist
I will become irresistable
If you need air to live
Then I offer my next inhale
If you have love to give
I beg to be your vessel

I'd let you bleed me dry if it would make you claim me
I would gladly die for a chance to let you save me
I am offering you utter devotion
In exchange for a compliment

So tell me PLEASE, how your intentions compare to that?

My One Semi-Funny Poem

2008-07-28T16:31:00.001-04:00

I hate my fucking bed.

Constantly reminding me you aren't in it
I bought it with the intention of you leaving your imprint
Little did I know you'd be leaving it a little closer to home

I fucking hate my fucking cell phone

79.99 a month to remind me you haven't called

AND I REFUSE TO REDUCE IT!
On the hope that I'll use it
On either you or some new chick
I guess we'll just have to see

I have so much motherfucking TIME!

I could say that I'm using it to focus on me
But I'd be motherfucking lying
All dressed up with not a damn place to go

So i broke the bed...

And I threw away my phone...

And I've finally embraced going out alone

BIG GIRLS ARE DOING IT ON THEIR OWN!

Excuse me, what?
You want my number?
You want to come over?
DAMN!

Time Out!

2008-07-24T07:22:00.003-04:00

Every adult needs a time out from time to time.
Time to reflect. Time to isolate.
Time to become aware, to understand one's actions.
Nothing wrong with forcing oneself into the corner for 15mns in adult year.

It sucks to face the wall. But the wall can be the best friend ever.
Witnessing our wailing with no judgments.
Allowing us to purge.
Presenting us with a mirror to face ourselves.

Oh, Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who is the most miserable of all?

Coming Out

2008-06-19T10:05:00.002-04:00

i should have known i was in trouble
when my heart started beating to the rhythm of your step
when my lungs patiently awaited your next breath.
knowing it wouldn't be fair to the air to not share you

you satisfy me in places i never knew yearned to be sated
all the troubles in my world have now been negated
and your silhouette?
should forever be marked x-rated

i bow before the power of you

woman...

lord knows it was inevitable

This Face

2008-05-25T16:18:00.002-04:00

© 2002 Sandra Jean-Pierre

I am looking to name this face
something other than
black
womyn
lesbian
disabled
bitch...?

I am looking for a name for this face
other than the smiles that have kept me
want and waiting
in this space
lost in time
pretty unlikley that it will be something
i have had in my mind
but
I am looking for a name for this face
as i am in search for
someone who has that strength i crave
the strength that keeps me
moaning through your name
every time i am masterbating
in this silence that
compounds my grief

I am looking to name this face
that submissively declares my
faltering for not possessing
the life affirming charisma that is
your lesbian boi smell
and i smell you
i smell your loving
i smell your fucking me
i smell your enfolding arms
taking me and keeping me
making me safe... at last

I need to name the face
that will look into your eyes
devouring your soul
pregnant by your courage
smiling at our life...
the life you enabled me to birth
from the depths of my fiel...

honey?
baby?
sweetie?
wife?

I need to name this face: Me
simply...
to let you know
It's Me.

Help

2008-05-21T14:40:00.002-04:00

Hey Baby...

You see...

I was kind of wondering if maybe,
You'd let me...

Can I hold your hand?...

I know we just met
But it would make a world of difference
Because I've been sinking
And I'm thinking that if you reached out to me
I'll find my way to safety...

And then maybe I just might,
make it through tonight
And even save a little
for tomorrow too

See, baby, all the power is within you
And it's hard enough just being this vulnerable
Because, please trust, it is damn uncomfortable
Acknowledging even the smallest weakness

See, I'm not asking for a kidney
I'm asking you to be uncomfortable with me
And admit that within my palm
might lie home
and that neither one of us
are half as self sufficient as we'd hoped
But it's ok
Because two halves make a whole

But damn, if we don't connect
When our hands intersect
And I'm sure that you're a little overwhelmed
But I got this
I'm just asking for a little help

An Appliance's Rant

2008-05-15T13:55:00.001-04:00

blessings are in the eye of the beholder
bestowed onto victims, not based on accomplishment
but by false beliefs of "worthiness"

In marketing you learn that value is equal to
the amount of comfort wanted in that time period
So an object is only deemed valuable to the person
who wants those comforts wrapped in that package

Well I am standing up for the objects of the world
and I am here to tell you that
I am beautiful!
I repeat,
I AM BEAUTIFUL
Because I know so, not because you deemed it to be

My specific functions make me a beneficial and necessary
part of someone's life
And I respect that it might not be yours
But I know that I am exactly what someone wanted
Somewhere in this vast capitalist economy.

So please, pass me on the shelf if you aren't ready to
at least try out my special features.
Because I don't want you getting me dirty for my future owner

My sole purpose is the betterment of mankind
Through competency and user friendly hardware
So don't blame me if you find me hard to maneuver
I wasn't meant for you.

Just return me in my original package, get your money back
And find a model that does what you need it to do.

Don't push all my buttons and then toss me in your couch
As an afterthought
I have a purpose, which I can't say the same about you

So please, just respect my worth

Litany for Ms. Eventually

2008-04-27T19:47:00.002-04:00

Thee, High Priestess, shouts at the pulpit "Eventually"

and we the mortals respond:
maybe
one day
at some point
not now
not ever
from the past
unspecified
muffling voice
disconnected

"Eventually"

9 more responses please
deleted
erased
altered view
taped
barred
cuffed hands
annuled
invalidated
clogged arteries

"Eventually, I shout from the pews....
Eventually 1, 2, 3 times

....bliye sa.....

knock knock

2008-04-26T20:16:00.001-04:00

a quick note, a goodbye, a long laugh, a closed door
heels tapping on a wood floor
shiny, annoying
a mix of sweat and wax
a trembling voice a soft knock

not knowing not knowing you
do not mind my calling
my rocking musical
my feet have left the ground
just one centimeter up
enough for my words to wake up
into old territories

Asking Answers

2008-04-24T21:51:00.001-04:00

When will you hear my song past the soundtrack of your autobiography?
Forcing me to ride through ghost towns to get to your love.
Hughes might have known rivers, but i've waded up waterfalls pleading my case to you.

You attack me while holding the blade on the wrong end so that i can see your wounds past the inconvenience of mine.
I ache forgiveness while you slowly build walls of blood and tears

See me.
See me as human and as valid as you think your denials are.

trust me.
trust me to at least have one percent of a chance to be different than everyone else.

trust me to appreciate your accomplishments past your internal struggle

trust me to relate and be patient and see past my own anxiety to heal your wounds.

Maybe, just maybe

We can we can stop moaning spirituals and write poetry

Someone

2008-04-20T18:11:00.000-04:00

© 2002 Sandra Jean-Pierre

There's someone out there for me...
someone who'se not into head games or drama shit
someone who can appreciate my divatude
worship my divaness
revel in my divanation.

