TUPELO HONEY

JoAnne is one tough broad,
Italian Irish descent
from the Northeast Bronx
Through sacrifice and dedication
JoAnne is now a nurse at
Presbyterian Medical Center

This is her story
bout a methadone baby
born addicted
on JoAnne’s ward
This boy had tupelo
honey colored skin,
and hazel brown,
almond eyes
Birth mama’s blond and curly haired
A blue eyed Nuyorican
Daddy is a dark skinned African

Mama named the baby Shonequon
The nurses called him “Sweet”
Sweet’s a boarder baby who
lived on the ward
for 2 and a half months
BCW tryin to decide
what to do with that tiny
methadone addicted baby

Now me amiga esta sin ninos
she has no children
e quiere uno mucho
she wants one very badly
so she fell in love with Sweet
talked about him constantly

JoAnne said,
Sweet is cryin all the time
He holds his body rigid
his cryin is so fitful
Kindled by the pain
cause Sweet’s addicted to meth
and this is how he sounds
eeehhhhhh
eeeehhhhhh
eeeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh

Sweet’s tiny fists
are always clenched
his spindly arms crossing
his scrawny chest
This baby can’t relax!
He’s got a monkey on his back
Sweet’s addicted to meth

The Doctor confides
he wishes he could
keep Sweet tranquilized
cause he’s screamin so fretfully
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh

JoAnne loves to nurture Sweet
She embraces him reverently
comforts him with
the rhythm of her heart
she whispers soothing sounds
cajolingly,

her voice falls like soft waves
caresses tender hollows
of his frail anatomy
her soft warm breath
glides down his velvet neck
Sweet responds with purring sounds

JoAnne’s gentle devotions
linger on
like a mango blossom’s scent
fragrant on a breeze
Sweet watches her giddily
clinging with his
tightly gripped fists

Yesterday Sweet smiled for the
very first time
JoAnne bragged
as though he were her own
Sweet, my boarder baby
is delayed in his response
and yesterday was the
first time
God graced me with his smile

Her eyes rimmed with blurring droplets
Dewdrops silhouette
I love him, she said
I want him to be mine
Even though he’s HIV
and surely won’t survive
I want him to be mine

Child Welfare lets his Mama visit
she hardly came at all
Daddy was there
mostly every day
but he was always drunk

Today they let her come and
take my Sweet away
Honey, JoAnne said,
This baby’s in a lot of pain
he suffers from anxiety

You don’t have to hold him
24 and 7,
but you need to let him
see your face
smiling, talking
into his

Sweet’s Mama answered
I know mucho more than you do
let me tell you somethin’
You don’t know what I been through
All my kids are born on meth
and that’s the way it’s always been


The baby started fussin’ then
his spindly arms
clenched across
his scrawny chest
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhh
eeehhhhhh

Sweet opened up his eyes
and focused on JoAnne
reaching out his scrawny arms

But Mama reached the baby first
and took him from his crib
Esta te quieto, nino
she said as she rocked him
dispiritedly
to her methadone beat
Esta te quieto, nino

It’s gonna be okay Mama said
Grandma said she’s gonna help,
She’s carin’ for my other five
My oldest girl’s gonna be there too
And like I told ya,
All my kids are born on meth
And that’s the way it’s always been,
but we know how to get by.

Bits & Pieces

Poetry is like life in that it develops its own processes & changes form over time recreating itself over & over again, like we do in our lives. I return to older works and either recycle or recreate using pieces, thus I create a new poem from old work.

I don’t know if it’s the physical mental or emotional anguish that’s worse. I’ve had all 3. Do you know which is worse? Does it matter if I have a preference or choice? Do I get to choose this time?

Ira Lightman's public works

Ira Lightman had a call out (on his facebook page) for people to read his 2 columned poetry. Ira is a surrealist dada-ist artist, his work encompassing these forms & more. He takes on a great many artistic & intellectual projects that become well known in UK & sometimes are spotlighted on the BBC news. You can turn off my auto player at the very bottom of this blog :~) & turn on his player here in this post to hear our voices.

LIVING THE POEM

I observe U creating the drama of your life
Playing people as though they were instruments
Instinctively knowing the keys to their rhythms
Examining each key hypnotically
Studying how each key responds to your touch
Philosophically reporting your observations & thoughts
I get caught up in watching myself watching the I & I
U stroke each note lyrically, responsively
Using that special touch while making me keeper of your rhythms
Your memories and words become stories
Tales to be told about the before and after we became I & I
Like a poem waiting to be written challenging the one already read
I watch U play the blues leaving the U I know behind
I wonder where Ur going and who U will be
You’re playing the game of living
Tuning the world to the rhythms of your life
Each chess move counters another chess move
Am I a pawn in Ur life or someone else’s
I don’t have time to analyze this
U fine-tune the guitar chords exhorting beats from my heart
Ecstasy runs thru my veins with each melody your hands produce
I watch the world thru your eyes
Isn’t that what poets philosophers & all artists do
Translate words images and ideas into thunder
Mimic & play with our world gone asunder
Turn ideas into screenplays, turn words into books
Turn words into hypotheses in our attempts to produce & create
A safer more productive world for humanity

A rose by any other name...

