Broken Wings


Warning: For those of you who have been raped, went through Domestic Violence, sodomized or sexually assaulted Please Do Not Read this Post as it most likely continues Triggers. I have survived all those events but to this day I still experience sights, smells, words that set me off in the wrong direction.

 

Swords, needles, Lance, shattered glass, Knaves with Knives pierced my heart. For the one who pinned me to the wall with gnashing fanged teeth. They made me bleed but my life essence flowed into the ground and back up through and into my feet roots.

Many times I feel I’ve been banished to the Island of Misfit toys. Long ago in a far away land I was embedded in the fog, haze and mist of various “Happy Pills.” But I escaped. They tried to recapture me last year but once again the Warrior in me arose and I beat down my foes and thus a better life was reborn.

Island of the Damned -- Bocklin
Island of the Damned by Bocklin

They tell me to forgive you. As though I were at fault.

They tell me that unless I forgive you burning coals will singe my soul. Forgiveness is for me. It will help heal my soul.

Yet I feel nothing. No pressure to forgive. No reason to forgive. No need to forgive. No guilt or shame. Because I feel nothing. Nothing for him. Nothing for all the hims that brutally attacked me. Why?!  Because you, him, All the Hims have been banished, dismissed.

Those hims taught me how. Especially the one who raped me. The one who now wears the backward collar. Who leads unsuspecting congregations in Praise & Worship. Church. How convenient. The perfect place to find more victims. Women. Some willing. Carried along by a sacred oratory little knowing the ugly demon that lurks within. But I know. You come as an Angel of Light but I know who you really are. Hell is reserved for the devil and his angels. Your place in Hades awaits you.

The Persuaders – Thin Line between Love & Hate – Video (High Quality)

My heart has gone prehistoric stone implements. Flint knives now glisten in my eyes. How not to feel. How to dismiss who no longer is necessary yet keep the lessons for the future. How to dispatch with a cold ease. Victory!

I’M STILL HERE!!

To awaken a side of me that can put my abusers into compartments. Jails. I will never forget what they did. How they changed my life. Little did they know how my life has changed for the better. I don’t need to forgive for I am not at fault. And they. They shall receive due judgment from the Creator of All Life and I. I will sit back and smile.

My Salvation, Forgiveness and Redemption Belong Only to Me!

For I have learned to Fly again.

 

 

 

Madame Nina Simone


Some days you think you can fly until you see the ground coming up at your quickly. I mean really fast. Then Bam! Reality hits. Broken bones form a new being. I’m a Vagabond. A Gypsy. The sands of time shift under my feet but my name will live on forever.

Spider web moon lit night
Spider web moon lit night

I am the Queen. The Empress. The Jewel in the Crown. The Duchess takes the hurt, pain, sorrow, fear, abandonment, betrayal and neglect puts them into their separate boxes, pushes those boxes into various compartments and stores them away until such time as those emotions are needed then she bids Pandora release the demi-gods to the winds of time.

Royalty never asks the approval of minions. Shes does what she wants. When she wants. Never looking back. Thus the writer & artists take wings soaring above pettiness, jealousy & emotional slaveholders. Middle-fingers up……………………………

The Workers Leave No Footprints


Dreams Never Die

Misty Foggy Morn

Youth said “Dreams Never Die.” Twenty years passed then Recession kicked in. New Realities were born. Twelve hour workdays became the norm.

Like a drowning man Dreams surfaced again and again only to plummet down to the watery deep. All the while knocking at 1% door watching them through one-sided window laugh, play, drink and party with no thought for the ‘Morrow’. We the unseen only imagining free time for our dreams.

Dreams that must wait until Social Security beckons if death does not reach us first. Fore bread, water, warm clothes and a place to live cry louder. Goodnight Sweet Dreams. May you one day resurrect to a New Dawn.

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The Working Poor Leave No Footprints

Surrounded by a plethora of people who seemed to surface like bloated corpses after spring thaw.  Worker bees we are all meaningless specks of dust being recklessly scattered by blustery winds.  Modern day Robber Barons throw battle weary soldiers back into the battle while they sit sipping tea in Ivory Towers.  Thirty-seven years a professional, now placating rot breath Sabbath suits long in tooth, visions of Mammy dancing in their heads.  Limestone Liver spotted wrinkled bone bags befoul the air with endless demands.  Dontcha know Miz Daisy learned to drive herself and the Help all went to the French Rivera.

Foggy Misty Morn

I am Hagar cast out of my prosperous household, denied by the Master and Mistress I once served.  Thrown out of my protectors’ house my Dream-child and I await Our Avenging Angel of Salvation.