There is someone out there for me.
someone who understands the strength of my character
the strength of my self
the strength of my love.

someone who doesn't need to be
babysat
watched over
or has a Momma-complex
but who understands the value of it all the same.

There is someone out there for me.
someone I can call babe
someone I can make dinner for and love to.

someone who understands how to give and cherishes the things I allow them to take.
There is someone out there for me.

Carlita

2008-04-04T19:57:00.001-04:00

© 2002 Sandra Jean-Pierre

We’re supposed to be running away together. Away to the American dream of a house in the ‘burbs, successful work, a large yard, SUV and three gorgeous kids: an African-American boy with twists in his hair, a curly, red-headed Caucasian girl and an Asian girl with long, straight black hair. It would be us – the Bonnie and Bonnie version of Bonnie and Clyde.But she wasn’t here now, a quarter past three and she told me she would be here…if we are going to be making any kind of good timing she better get here soon… maybe she got caught in traffic.

We weren’t really going to be doing all those Bonnie and Clyde stunts, you know, like robbing banks and shooting people and stuff. No, we were just going to be ditching this piece of shit town and heading to some place, any place that wasn’t shoving religion down your throat and expecting you not to gag. I told Carlita we should head west and maybe stop off at Louisiana for a bit and then maybe New Mexico or if we were feeling especially lucky, maybe Vegas with the bright lights and gambling. But if we are going to be getting anywhere at any time… she should be here…I don’t want that 4pm traffic catching us.

Sometimes she gets scared like that, you know, where she gets so scared she freezes? I told her it would be fine; I’ll be there for us, like when her boyfriend Pablo found out we were fucking and he lost it. Couldn’t believe she was fucking a girl, much less me, una Negra. He beat her so bad, I had to take leave from the factory for two weeks to take care of her. He said he hoped we both fell off a cliff and died. I told him to choke on one of those Cuban cigars he stuffs in his mouth so much. Bastard!

We were cool, Carlita and me. I went back to work at the factory and she got on at the hotel doing the linens. We weren’t making much but at least we had a decent place to stay and food to eat and we could pay most of our bills. I didn’t mind that we couldn’t go out and do stuff but staying home was always better to me anyway. I got to show her what caring is really supposed to be like. I’d come home in the middle of the day and put some cube steak in the crock-pot, you know with potatoes and celery and carrots and seasonings, like a stew and some rice in the habatchi. I’d swing by her work and be waiting for her. We’d take our time going home, you know, to give her time to unwind and when she walked through the door, she would smell the food simmering and by the time she took her shower and changed, dinner would be served on the table. She always cried when we were doing the dishes, said Pablo never did these things for her. I would smile this goofy grin she always liked and hold her close to me with soapy hands, greasy shirt and all.

She’d be so tired though, ‘cause by the time I would be done with my shower she’d be asleep and most nights I would just hold her close to me but sometimes I would run my hands under her night shirt and stroke the soft hairs of her cunny. Sometimes she would squeeze her eyes shut and sometimes she would turn over and kiss me. When she turned over, I’d give her this sigh and pull her to me. I’d kiss her neck and shoulder and reach my hands under her shirt and pull it off. She’d look scared and I’d have to tell her things to let her know I wasn’t gonna do anything she didn’t want. I wasn’t gonna make it hurt, what was the point of that? I’d feel her thighs slide open and her hands reach around and hold my neck. I’d take my hands and hold both her boobs in them and just touch. She was always so full and soft and warm – it made me crazy! Sometimes she would reach around for me but mostly I would pin her open and taste her wetness and the hardness of her center. Slow, slow, I’d slide my tongue as far inside her as I could and I would hum. She thought that was funny but it always made her cum and she would always cry after. Always a smiling kind of crying that made my heart ache and tears well up in my own eyes.

After the first few times, she would be gone a few days. Just up one morning and she’d be gone. No note, nothing. She’d come back and I’d ask her where’d she’d been and what was going on but she would always wave me away. So I stopped asking and I’d just start making love to her more and more and different and different hoping she would like it enough to stay. She didn’t have to mention where she’d gone, I could smell Pablo and his cigars on and in her.But she said it was a moment of weakness, that he was trying to wear her down. But it couldn’t have been just one moment cause she got pregnant twice and had an abortion twice. I told her it would be all right, that we could be a family and take care of the baby but all she kept on doing was crying and all I kept on doing was hoping she would have the courage to leave him, for good.

Has anyone seen Carlita?! We were supposed to be running away together… away to live the Lesbian-American dream. It’s after six and driving at night is not always the best ‘cause I never got those glasses and these damn tears keep blinding me. Has anyone seen Carlita?!

Evolution

2008-04-03T11:35:00.003-04:00

It's only a matter of time
before the oak of life
gives up on you.

It is up to you to decide
whether you crinkle and die
or become food for the next generation.

Off the Top of My Head

2008-03-28T12:13:00.002-04:00

Love, thy name is God
Because it is your name I whisper in my sleep
The entity I reach out for
The comfort I seek in times of need

Thy name is Prophet
Because it is your words that linger in my soul
like hope
like food
like salvation

Thy name is Friend
Because it is you who I tell all my secrets
Who I stay up conversing with
whose moments bless my soul with pure bliss

Thy name is Love
Alpha and Omega
Noun and verb
journey and destination

and ever as elusive

Dem Bones

2008-03-03T16:43:00.004-05:00

I want to believe in my bones.
I want to believe that beneath the
voluptuous, intellectual pleasure zone
is the strength of a goddess.

And I'll no longer believe in issues
but in subjects
that I can control.
And I'll no longer be beholden to them,
but I believe that I will be something to behold.

With my chest exposed
I want there to be a tattoo on my clavicle that reads:
"Bad to the Bone"
So you see that messing with me
ain't no mutha fuckin' joke.

Cuz I infiltrate like smoke
So you better watch out Stupidity
And stay on your toes Ignorance
and just start breathing heavy
Almost-Soon-to-be-Former President Bush!

Because Fruit Loops ain't got nothing on me!
I keep my belly full on the passion of Malcolm
And the endurance of Mandela
The courage of Harriet
And the self righteousness of Sojourner

Ready for war with a skeletal army of one

And I have NEVER
felt
stronger

Purpose

2008-02-23T19:59:00.001-05:00

© 2004 Sandra Jean-Pierre
Perhaps
I can find the meaning of my purpose
between your thighs

with the help of your sea-salt scent
and the centinal guardian at the doors
of your temple,

perhaps these timeless beacons of lust and fucking
will whisper secrets of my purpose to me.

Perhaps
I can find the meaning of my purpose
between your thighs
in the shameless way
that mindless
hugging and grabbing and sucking
can bring clarity
and when it is all said and done
and when I am all said and done
and when it is over

I can walk away knowing that
I kissed the face of God
between the heaven and hell
and Earth of your ethereally
human body.