What does a Siamese cat have to do with poetry & a book give away? Read on to find out!
Leave a comment in the blog to be put in a draw for 3 giveaways of my book, A Spot Of Bleach & Other Poems and Prose.
Folks I am not a traditional writer. Strangely enough DubbleX & I had the following conversation this morning.
DubbleX said about Cleo, my cat, "She's an unusual Siamese."
"She is," I agreed. "She's officially called an exotic oriental short hair."
"I don't understand," DubbleX said.
"The reason for that," I explained, "is because The Cat Fanciers' Association hasn't decided that flame point Siamese ought to be included in the designation Siamese. This in spite of the fact that the flame point has all the same points as every other Siamese cat. She has bright blue eyes with a pointy face and flame color shading on her back deepening as she matures. My cat is an outcast among her own kind. Born to a tortoise point Siamese mother bred to a exotic oriental flame point male. Thus flame point Cleo is not called a Siamese. "
"That's funny," DubbleX said.
"Funny how?" I asked.
"The way you tell the story," he says "plus it reminds me of your poetry."
"Explain," I say.
"Well," he says, "You said there are poets out there who criticize your narrative style & the way you write and they don't consider your work poetry."
"That's true," I said. "Because my poetry tells a story, and is not all about the metaphor."
"I like the way you write," DubbleX said. "Your words have an impact, they make me feel & experience things. They make me think too plus I understand them. I don't have to work hard to interpret what you're saying. I like the way each poem tells a story."
"Yes, the impact is what counts. Sometimes though the impact makes people so angry that they hate my work. You don't know how many times people have told me I'm not a poet."
"They're wrong," said DubbleX, "You are a poet. You have your own style with your own rhythm and energy. Not everyone can see. Your poetry combined with your energy reminds me of sitting, listening to the blues."
I thought about this conversation more as the day wore on. I thought about how this related to my entire life, I'm an outcast Jew, an outcast poet, and now I have a cat named Cleo who is an outcast Siamese flame point cat who is called an exotic oriental cat.

Blog Give Away

I woke DubbleX this morning with a Cinnabun paper bag in my outstretched hand. "Pick one," I directed, "it's for our blog give away". DubbleX picked Mr. Bernard Alain's name on a folded sticky note out of the bag.
Mr. Alain is the winner of last weeks blog give away. I will be contacting him directly!
Thanks to all who participated.

Tattoo me

Thought some of you might enjoy seeing my alter ego tattooed on my upper right shoulder. There are many symbols included in this tat. Take some time to examine the symbols. Myke Maldonado (friend & artist) from Dreamland.com & I combined our efforts to design this. It took 4 trips & approximately 12 hours to complete. Click on the photo for a larger pic.

Live & Let Live

I learned in my maturing process that it is the overcoming of obstacles that simultaneously causes me the most pain and pleasure. Sometimes when I’ve done what I feel I’m chosen to do, it causes problems for others around me. We cause disappointment and suffering to our proclaimed friends, our appointed guardians, our children, any of the people we know in our flow of life. Sometimes my words make people squirm. I’ve also discovered life has a flow with friends too. Sometimes there is a flow of everything I know. Various flows happen to me daily. Mostly I see, sometimes I don’t.
It is my nature to jump first and ask questions later. This life long habit has caused me problems but like most humans when I err it is on the side of trying to do the right thing. Very often in my leaps of faith I have helped other people. I’m not bragging about this; it is my nature to be helpful and I’ve always done it. I consider it my inborn talent and strength. It is this nature that made me become a social worker and writer. I accede that under most usual conditions most humans will try to do right thing. Spike Lee’s movie was his device to make us wonder what is the right thing to do?
When I decide I must do something my decision may cause someone near to me pleasure or pain. Likewise any choice I make may cause me pleasure or pain. I don’t make decisions in a vacuum. Neither is any choice going to give me one hundred percent pleasure or one hundred percent pain. So everything must be weighed out like a chore, a balance scale of life when I make choices. Most of all I am a survivor filled with hope and desires for my future.
When I progress, I feel pleasure in becoming unstuck. Think about this. What is the alternative to moving ahead? The answer that strikes me here is death. The primary obstacle to moving ahead is to remain the same with all your sorrows and regrets, or you move ahead with a different set of sorrows and regrets. Life contains all; pleasure, pain and hope. Hope keeps me going. Sometimes it’s not about wrong or write (please forgive the pun, I can’t help it.) and it’s not a matter of sorrows or regrets. Sometimes life is about moving ahead. Sometimes it’s about sorrows and regrets. Sometimes life is for living and not being still. Sometimes I meditate and like to be still. Sometimes I meditate and like to be in motion.
I write of a different type of movement, not a parallel movement but a movement that leaves old things behind to begin anew - using new building blogs (forgive another pun). New can strengthen my spirit when old ideas crumble. Spiritual nourishment is ideal.
Sometimes I meet someone and feel a special pull. I don’t know what the pull means and I must decide how to respond to that pull. I may decide this is meant to be but perhaps this decision is an excuse to move in the direction I want desire or need. Some people inspire, some people relate, some do both. I am still that jumper who is a known chance taker. Many people have told me I’m a blessing in their life. I assume they say this because it’s true. Seers have called me a reborn fallen angel. I strive constantly with my power and the talent I was born with. I’ve nurtured my powers (talents included) with love and dedication. My powers have grown. Making wrong or right choices can build my power too. I must live with my choices and always move forward. I value that place in my life and in your life where we strive towards betterment. It is this common striving and our connections to one another, that make us human and makes life worth living.

