Soul in Verse
by
Michelle D. Hudson
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PUBLISHED BY:
Michelle D. Hudson on Smashwords
Soul in Verse
Copyright © 2011 by Michelle D. Hudson
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work. All material is the original work of Michelle D. Hudson.
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Dedication
Soul in Verse is dedicated to the dreamer who embraces the reality of God’s infinite grace.
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Soul in Verse
Poetic Freestyle
Alas, I know what’s eating the Gilbert Grape inside me:
I’m starved for creativity.
No inspiration to envision a future beyond the present.
Presents, glee, and bales of holly cloud my reality all year long.
A distraction from the silence of hope -- the deafening sound of failure.
Fearful that new ideas pale before the last success ... of long ago.
So much stress heaped upon my weary chest.
Tempted to don a big wig and wear shorts up my ass.
Sell my soul for the glitz and glam of fame.
But, I’m not made that way. From my true self, I cannot stray.
So, I lay in wait. Wait for the essence of truth.
The greatest woman since Ruth, I erect my Queendom among men.
Wreak havoc upon ignorance and slaughter language that disparages.
Ah, yes, I’m starved.
So, I feast upon my dreams.
Constructing my own realities.
Open
I want to kiss this man.
Allow him in. Put my heart in his hand.
I’ve seen his vision of which decisions are not his own,
But that of God; with Jesus at the forefront of his home.
Assured that I’ll be more than his queen.
A lover and a confidant, with me he’d never be ashamed to be seen.
For his worth doesn’t lie in me but in the one who created we.
Unabashed, this man stands triumphant. See,
His love is a sincere gift. No penalties. No fees.
Just a desire to take me around the world and across the seven seas.
Tasting the delicacies of humanity while
Remaining true to ourselves and our God. No need to fear, honey child.
We don’t try.
We do ... with no regret. Hearts full. Eyes dry.
Allow him in. Put my heart in his hand.
I want to kiss this man.
In An Instant
Just yesterday we dined
in jubilant delight
With dear family home for the holiday.
Baby’s
first words, commencement talk, and spirits alight!
Just yesterday
we dined in jubilant delight.
But half a day away, an entire city
washed away overnight.
Hundreds dead. And counting. For Japan, we
pray.
Just yesterday, we dined in jubilant delight
With dear
family home for the holiday.
Cleanse
My breath pushes
against the water
As it seeps into my gaping mouth.
An
involuntary bodily response
For the will to fight evades
me.
Lying in a bathtub of running water,
I am alone with
my thoughts –
Ghastly images of things
Gone astray:
The
exquisitely folded letter terminating me
Though keen in mind but
deficient in youth.
The intimate, sensual lovers kiss
Between
my husband and my best friend.
The jabbing pains emitting from
my womb,
A bare den that suffocates all life.
The aged and
chipped crucifix,
Whose comfort escapes me.
Air bubbles
glide along the crimson water
Near my nostrils, passages to a
hollow vessel.
The razor rests on my trembling thigh
As the
severed arm clings to my chest.
My eyes flutter as they
attempt to close.
In this moment, I abandon life led by the
flesh.
It shall be God's way this time. Not mine.
If
I get up, Father, please see me through.
Fruitful Love
Good morning, my
love.
Sorry I could not be by your side
At sunrise. In my
absence,
I offer the navel orange
Upon which this letter
lay.
Plain and unassuming,
The succulent fruit
Was less
than a dollar.
Picked along with four others
From a mound
at the grocery.
No flourish. No fuss.
Just raw
sustenance.
Consider the citrus treat
As you ponder our
emprise.
Boutiques are pleasing,
But I prefer the rose
tint
Of your cheeks
When I whisper in your ear.
The
smell of perfume delights
Though not as sensually
As your
pungent musk.
I would even forgo
Your naïve dismemberment
of French
At Galatoire’s – whose menu is written in English
–
For your grilled bratwurst.
My dear, I would
savor
Every line of your a-a-a-a-a poetry
Over the clarity of a
random excerpt
From Keats’s Bright Star.
This
Valentine’s Day
My only wish
Is to revel in our love.