Until then?
I have no bodyor feelings or wants
outside of finding you...

Face

2008-02-19T19:35:00.000-05:00

© 2007 Sandra Jean-Pierre
I wrapped my legs around her waist, snaking my hands over her shoulders, down her rigid back. A sight we must have been - each in her own way, Goddess worship. She nosed my lips, not kissing them, meandering to my forehead before letting a primal moan climb from her throat. Her skin on mine, firey, clammy, cool. I clung closer, hoping that she, her essence, could quell the insurgency of my flesh.Throwing her head back, I devour her neck, resting my warm tongue on her rapid pulse, then sucking gently. She gasps, suprised maybe at her level of want or at my ability to meet it. I look deeply into her eyes, searching, imploring until I find the reason the universe created her.

"Oh...ohhhh..." Her lids close, eyes rolling back. Her precious rose colored lips quiver open. Coyly, I take the lower, savoring her tangy taste.

"MMmmm...:::gasp:::..." I cannot seem to find the air, that once gave me life, to be here, with her, like this.

Her hand cups the back of my head, running down my back, beneath my shirt. Arms to the ceiling, I am her hostage, as she frees my torso from my shirt, my bra. Before her, exposed. I looking down, wait. Shame? Wonder? Maybe I am afraid of the lengths my want of her will compel me to.

I look away, tears welling in my eyes. Images of my past love and loving protest in my mind. I want them erased, I want them silenced, yet they persist...

She holds my hand in hers, pulling me close. Her soft breast fills my palm. Instinctively, I run my thumb over her nipple - velvet. I bend in closer for a proper introduction and slide my mouth over her areola. I don't remember what day it is but I know that I want everyday with her, to be like my mouth was over her breast - close, warm, secure, loving. Here, like this, no lies existed, no untruth wrapped its cold fingers around my throat.

Old Friend

2008-02-17T15:06:00.002-05:00

© 2003 Sandra Jean-Pierre

On the Sahara plain
we were tribesman
sharing stories of the hunt
beneath crooked-sparse
shade trees

maybe...

we were women

in South America
tending the men,
nursing the children,
feeding our families from the Earth
while sharing the sisterhoodof moon-cycles
infinitely capable of life - rebirth

maybe...
maybe
we were
evy-ivy over
I said east-west
I met my friend at the candy store
playmates
sharing Bazooka Joe bubble gum
and coca-cola
on mid-summer
Brooklyn sidewalk evenings
while smells of fried pork,
plantains, beans and rice
filled our lungs
in promise of an easy cool New York
kind of peaceful
night in a
busy pulsing never sleeping city
with the comfort that our worlds were separated
by thin apartment walls

maybe...
...maybe

We were fish
beneath the ocean deep
searching for ways
not to be parted from our sisters
and brothers
only to eventually
sink to our final fish repose
at the bottom of the great beyond

to be...
to be re-made
in the image of
moon and sun...
bathing the Sahara plain...

It is good to see you againold friend...
walk with me,
talk with me for a while...

Yes we can!

2008-02-14T19:35:00.000-05:00

Promise

2008-02-08T09:25:00.000-05:00

she loved me and
we'd be in love and
as things can happen eventually,
love was no longer enough

you see,
she loved me like my history and
i loved her like war

a deadly combination

i chose to mistake her tentative advances
as my mother's disappointment and
she chose to not see the sincerity
in my violent ignorance and fear tactics

go figure

so we literally loved each other to death,
to ambivalence,
to solitude

who would have thought that love truly doesn't conquer all?
in a sense, it did conquer us
my innocence,
a direct conflict with her insecurity,
left me constantly falling short
and instead of admission,
i pummeled her lands and took what she didn't freely give

and hindsight may be 20/20
but love is 50/50 on a GOOD day
but feels 80/20 on most

and now paths have crossed again
as roads sometimes do and
i am learning her all over again
but i've learned some things about myself as well

like love isn't what you tell it to be
but a fruition of what is when left to blossom

i learned that love is not just what you bring to the table
but what you are willing to go back and get because it is worth it

i promise to let you breathe your own air
if you promise to want my company
if you promise to offer me 100% at least once
i'll promise that you can trust my love

so this time i want to try something new
you try and love me like water
and i'll try to love you like food
and i promise to always be hungry

Imagina.....

2008-01-17T15:58:00.000-05:00

escrito por Rathsie para Yemaya

Imagina un minuto que se dejará llevar por su verdadero sentimiento;
Imagina que no se pondrían tantas barreras por momento;
Imagina que tus suspiros llegan a su oído
Imagina que se entiende y te entiende;
Imagina por un segundo que da libre curso a lo que siente;
Imagina, después de todo seria lo más lógico;
¿Qué será de ti? ¿Qué será de ella? ¿Que será de ustedes?
Éstas preguntas no contestadas y otras
Constituyen su miedo más profundo
Impidiéndole de complacer su libido
Pero ella quiere decirte
Eres su amor prohibido.

a translation of the poem below - at the request of a sweet friend

2008-01-09T19:26:00.000-05:00

....beating

Standing in the middle of the park
facing the majestic cathedral
looking haggard
with the mouth half-opened
opened-palmed
carrying a beating heart
dark red blood
streaming through his fingers
ba boom ba boom ba boom
rhytmic, incessant
the sparkling viscous liquid
colors the brick floor
He does not know where this living pump comes from
He does not remember how he got here.
He does not dare gaze at this display
but he feels the weight of this muscle
blanketed by a drape of flaming silk
ba boom ba boom ba boom
his feet stay planted on the ground
but the ventricles continue living
no sound can move up his throat
he is crucified
carrying the engine of a woman murdered by love

....battant

2008-01-07T19:47:00.000-05:00

écrit par yemaya

Au milieu de la grand-place
il se tient
face à la cathédrale majestueuse
les yeux hagards
la bouche semi-entrouverte
la main droite tendue
portant un coeur battant
le sang rouge foncé
dégoulinant entre ses doigts
toum-ta, toum-ta, toum-ta
rhythmique, sans arrêt
le liquide visqueux brillant
colore le parterre de briques
Il ne sait d'où vient cette pompe vivante
Il ne se souvient plus comment il est arrivé là
Il n'ose pas regarder ce spectacle
mais il sent la lourdeur de ce muscle
couvert d'une étoffe de soie flamme
toum-ta, toum-ta, toum-ta
ses pieds restent fixés au sol
mais les ventricules continuent de vivre
aucun son ne peut lui sortir de la gorge
Il est cloué
portant le moteur d'une autre assassinée d'amour

my african daisy

2008-01-05T21:08:00.000-05:00

perennial
october
preparing for winter
unchartered
tipsy words
butterflies
beyond the mountains
coffee brewing
squatting
light fire
cool breeze
mind wandering
expectation

Talking Dirty

2008-01-04T14:13:00.000-05:00

I find it amazing how a combination of sounds can

turn me

the fuck

on!