Blog Give Away

I've seen other people have giveaways on their blog & every time I've seen it I've thought, ooohhh that is so cool! I decided to do one too. If you sign in to my blog and leave a comment, I will take a scrap of paper - write your name on it, mix them all up & pick one out of the bag. I will then ship this beautiful -still-in-shrink-wrap-brand-new-book- to you. This will happen when there is a sufficient number of people to mix up several slips in a paper bag to keep it fair .

The Beautiful Struggle: Street attitude from South Africa's Townships (Hardcover) by Mlamli Figlan (Foreword), Per Englund (Photographer)

The book sells at Amazon for $22.76 & can be yours for the price of a blog check.

Enjoy!
Much love ~ Joy

Friendship

The world continues to become more anonymous with online networking. I have an entire set of contacts on fb & elsewhere who I will probably never meet in person . Contacts I nurture to promote myself & DubbleX & sometimes other writers too. I give myself credit for this networking because before me DubbleX had never been published. He told me before I worked with him no one else had ever encouraged his writing. I have faith in his writing. I got his first poem published before we actually became a couple. D isn't the kind to bother with submitting or reading things. He works more on the creative instinctive side. Perhaps it is my personality that is better suited to networking combined with creative pursuits. D still insists he is happy to have me submit his things but he's already very busy. This makes my busy life even more busy. I try to manage my time to get everything done that needs doing. 

You'd be shocked if you knew all the shit I pack in one day without even mentioning daily vacuuming & cat littler cleaning plus all our other daily routines. This morning when I opened my internet mail there was a letter from a woman who began as an internet contact. She was searching for a cat. I had recently rescued one so I invited her over to see the black and white beauty. At that time, over three years ago, when I met her she was going through a lot. When I took her home with her new cat it seemed like her apartment was in shambles. I worried that she didn't have food or the fortitude to care for an animal. I showed up several times with soup & bread I had made in addition to some cat food. 

Surprisingly over the next few weeks my friend's condition improved. My friend, Niambi, began to clean up & throw out the unneeded garbage filling the small space in which she lived. She told me the cat helped her to rearrange the order in her life and that he'd actually guide her in what needed to be done. Niambi, needless to say, is also an artist. We actually performed together in a show I put together called the The Art Stroll, which takes place up in my neck of the woods. Since Niambi lives in Harlem which is generally included in our area, I was able to include her. Niambi is primarily an actress and singer but she also writes. As proof of this I am including in today's blog the poem I received from her this morning which got me to do what she wanted. I called her immediately. I am sharing it here because it is a good poem & also to show how our lives get so complicated we forget how important keeping in touch is to those around us who care for us & depend on our contact. GIVE ME SOME CONTACT by Niambi Steele I just wanna know one thing-- do you ever speak on the telephone anymore Or has that part of life become too much of a chore Duly noted is the genius of your epitomes and metaphors But Jesus Christ I wanna get back to the used to bes and gone befores I know that isn't fair to your new found sense of discoveries and recoveries But have a heart for us old farts that still live in our reveries and miseries Some of us just want our friends to be a familiarity Not a new design on a runway like a freaked out fashion week. I want to be part of your joyous new discoveries But it’s hard to imagine someone who remains such a mystery. I've never even been introduced to the new man in your world But every time I turn around I'm forced to meet him in the words he's learned to twirl. I'd like to meet him at a gathering meant for more than just you two I feel so out of place meeting him through you The world I live in is populated and free The world you live in seemingly has no place for me... ... and I feel it every time I get electronic, cyber sonic word windfalls Instead of incoming, purposeful, personal phone calls.