My Dreams now dead buried under work obligations, mountains of rules and regulations that I seem to constantly violate just by being. No miracles exist for me. Only years of mindless drudgery ahead.  Millennial Overseers govern my every move with their remote control mind games.  Freedom lies dormant within my imagination.  My brain has been put out to pasture because intelligence is not needed or wanted and creativity has become a sin.  Automaton Me clad in nondescript dull uniform easily replaceable by the next set of hungry hands yearning for the pence dispensed from the rich mans table.  Hey!! Who’s next up on the Auction Block?!!  Come lock step into the Plantation Mausoleum filled with objects which are valued more than drones who guard them.  We be Aliens in our own Land.  Serfs never reaping a hard earned Harvest.

Yet soon a New Day will Dawn, Dreams will bear fruit and Visions be reborn.

Baby Boy


He looked like an Angel albeit a broken Angel splayed out on the cold marble floor. His head at angles with his twisted body along with his staring unseeing eyes extinguished any hope that the embers of life still burned within him.  The earth came up to meet him and swallowed him into the heavens.  The Benjamins make a poor parachute.

Cupid shot by his own Arrow.
Cupid shot by his own Arrow.

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Baby Boy

Baby Boy Got $200 sneakers as a reward for cussing the teachers and failing in school. Teacher or principals fault. Grades all F but it ain’t me you fucked up can’t you see! School’s for Fools. Some place I don’t want to be.

Baby Boy he never wrong. They got it all mixed up seeing me strong. Y’all know I’m the King of my crew. God’s Gift to everything.

But in the back of your head all you can see is yo’ no count Daddy, welfare system and crackhead Momma staring back in the mirror saying you gonna be like me.

Hanging out in the upper class nabe with my hoodrat crew. See a few things I wanna take. Wait a minute! What’s that I hear! A siren in back of me. Starting to fear. Next thing I’m on Lock down in Juvie Hall. Where my crew at now when as I’m taking this fall.

Baby boy lying in a ditch. Worse off than being a Snitch. Off to Rikers’ to be somebody’s Bitch. Baby Boy. You Done. You Done.

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His rhymes had got him to the big time. Opened new doors of upper class vice and sin. The immoralities of the 1%. I gazed at my son from the balcony of one of the greatest art institutions in the city seeing not the young man who had entered the 27 Club of the Immortals but every little boy running up and down Linden Blvd., Jamaica Avenue, Fulton Street or Sedgwick Avenue running to be the next 50 cent or Jay-Z finding fame and winding up on 27 Jump Street misjudging the doubles lives one foot in the hood and the other on Central Park West or the Upper East Side seeking Hipster fame and validation.

Jump my Son/Sun. Jump out of your dreams and into Eternity.

Optical Illusions


Angels Falling
Angels Falling

When I was a little girl during the 1960s my mother had a love affair with Better Homes & Gardens and House Beautiful magazines. However try as she might and my Mom was an excellent decorator (I believe she missed her calling) with two kids, a husband who smoked and various dogs our house was never as clean or as orderly as those pictured in the magazines.  Periodically my 4’11”  95 lb mother would move those big heavy 1950s furniture from one end of the living room to the next causing my father great consternation when he tripped over tables or chairs that seemed to magically appear usually around Midnight when he got home from his late shift.

Though the houses and rooms were beautiful, they were only beautiful in an anti-septic, unlived in way.  Pure white living rooms untouched by jumping muddy dogs, kids with drippy Popsicles, or cans of Rheingold and Schaefer beer cans making little rings on the end tables.

Everything is arranged, after all those pictures are photo shoots put together for maximum impact to the readers.  Kitchens where nary a fried chicken or pork chop popped grease or soup boiled over.  No cans of Crisco sitting on the counter-top. No spilled glasses of Kool-Aid, Orange Crush, Coca-Cola or Pepsi.

No smells of fish and chittlin’s being cleaned or bugs flying in from the holes in the ratty screens we put in the windows during the summer because we had no air conditioning.  The pop and sizzle of the steel straightening comb being pulled through my Ultra Sheen saturated nappy kinky hair on a Saturday night in preparation for Sunday school in the morning.

 

Too perfect and we all know that life is not perfect.  I like furniture to have character. Those little cracks, dents and chips give an openness and appeal that utter perfection cannot rival.

18th Century Masonic Chair
18th Century Masonic Chair
Perfect sterile Kitchen
Perfect sterile Kitchen

 

My family’s lives were not perfect. We were and are real people with real lives. Nothing is staged. My mother was a functioning schizophrenic alcoholic, my Dad was in a job that he found not fulfilling, my brother was born with Autism, I’ve battled depression since my teen years. No there are no picture perfect lives here. But now I’m no longer afraid or ashamed of my battle scars. I wear them proudly.  I’ll take the nitty-gritty, those who society has deemed damaged goods, the unloved, the unwanted, the back alleys and the under belly of the business district at night, inner-city over Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous any day. I’m Blessed to be a Broken Angel.

Broken Angel
Broken Angel

 

As for disability Jesus said it best, John 21:18
Common English Bible (CEB)
18 I assure you that when you were younger you tied your own belt and walked around wherever you wanted. When you grow old, you will stretch out your hands and another will tie your belt and lead you where you don’t want to go.”

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