Combine it with the right lustful look
and I begin to cook in my own juices.

Just hearing you speak
leaves me weak kneed and under your spell

Tell me your secrets
and I promise to acknowledge…

them…

all…

Just so I can feel you sashay your way into my thoughts

I want to be hot and bothered by your commentary

Fuck the complimentary

I want you talking dirty to me
under silk sheets
and arms weaved into my everywhere

I want you to tell me what you want,
how you wanna fuck,
when you love my pussy
and why I should love your cunt

Give me an oral presentation to put CEOs to shame

Causing me to erupt in an explosion of heated discussions

Let’s play a game of show and tell

Where I show you what you do to me every time you caress me verbally

Cuz there is nothing sexier than a little intellectual conversation

Building up the anticipation of what is going to happen next

A verbal contract of promised sexual contact.

I love it when you talk dirty to me.

Thank You

2008-01-04T13:40:00.000-05:00

I wanna write you poetry
Beautiful shit that makes you want to slowly fall in love with me
Amazing words
That make you forget the flaws you originally found
Or at least learn to not mind

I want to write you songs
Love songs
Witty and sweet
About how we connect and what you mean to me

I want to write you stories
Profound tales that say everything that I can’t
That made you listen when I couldn’t
That made you remember this fragile piece of beauty that we have

You make my heart feel things my body isn’t ready for
I’m not blaming you, just letting you know you are responsible
For the smile I wear

every

single

day

Tanty

2008-01-04T13:37:00.000-05:00

I hope I never forget to never forget you
I want to etch your sketch
Into a perpetual mental state
Of mine
So that I find you there every time I look.

I want to see a book or phrase
And think back to faded days
When you make a silly face
And that strange way you used to laugh…

I want to never forget the day you gave
that homeless lady the shirt off your back
and all the money you had.

I don’t want to be the one
Who only wants to have fun
Cuz it hurts to deal

I want to remember every hairstyle you had
That was always 20 years back from whatever time period we were in

I want to remember your skin
How soft it was and welcoming
How I’d breathe your hugs in
like warm buttermilk

You WILL reside in me
A constant in my memory
A metaphorical centerpiece
To what makes me be

I WILL praise your name
And celebrate your days
I will not let you be disgraced
By letting you fade

I will NEVER forget to never forget you!

Almost Forgot

2008-01-04T13:30:00.001-05:00

When it comes to writing, no one can test me
My flow is majestic
Putting angry spirits to rest
I know that I am capable of amazing
of blazing a trail that no one ever thought of before

I open doors for the less brave
Y’all ask for more and I gave
Becoming a lyrical slave for this generation

But lately, I have been struggling
trying to come up with something worth saying in a way that is pleasing to the ear
I can hear the words in my mind
that my brain can’t define
what exactly is my talent?

And then I remembered.

I am not here for you to bob your head to my sound
I am here for you to nod your head because you agree with what I am saying
I am here to enlighten
I am hear to empower
I am hear to put fear into the hearts of cowards

All those who hide behind paper
so that we can’t see the face of
those creating bills that limits our freedom in exchange for our free will.

I can’t believe I almost forgot that I am here not because you want me
but because I need to be
I can no longer stand still and watch them ignore the children
I wanna know why I’m more afraid to think than to feel
I wanna know why men are getting killed
going to the store to buy milk for the baby they’ve finally decided to help raise

I wanna know why you can be with who you want
as long as you don’t want to marry them
That goes against God
Was that what you were thinking when you were harassing saddam?
Osama bin laden should be Osama been found
instead we hear Osama been making money off the U.S. underground.
What the Fuck!
I can’t believe I almost forgot.

Serenity

2008-01-04T13:24:00.000-05:00

All I need is…
serenity
She told
She told me
She’d show
She’d show me
If I believed
then I’d find piece
Of Serenity

I’t’s getting harder and harder to believe
that there is something out there waiting for me
if I can achieve enlightenment through inner peace
maybe, just maybe I’ll finally be worthy of…

That elusive love, addictive drug, that endless caress in all the right places
and comfort.
I just want it to not hurt for just a little while.
Maybe I’ll get a chance to grow stronger in courage,
in wisdom,
in patience
if I promise to give you all of me for just brief sentences of…

Serenity
I know I’ll find closure in your release
Just please, please let me savor your secrets
Let me harbor your desire
Let me be a vessel to your understanding
Let me feel again
Let me breathe you in
Let me be real to the me within

Can I just have some…

Just enough to hold me over
Till the next fix
Till the next hit
Till the next gift that I’m blessed with

For now, just please remember me

Rainbow

2008-01-04T13:14:00.000-05:00

It took me a long time to find my rainbow.
Apparently, I was the only one who couldn’t see it
because when I finally found it, all everyone had to say was,
“Yea, I always knew it was there, I just didn’t want to say anything.”

I can’t believe it took me twenty some odd years to see what everyone already saw
and that has got me pissed. Because I’d like to think that no one knows me better than I do,
but apparently I’ve been wrong about a lot of things lately.

Like, now that I know who the real me is, I thought it should be easy to pick up the pieces.
I thought I’d be able to delve into some instinctual rite of passage
and all the knowledge of the rainbows before mine would be bestowed on me.

And once again, I was wrong.

All I managed to do was fall into a whole new world with new politics, new rules, and new loneliness that feels different than the lonely of yesteryear.

Because it’s all encompassing.
It’s everything.
It’s almost devastating
yet I trudge on because that is what is expected of me.
Trying to lure myself into some sense of false security.
The rain has been pouring on me like I’ve been dying of thirst
and the higher beings finally heard my cries through cracked lips and swollen tongue.

I can barely wade through on some days.
Some days I just want to fall in and sleep.
That eternal sleep.
That deep peace that once achieved you can never turn back.

But today isn’t so bad and I managed to even smile a few times.
There are so many shades of me that most never get to see,
I guess that’s why it was hard to believe that internally I philosophically bleed,
because all that I knew is now untrue and I have no basis from which to stand.
For the first time, I have no plan.

And I stumble quite often,
but I manage to catch my bearings before I hit the bottom.

And it is through my rebirth that I have found my worth, my style my flow
and all the colors that make up my rainbow.

One...derful!