The
love echoed in your voice
And mirrored in your eyes
At the
sight of my imperfect smile.
The fourteenth of February
Is
merely a day,
But our love
Withstands the ravages of a
lifetime.
Plain and unassuming
Yet succulent and
substantive,
Our love is the fruit of life,
My
Daily
Valentine.
Tonight
The shrill, deafening
cry
Jolts Brenda from deep repose.
Her body lurches
forward.
Bedding falls astray.
Eyes –
Frantic and
wild against the darkness –
Search in desperation.
Breathing
quickens as sanity returns.
Brenda knows where she is.
She
recognizes the feel
Of the cold, empty bed.
She
recognizes the cry.
The grave cry of a child's innocence.
It's
the toll her daughter pays
For daddy's manic love
And mama's
cowardice.
Like many demented nights before,
Brenda’s
hand gropes beneath the covers.
Her fingers tingle
At the cool
touch of the revolver.
Father God, Give me the strength, she
prays,
To exorcise my husband's demons!
To free my baby girl
from the hell
I've delivered her into!
It comes again:
That shrill, deafening cry.
Returning the revolver to its
safe place,
Brenda falls upon her knees
And wrings the rosary
about her dank neck.
Hail, Mary. Full of grace.
The Lord is
with thee.
Blessed art thou among women,
And blessed is the
fruit ...
It comes once more:
That shrill, deafening
cry.
The fruit of thy womb ...
Oh, God! My baby. My
child,
Brenda sobs uncontrollably.
Loudly but not loud
enough
To silence the wails of
That shrill, deafening
cry.
Quivering lips kiss the rosary
While Brenda’s
trembling hands
Retrieve the revolver.
Language
naked words:
blind
and boastful.
the harangue of a fool,
who dies with every
unfettered
syllable.
incapable of perception
beyond his
own pain
and toward the beauty
of a kind, compassionate
word.
I Remember
The 3-bedroom, shotgun
house
in Algiers, Louisiana.
My dainty bedroom,
the
brown rocking horse,
and the Dr. Seuss books.
The large bed
--
devoid of rest
for the nun watched
as the witch rode my
back.
After eavesdropping, hearing
the ominous, old
neighbor’s tales
about Christ,
black magic, candles, and
witches.
Then, there was
my mother.
Her brown body
lumped on the floor,
air escaping her grasps
as my 10-year-old
self
stood nearby.
Terrified.
Decades later,
above
the murmur of life,
it’s mom's loving voice
I hear.
Crystal-clear.
Enveloping me
when the 10-year-old
resurfaces --
shaken and lonely.
Deafening the sounds
of
failure and despair,
my mother’s loving voice
is a beacon of
comfort.
Resurrecting hopefulness
for the battle-weary
yet
resilient woman
who lived as a child in
the 3-bedroom,
shotgun house
in Algiers, Louisiana.
A Word
A word
Could
sever
Our bond
As friends.
So, I suffer
In silence.
In
the shadows
Of desire.
Forsaking
Your sensual touch
For
the depth
Of your heart.
Never once
Uttering aloud
The
word
"Lover."
But in cowardice,
Sticking
to
"Friend."
Dear One
Springy blades of grass cushion my back as my outstretched arms balance you
against the sun’s bending light. Reflected in your diminutive face are glimpses of
Harriet Tubman, Sarah Vaughan, Coretta Scott King. Fannie Lou Hamer and
Maya Angelou. I also see my lineage. My mother, whose inspiration breathes
within me. My mother’s mother, whom I only know through family fables.
I see me, too. Not me at your age but me now. Holding you until you can walk.
Treading behind you until you fall. Then, sitting with you until you find your way
back onto your feet. Yes, me and all the women before me reside within you,
my daughter. Their struggles and their determination making you resilient. Bold.
I hold you against the sky – a measure of your divinity. For you – my daughter
and God's radiant light – are born into greatness. Into the hope of a new day.
His Love
Pungent and
masculine,
His odor feeds the nostrils
And heightens
The
body’s anticipation.
Muscular yet slender,
His open
legs
Distract
The eye.