2007-12-30T21:20:00.000-05:00

by Cinnabon

You moved my soul

To depths unknown

Until we were

one…derful

Your silent moans

Echoing my heart's wants

You be

In me

And we be

One…derful

I used mind and body

To make you love me

Screaming my need

Through tears of greed

Wrapped in a cocoon of insecurity

Causing you to break free

A butterfly born of broken seed

I could do nothing else but watch you leave

Shedding your skin across the sea

Until it was

One…der…ful…

Leila

2007-12-28T10:21:00.000-05:00

by Yemaya

Leila sister spirit
love friend
a variety of garments
black skin
white skin

Holding hands
Cuddling
my head against your chest
I let go

you find me
restless
confused
you appease me

I run with you
through the forests
pausing for a bed of water
and up we go

Volatile spirit
you lure human
into your realm
forever holding them captive

Leila I follow you
jumping the bosquets
your mirage is my reality
ad infinitum

Ces femmes que j'aime

2007-12-23T15:53:00.000-05:00

Par Yemaya

Ces femmes que j'aime
grosses, petites,
fines, épaisses
A la peau noire
Au bas-ventre de feu

Ces femmes que j'aime
longues, courtes
transparentes, opaques
aux cheveux tressées
aux cous rêveurs

Ces femmes que j'aime
chaudes, froides
pâles, foncées
Aux jambes entrouvertes
aux visages de madonne

Cette femme que j'aime
lionne, tigresse
animale, sirène
sur le sable du vide
emplissant ma mémoire

Poème du dimanche

2007-12-23T15:44:00.000-05:00

Par Yemaya

Une note perdue
Un coeur retrouvé
Une ballade dans le lointain
Ton rire moqueur
Et tout glisse sur ma peau

Un ciel d'hiver gris
Des arbres endormis
Un mirage de glace
Ton sourire de velours
Et tout me pénètre comme un bâton

Tu descends de la montagne
courant comme un cabri
L'herbe est trop amère
Tu ne t'arrêtes point
Excepté sur mon coeur.

Journal Entry on the day of Guadalupe

2007-12-12T09:34:00.000-05:00

What I want.

I want a spiritual partnership. I want my next relationship to be a spiritual partnership with two main components:

A contract, an agreement to help each other achieve what we were born to do. Somebody whose interest would be in encouraging me, challenging me to move forward. My interest would be to make sure that she is responding to her call.
We would not be responsible for each other's emotional, physical or mental well-being. That is a self-directed goal. Then it would not matter if we live with each other or not, it would not matter if we have sex once a week or once a month.

A relationship, the way it is conceived now, is not for me. I can't offer a continuous physical presence but I can offer the exclusivity of my pussy. I can't offer the daily "taking care of" but I can offer the daily spiritual connection and commitment. I want to be able to answer to the desires of my heart to serve wherever I am called. That is a priority of who I am and who I was meant to be.

I did have that vision ten years ago but I let it go. It is much easier to conform to the "normal" relationship pattern. Needless to say that conformity has not worked for me. Duh....:)

Now, I scream it to the world. I shout it to Spirit on the day of Guadalupe, the woman with multicolored roses. My next relationship shall be a spiritual partnership.

yemaya

My wounded princess

2007-12-05T06:58:00.000-05:00

by Yemaya

Once upon a time there was a little girl
born in the city of Anacaona, the Golden Flower.
This little girl was the daughter of our Taino Queen.
She knew the value of colors and nature.
She played with the rainbow and the ocean waves.
Smart, silly, funny, she was adored by her daddy.

But the world around her hated her wittiness.
When she asked about the sky and its limits,
she was sent back to her pots and pans.
When she dared to talk to the moon,
she was told to stay quiet.

Little by little, she forgot her heritage.
She unlearned the way to herself.
Every slap, every remark built a tiger coating over her silky skin.
Slowly, through the years, she became half-human, half-tiger.
She became more and more soundless.
She retired into her cage, pretending to sleep.
The only sounds she knew were her fury.
When faced with the daylight, she would scream to her villain.

But sometimes, only sometimes,
she would slowly stretch a paw to the outside world.
Suddenly, she would be taken by the Dancing Spirit.
Inviting all to join in this ceremony.
It won't be for long.
Do not stare at her or else.
Do not hug her or else.
Standing on all four, she will remind you:
"I am from the cave. I belong to a rocky shelter.
I have dominion over my solitary queendom.
Nobody can join me there."

My wounded princess, I do not want to join you there.
But I am outside of the cage,
holding your crown and waiting for your glorious day to come.

12/05/2007

Weak for It

2007-12-04T07:30:00.000-05:00

© 2003 Sandra Jean-Pierre

I can’t stand this…
I can’t stand the not knowing
can’t stand the not getting
what it is that you want from me…

cause every time I begin
to try and live my life
without your thoughts…
without thoughts of you
constantly interfering with
my vital rhythms, with my vital signs
with my peace of soul

I get stopped,
in my tracks
in my consciousness
gasping
I am gasping for air
asking myself, what was I thinking?
wondering
how could I have lived
these 27 years without you-
in my sights
in my pores
in my soul…

How could I have breathed
this clean air without your fragrance
coloring it shades and textures
I never learned in school?
how could I have
had the NERVE to leave my front door
without you on my breath?

With no place
to hide
or solace to abide me
you shift my world from beneath my feet
simply by thinking of my name

You make me want to
forsake my future children
and give my womb
as sacrifice to the alter
of your eyes…

Those eyes that reminisce of endless
pale, shifting
sand pools
at
dusk
noon
and sunrise

you’ve got this
intensity over me
that just won’t quit
and I am weak from it.

Me…
the woman of women
who carried civilization
on my back
using the navigation of
the new moon
crossed with
the sun on the far horizon…
I am weak from the power your
husky
down-low
whispers
have over me,

Like lemon & crushed spices
you marinate my core to the bone
…baby just turn me over and call me done!

I am crucified
by your nonchalance
and it makes me sick!
to be waiting like I do
anticipating like I do
for your nothingness-

Somebody
…somebody
get me a glass of water
a joint
a hit -
something to take away the sting of your
soft-touching me
like only you could -
got me playin’
symphonies
and I ain’t never picked up an instrument

Somebody
PLEASE-
stop me from falling
over the edge
from losing my mind
from falling any deeper
in this love than I need to be

Cause I can’t stand this
can’t stand the knowing that I
still
still
still can’t get over you…

Forgive Me Father

2007-11-25T18:25:00.000-05:00

© 2007 Sandra Jean-Pierre

Forgive me Father,
for I have sinned...

It has been
half a year
since I last tasted the salts of a woman.

It has not been for lack of effort
or torment of soul,
for truth be told,
I hungered for her vernal flesh
with my entire being.

The way her back
curves soft,
over me in the moonlight,
I have been remised

No longer do my eyes
grow wide
from the sight
of her breasts

Instead I keep company
with the many nights
of our memories
and these cold, hard sweats

Forgive me Father,
for it has been 6 months
since the last time
I shared in The Lord's gift of passions.

If I could,
I would have rationed
myself, three nights throes
from this addiction

Instead, I would have
indulged in her kisses
and done away with what
I thought was my calling
in making her a Proper Mrs.

I have sinned, Dear Father,
I have sinned!

It has been 24 weeks
since last I grew weak from
the elixir of her
volition's

since I succumbed to
her wicked woman
insistence that
I have more of her
NOW!

Oh...
dear God...
My judgment -
it clouds,

with this prolonged
withdrawal of my
lips from her mounds...

Could it really have been
900 hours? Since I took her
last to see the face of God?

My prayers must not have
been enough,

for she is gone from me
and I am left in this misery
of self loathing.

Oh Father,
Please forgive me,
for I have sinned against God Himself!

for shirking my
responsibility, my noble duty
of creating love on this Earth...

Of these sins
I
accuse
myself!!

Forgive me Father,
Forgive me...

Not now, Not yet!

2007-11-25T11:47:00.000-05:00

by Yemaya - december 07

For Cha and Cris

This seems to be a repetitive refrain in my life.

Forsaking the past, I vowed to change it. " yes now, yes here"

4 years trying to mold what was visible to my heart's eyes.

A future where you would welcome me home.

Mornings spent talking while brewing the coffee.

Afternoons making love while flirting with the sunset.

Nights for Yemaya, you and I.

Embracing the present, I run away from a similar refrain.

I've heard it all...the sweet words, the loving words

A convincing voice is promising a different shore.

I violently withdraw from the negotiations.

Am I equipped for the Goddess, mine, truly mine?

Yes now, Yes here

She will say to me:

Here I am for you. Now. And Eternally.

Sacrifice

2007-11-24T11:22:00.000-05:00

I have started a cleansing of the soul this past Monday with a 40-day fast and prayer. This morning, I burnt your letter in front of my altar. I couldn't keep it, I couldn't send it back to you. I mixed its energy with Spirit.

For these forty days, I want my body to wake up to itself, to feel and experience pain, suffering and joy. I want to know the deep end of anger and discover its most fiery face. I want to break my hand into life's walls and lick the blood slowly going down my skin. I want to scream with a fury, with a voice I didn't know I had.

No more "I love yous" that stop half-way. I love you but....

I love you but...

I love you, mon cul!

Women's Work

2007-11-22T12:30:00.000-05:00

© 2007 Sandra Jean-Pierre

Down to river
slowly we tread,
I in back, you in the lead

Untidy bundles
upon our backs, beneath our arms

I carry the buckets,
You the washing powder...

In silence,
we minister
to the sweat stains,
the work stains, the aroma of our human-ness

cloudy swirls
on rivers' surface,wash down and out and away,

leaving river clear again...

In tandem
we develop our rhythm,

yet

through the corner of mine eyes,
I spy your scent,
dripping from the precipice of your nose

Being wife,
I stand, grabbing the hem of my blouse
and wipe your forehead.

This chore,
this cleaning,
we women,
doing this women's work...

Laundered lives,
now hanging and flapping
drying in the yard

I fill the sink,
bathing the vegetables
passing the rinsed ones
for you to peel

You at my side,
I taking the lead

Mine hand on my hip,
the other stirring the pot
fire beneath brewing
nourishment and love

yet

from the corner of your eye
you see my sway,
my exhausted stance

Being, You, wife
offer a chair
allowing me to sit,
taking the spoon from my hand to yours

This chore,
this cooking,
we women,
doing this women's work...

When at last
the night calls and the stars begin their answer,
we sink deliciously
into our bed

side by side,
You and I...

you reaching for me,
I sighing for you

between,
exhaustion our constant bedfellow

yet

Your raw and calloused hand
touches my virgin belly
mine tongue and gentle stroke
finds your lips and mouth

This chore,
this lovemaking
we women,
doing this women's work...

Dark Epiphany

2007-10-15T12:40:00.000-04:00

I want the dark-haired beauties

the olive,
leche-con-cafe
mamasita's

the ones who'll curse someone
and love you with the same
crimson-cinnamon
lips that kiss life to your parts

I want the dark-eyed
soft hearted/fuck you
in the same breath
women...

the under-rated sapphires
in this diamond glittered town

I want the
calculating senoritas
donnas
mademoiselles

the ones that can
make you dinner and
break your heart
like a drop of a plate
the slice of a knife
a caress of their hand...

but they won't
cause they understand the power
of pussy and love and lust
that they have over you...

over you...

over me...

I want the hard hitting
don't-fuck-with-me-unless-invited
bellas,
the ones that can melt my heart
by smiling
in recognition of my vulnerabilities
and that she's gotten a rare
privilege to see me,
like this,
naked and open and willing and
painfully needing and trying
trying, the only ways I know how
to let her know how much she has changed my life...

I want the creamSplashedWithCappuccino
honeys
the ones with a cold streak
of hungry sex in their voice
at ten-in-the-fuckin-morning

... yeah...

yeah...

I want you.

© 2005 Sandra Jean-Pierre

Madivine woman

2006-09-19T19:04:00.000-04:00

I had not touched a woman …yet
When I have been called
“Madivine woman”
My divine woman
Word of one hundred thousand evils
Word of isolation, desolation
Lonely nights, hand stuck between my legs

I had not touched a woman … yet
When my short hair would send the message
About my desire to caress a breast
“Madivine woman”
My divine woman
In the corridors the sound of their mockery
Would aggravate me

I had not touched a woman...yet
When my fight for justice against injustice
Had got me the name of
“Madivine woman”
My divine woman
Any woman who dared to neglect house chores
And chose to protest
Was doomed

I had not touched a woman…yet
No, stop, what am I saying?
I had touched a girl
We were both eleven
Hiding in a closet.
The smell of her pubescent vagina
Never left me all these years
And got me the name of
“Madivine woman”
My divine woman

Sirena/Yemaya
09/24/05
8:16 am

The picture on the fridge

2006-09-13T15:09:00.000-04:00

I guess she said yes…

From your fridge, I witness your life.
Through my picture, I spy on your moments, happy or sad.
I see her; I see you two, coming and going.
I never know when she is gone. She is never gone.
Her constant presence in the pictures, in the art and the furniture.
Her constant presence in the air, the bedroom, the atmosphere.
She is never gone and I got a good seat.
From the fridge, inside but not completely; I watch over, I witness a love that never ended.
You’ve invited me to step in,
“But please don’t come in too fast.”I guess she said ‘okay’ after making sure your love for her was not being replaced.

Yes, she said yes and you were so happy, you bought flowers to celebrate this new beginning in which I was not included.
And what’s left for me to do?
I’ll stay on the fridge, daring to set one foot in before I hit the road.

Sirena/Yemaya
4/2/2005

Scent

2005-12-06T21:20:00.000-05:00

There is another woman's scent in my nostrils
on my upper lip
my tongue - inadvertently

See it was a hug
and I was caught off guard
between the squash chicken noodle soup
and the Tropicana grape juice

She came from behind

hugging me

and I
turned head first into the crook of her neck
into the pulse of her body
into the belly of her scent

and it lingered

that touch of perfume or cologne

it lingered,
though I wiped it
it remained

on my person

her scent lingered in my memory
causing me to
speak to myself
in the middle of the day
out loud

of how my belly
quivered
from her scent

and how all I could do was lament
the fact that it was not you
that I had turned
head first
into...

and I can appreciate
why a man
can chase anything
in a skirt
with boobs
and curves
and woman-ness...