Fueling sultry sexuality.
Baritone
voice lures prey
To his gaping mouth –
Inviting, full
lips.
Attractive?
Unquestionably so,
For his words carry
The
girth and depth
Of wisdom, intelligence,
And
vision.
Titillated, enticed
And entranced, yet
Desiring
more
Than an encounter.
Yes,
His love
Is worth the wait.
Prayer for The Fallen
My heart languishes in
agony for great is its despair.
Faith, are you strong enough to
bear the weight of my burdens?
Though I have given so much and
come so far,
My heart languishes in agony, for great is its
despair.
Fate, when you looked upon my life, is this what you
saw?
A weathered, defeated soul crying,
“My heart languishes
in agony, for great is its despair!
Faith ... are you strong
enough to bear the weight of my burdens?”
The Choice
Broken, defeated,
And
abandoned by kinsmen,
Surrender and die?
Or, stand and fight
fearlessly?
Sending foes to their own Hell!
Blue Chaos
I saw Papa Smurf in Subway today.
Taller than expected, the blue, shirtless man
Barked at the pubescent sandwich artist:
“Blueberries on honey oak, damn it!”
Trembling, the kid
uttered,
“I've already told you. We don’t carry blueberries,
sir.”
Expletives flew from Papa’s foaming mouth
With
spittle peppering his white beard.
“Would you like a
Meatball Marinara or a Veggie Delight?
May be a Spicy BMT?”
offered the youth.
Papa pulled his red trousers over his
head
And assumed a prostrated position.
Incoherent words
emitted from the red clump.
The walls and floors rattled. Sandwich
toppings danced.
“Ma’am,” said the youngster, noticing
me for the first time,
“I’ll be with you in a minute. Sir,
what’s your order?”
To this, Papa Smurf emerged from his
pants. Red-eyed.
“I’m out!” I announced as I dashed for
the door,
But shock held me at the threshold.
Radiant in a
mauve tailored suit, the blonde-hair Smurfette
Stood on the outer
side of the glass door.
Upon seeing her, Papa Smurf sighed and
quiet descended.
“What are you doing?” questioned the blue
diva.
Now diminutive in stature, Papa Smurf stuttered,
“It’s
what, what Sassette ... you know, what Sassette said –”
“What?
Seriously, Papa, all male smurfs have blue balls!”
The sandwich
artist and I giggled until Papa flashed us a glare.
“Now, leave
these fine people to go about their business,”
Commanded
Smurfette. “And order me a blueberry on wheat.”
“We
don’t sell blueberries,” chirped the kid.
The air thinned and
Smurfette’s luscious locks turned red.
“I’m out!” I
announced as I dashed for the door.
“Wait for me!” called Papa
Smurf.
The Suit Scoff’s
“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!”
Yells a hobbit of a man
into an ivory megaphone,
Spreading the Good News at a busy
intersection.
Shiny leather shoes of businessmen scurry
In
calculated, strategic steps. Hoping to avoid the repetitious drone:
“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!”
With
deals to seal, the cry of the day is, “Hurry! Hurry!”
There is
money to be made in this world. Descend from your throne --
Spreading
the good news at a busy intersection.
The race is won by those
who conquer this world’s worry,
Retorts the businessmen, not by
scripture-quoting fools! Swallow your own pill, clone:
'Repent,
for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!'
Who do you think you
are, self-righteous sage? My judge? My jury?
Wealth reigns among
this Earthly kingdom as you sing your song,
Spreading the Good
News at a busy intersection.
Keep your vow of poverty. I’ll
take the homes, the money, the jewelry.
Scrimping now for “eternal
life”? Ha! You couldn’t be more wrong.
'Repent! For the
kingdom of heaven is at hand'?
Okay, you keep spreading the Good
News at a busy intersection.
My Humanity
Darky. Honky. Jew.
Does anyone see me? Do you?
When you see some of us, the witch hunt begins.
The blacks, the whites, and the religious finally unite
To spite me –
The homosexual. The fag. The dyke.
My heart aches. Aches because I don’t stand out.
You’d never think I’m gay.
So you say,
“Look how he walks?”