What I can honor now
is knowing
one day,
I will be able to fully love you
with the same intensity
that I cherished
that scent
of another
woman...

© 2005 Sandra Jean-Pierre

My divine woman

2005-10-09T02:43:00.000-04:00

After the Revolution

2005-09-17T21:16:00.000-04:00

for D.P.

I’ll write for you
not of familiar revolutions
or emptying liquor bottles
laced with full gun barrels
in dizzying cahoots over which won’t take your life next…

InsteadI’ll write of after…
when hot showers
make the revolutionary blood stains
on your skin
more than wet

as healing Mother drops
wash away the stench of white devils
in deft swirls
racing down the drain…

and how given a choice?
you’d do the same again
and again and again

Just so the children will sleep at night
just so the women
will find their way
from darkness into the light…

But me?
I’ll write for you
of after…

as you sit in meditation
clearing your mind for the next days work
charting your path through
dense jungle
corporate bullshit
and
new world births…

my words will capture your pause
as you take your meal
served in deep rounded bowls
humbly
just like the girls
who you saved and handed them back their souls…

I’ll write about the chaos that explodes
behind your closed doors
the traumatic night sweats
that wake you fully bearing arms

the quiet moments when nothing makes sense
but the raging storm within
that fuels your passion
to rip down the front door
and keep going till
every injustice comes
to an end…

But Me? I’ll write for you
always of after…when no one’s around
when the door is locked the phones’ off the hook
and the rage has subsided …

for that one moment
whenever it is
that the tears come
sadness speaks
or despair threatens to break …

I want to be looking in your eyes
to let you know
that in all this fighting…

you
are
not
alone.

© 2004 Sandra JP

to my Haitian sisters

2005-07-18T13:51:00.000-04:00

To my Haitian sisters, young or old, I don’t pretend to know the truth about being a Haitian lesbian but I do know what goes inside of me, this is my truth, my experience.

We never learned from anybody the way to be a lesbian, we just are, we never learned from anybody the way to love a woman, we just love them. This is our truth, this is what we know as a fact when we look and act upon the desires inside of us.

We belong to a minority, we belong to an oppressed group and as such we react sometimes in unreliable ways. Too many times, we cut ourselves short of who we truly are. We accept or promote periodic hidden sexual encounters, we deny ourselves the right to love, and we embrace the right to fuck. We degrade ourselves by choosing a life of sex without love. We become prostitutes, porn addicts, mistresses, second-class lovers. We never allow ourselves to love and commit. We fail to defend the ones we love; we fail to build a life for ourselves.

A homosexual relationship in so many ways is not different from a heterosexual relationship. It involves labor and commitment. It involves being there for the ones we love, waking up in the morning together, facing daily challenges together, working toward a common goal, providing shelter and assistance. Just as if we were married to a man, we would have acted with love and respect, we need to commit ourselves to a better quality of life with a woman. There is no difference whatsoever in these two kinds of relationships, the only one being the sex of the person we love. If we think a homosexual relationship is better or worse, then we are biased in our judgment. It is plain love between two people and because of that, it is both beautiful and challenging. Some days we will feel like a million dollar woman, other days like s…, but that’s the beauty of relationships. They raise us to our higher levels, they lower us to our darkest sides.

I am not saying that we all go out on the streets and march to demand respect or recognition, I am saying that we need to start acting with respect, choosing relationships over lust, choosing love over porn sex. I am talking about two women being together for better of for worse, as a couple. I know it can be frightening and difficult, there is no place to go and learn. Let’s just listen to our hearts. Let’s create our own ways to existence, let’s build a network of women with dignity and pride….for ourselves and the future generations.

New York, July 18, 2005

life is queer

2005-04-02T07:51:00.000-05:00

Life is definitely not straight. It goes beyond or away from what we expect. We can never be sure of its paths and tracks….It sometimes goes by its own rules, defiant of the norms and the more we try to conform, the more we end up hurting ourselves.

I’ve never experienced life as a one-way street, neither a steady companion; it is strange and unveils unpredictable turns on its way.

I look at myself, I look at my plans….and sometimes I see life as a spy who hears what I want and presents me with the opposite. I chose to make it an ally but it is not as simple. How do you wake up one morning and find out that all your plans have been shattered by others? How do you wake up one morning and realize that life belongs to the strong? You might believe that the good always wins the bad...it is not true. So many unanswered questions, so much pain, so much unfairness.

And I identify with this queerness that refuses to settle down and bow to say yes. I identify with the non-dogmatic way of life…my voice is queer, unheard…and my only constant partner is my solitude.

The Mic Is Censored Tonight

2005-02-06T19:27:00.000-05:00

So some archeologist in Nevada find some “black” artifacts in a “black”owned
saloon, way out west
which leads them to believe that
“blacks” were more than just maids and slaves

and I have to be amused
‘cause it’s just now entering their consciousness
that the brown-shade “animals” taken from a foreign
land are actually intelligent

and isn’t that ironic
since the nation of these states
were built upon the production of the backs
of blacks who were made to do nothing but produce

so why wouldn’t we be capable of making something of ourselves?

…but I’m not talking about that right now
‘cause the mic is censored tonight…

so maybe I shouldn’t even get started on this war
and how it has nothing to
do with my freedom or
your freedom
but the Bush’s freedom
to make that paper
that none of us
of color are ever really
supposed to have – think forty acres and a mule…

and I guess they’re supposin’ that
we all won’t be intelligent to scope
what you really don’t need a third eye to see

that this fightin’ just ain’t right…
since the majority of people out there fightin’
on the front line are any other shade besides white…

and I’m not gonna talk about that right now
‘cause the mic is censored tonight…

but I was talkin’ to this friend of mine
about how any great leader
we’ve ever had
hasn’t managed to make it very far beyond go
and how any agitation of resistance
has been met with indifference
until it threatens to upset
the living rooms
and class rooms
and neighborhoods
that we’ve only been allowed to clean and mow and nanny in

–can someone get me a glass of water ?
‘cause I’m dyin’ of thirst from all this hypocrisy
of equality
when there’s nothing equal about earning less for three times
the work Jane does at one-forth her pay.

Hey and they say we don’t need affirmative action…

but don’t get me going about that
‘cause the mic is censored tonight…

and when taught behavior
becomes learned behavior
becomes classified as the way
“those” people are
don’t be offended
when we break out the shackles
and become who it is that you be

‘cause accusations are only
projections of all the things
that your mind manifests into being…

but I’ll stop right there
and I’ll go no further‘cause the mic is censored tonight…

© 2003 Sandra JP

No More

2005-02-06T16:29:00.000-05:00

It was like it always is: seething agony touched with desire. The faces changed or the perfume was familiar, besides that, it was the same. Except this time, this time there was no giving in, not really. Not until it was the right time or the right place, if ever the right person. Ashes fell in swirls, covering her eyelashes in gray soot and I kissed them, transferring darkish splotches on my lips. She only laughs like she does and I am taken. The soot is gritty between my teeth but I am slow to grind it further into dust, now mud as it mixes with my saliva.

" Carolyn... Carolyn..."

" Yes, I am sorry. "

And I give her my far away look; the one that always makes her ask me where have I been and all I can tell her is no where. But all she ever manages to do is come closer and kiss my lips, like kissing me is going to make it all go away.

I stir the beans on the side range and turn the ribs over on the grill. I wait until she goes to see about the desert before I squeeze half a lime into the mariade sauce. There are still some things that she doesn't understand. I am stirring and hearing the metal spoon scrape against the bottom of the metal pot and I am mesmerized. I barely notice she has placed her open palm in the middle of my back and she still doesn't understand why I hate when she does it and I can't understand her compulsion to make me uncomfortable.

" Please STOP! " My voice sounds shrill as I resist my urge to turn and fight back.

" You never listen when I tell you." Tears mix with the smoke and I have to get away.

Even as I wash my face in the kithcen sink to clear my mind and give me space all I can remember is a similar hand against my back, my face against a roughed wall and no air to breathe, no strength to run no choice in crying.

She is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, with her hand on her hip, waiting for an answer. I screw up my face because there is no answer I am ready to give, much less admit. Blood rises in the back of my throat and I want to heave it all in the sink, I bite my lip instead and head back to my barbeque.

She never asks me anything when she has to pin me to the bed in the middle of the night. Maybe I just don't give her the space to say anything. I've caught myself before, screaming:
" Ke tem! Ke tem!! KE TEM!!!!"Language she has not heard me speak, that she doesn't even know that I know." KE TEMMMM!!!!!" And I go limp, surprised that I am in our bed, in our house. I stare at her paniced face for recognition and she kisses my forehead, hugging me close.

"I am fine... go back to sleep."

Now she is looking for answers and there are still none that I want to give her. My justification is that I am not of her and she is not of my people so she will not understand. Her white America, middle-class, lesbian supporting family would not understand me. Not my reddish brown skin, not my un-permed hair not my fragmented pieces. So if I remain a mysetry, we will all be protected. But I am beginning to wonder from what.

"Your mother called... she said she wanted you to call back." No, not really, I think. She just wants to badger me about not being close to home and that I never make an effort to visit and that I am not really lesbian and that if I don't stop I am going to go to hell and she won't be able to say enough prayers to have God pardon me. She doesn't understand that I am not going back and that Milo is the one who needs her prayers because I have been wishing him to hell in gasoline draws since the day he beat me till I thought I didn't have any blood left to bleed.

" I'll call her... later." I know I won't, I will just tell Lana that we have another phone number and not to give this one out. Especially not to my mother.

Milo was my mother's answer to late nights at Christie's and sleepover's that lasted for weeks before she would think I was no longer her daughter. She hated that relaxed look I had when I would come home: like nothing could be finer than life how I had it. I would give her that look that would make her ask me where I had been, only this time I would smile and leave her unanswered. I knew I had been lost in folds of warm flesh. Tight pink openings and desires hot enough to make me cum with my clothes still on.

Then there was Milo. Arrogant, self assured Milo. Kiss my mother's ass and wish he could have been good enough for me Milo.

" You don't have to love him now Carolyn... that can come later." And she would smile her worst saccharin smile making me sick to my stomach. She fed me lies about how good he was and how much we would have in common. Just like she fed him snakes to make him mean, to make him know that he had to change me, to make him grow to hate in me what he didn't even know.

And it began with a date. It began with my parents out of the house that night. It began with me only being seventeen. It began with his insistence, my refusal and blood... every where. Blood in my hair and on my jeans and in his nostrils, smeared on his lips kissing me... blood.

" KE TEM!!! KE TEM!!! Leave me!!! Leave me!!"

My mother noticed the bruises. Not particularly how quiet I was or how clean, clean the living room had been.

" Where did those come from?!"

"We were roller skating and she fell over herself. Pretty clumsy thing to do huh Mrs. Maxil?! I'll make sure she is more careful tonight." Appearing out of no where he seemed to be everywhere.

" You better not have told your mother anything!! I swear you won't breathe another breath if you told her!"

And his palm rested in the middle of my back, shoving me against the alley wall, taking more of what was never his.

"Stay still!!" My breasts pressed the cool brick and all I longed for was Christie and her tenderness, her gently coaking me to climax, her beautiful words of encouragement. But all I had now was Milo. Devil incarnate Milo.

" What's going on over there?!"

I collapse wanting to give up and die but I find myself laying in some hospital bed getting the morning after shot, giving police statements, wondering if Christie knew I still loved her.

" What did you do to make that boy mad?! You better not press charges... just tell them it was a misunderstanding. You and your lesbian shit! You think that girl would want you now?"

Scowling eyes barking me orders, my mother.

Two weeks of recovery, six months of therapy and I was gone. No looking back or small town rumors, I was gone. Sleeping in box cars, hitching rides across the desert, I was gone. Five years in some obscure town that I never bothered to learn the name of, two more moving to keep myself up-rooted and finally I find Lana. Wonderful Lana, sweet beautiful Lana and all I want to do is keep it all behind.

" You were gone again." She stares at me annoyed.

I know we may not be together much longer and I look her in the eyes. I look her in the face and I feel it's time to get moving again.

© 2003 Sandra JP

Kòman nou ye?

2005-01-30T11:40:00.001-05:00

Hello Caribbean Goddesses,

Being born in what is called " the poorest country of the Western Hemisphere" doesn't give a clue about what it is to be a lesbian and to live as one. But this "disadvantage" doesn't prevent us from loving women with passion.

I like to believe that my story is not unique. Many of us, either expats in the US or living at home had to confront our fears and allow ourselves to be and exist. The main issues of discrimination and isolation that we face as Caribbean lesbians are not different from the rest of the lesbian commuity. But our own cultural context and shortcomings add some elements to the picture that make our stories even though universal but quite original.

We have very few role models...maybe none. Few stories have been written by us and about us. There is no women center in the Caribbean dedicated to lesbians. In some of our countries, the word " lesbian" can not be pronounced without the fear of being killed.

So I thought it would be a good idea to open a space to Caribbean Lesbians, where in the middle of our rice and beans, ackee and salt fist, and curry goat, we could talk and share about our journey thru the blissful and bumpy ride of being a lesbian.

Feel free to post your story, articles, poems, comments...anything....