“Do you think she’s queer?”
I remain silent.
Afraid to speak up.
To shout.
To scream.
To punch.
To kick.
To cry.
To feel. Anything
To make you aware of
My humanity.
Sunlight, Go Away
Stealthily, I glide
from window to window,
drawing the blinds to shade the room –
our den of passion.
Preserving a night of lovemaking.
Like
your cologne, I slip beneath the bed linens
and cloak your
slumbering body.
Canvassing your chest with gentle
kisses,
arousing your senses.
Hoping to steal an extended
moment
in your tender embrace
before sunlight betrays me
and
dawn steals you away.
Mother’s Day Cinquain
Mother –
robust,
strong, hard.
The young raising the young
yet determined to be
the best
mother.
Gone soon.
Too soon for me.
Death
births eternal pain.
A motherless child I became.
Too soon.
My
life
overflowing
with memories of you:
cleaning, cooking,
baking … loving
me so.
My life
a reminder
of your
values and dreams:
a hopeful, bright future for
your
daughter.
Despite
adversary,
reaching deep
within me,
conjuring Maya Angelou:
“I rise.”
Soaring
beyond
other’s
expectations. Your child
child no more but a
confident
woman.
Today –
on Mother’s Day –
and
each and every day
thankful that you left me with life
lessons.
Ever
independent
but reliant upon
“The
Lord is my shepherd,” we read.
Amen.
Through prayer
you
gave me the
gift of reading though forced
to work, sacrificing
your own
schooling.
More than
reading I have
taken to
teaching youth.
To read, to seek, to value their
mothers.
With
God
you reside but
forever you linger
in my heart. I pledge
my love just
for you.
Today,
honored mother,
my
sweet, beloved mother,
I bid you Happy Mother’s Day,
Mama.
The Night
My fantasies live in the night.
Thriving heartily.
Transcending dreams.
Masquerading as supreme reality.
Quenching opportunities to be
richer, thinner, and smarter.
No hope of acquiring the countenance of a lady:
reserved, genteel, and quaint.
Even under the Sandman's spell,
my full-bodied laughter rattles silence and jolts the stars' luminance.
As the night covers me,
I stare at the endless sky
and consider my blessings.
A faint breeze arrives just in time.
Cooling my cheeks as tears stream.
Residue of an uncertain future;
fortified by hope in God's divine will and abiding grace.
In the midst of turmoil,
a smile spans my face.
For the night promises a new dawn.
Another chance. Not to get it right but to face life.
And live in truth. Awake
with the sole mission
to simply be
authentically
happy.
Down South Evening
The mauve sky hangs low. Spilling into the tepid Mississippi River.
Casting a faint shallow of little tikes sliding down an earthen levee.
Winds tangle their pigtails and afros while upon a worn cardboard box
The children float like genies upon a magical carpet; granting wishes of glee.
Down and down they coast until landing at the staccato feet of shiny legs --
Dancing to the pulsating trumpets and drums of the Rebirth Brass Band
Teeming from car speakers. Gyrating hips and bountiful backsides
Meet savage cries, declaring: "Do whatcha wanna!"
Uncle Russell twirls on one leg and pauses briefly before duck walking
Along splendid green grass. Extending his right arm, he invites Grandmother
To join the festivities. On rickety legs, the gray-hair woman dips and grinds.
Between pinching crawfish tails and sucking their heads,
Jubilant onlookers goad Grandmother to catch the beat.
Their boisterous chants usher in the night sky.
Ending a day of labor with unfettered, down home fanfare.
Now Mother And Child
The slow, winding trails of sweat navigate
from Allison’s temple down to her ear.
Expertly applied lipstick dissipates
as plum lips purse and press incessantly.
A hearty swallow pushes against fear.
Lips part, “Jennifer, I am your mother.”
Eighteen years her senior, aunt is mother.
Eighteen years of twisted tales navigate
into the salacious lie that kids fear:
All that you think you know, hears the young ear,
is no more. Heart's pain stings incessantly.
Forever crushed, the child’s trust dissipates.
And, as expected, love, too, dissipates.
“Now what?” roars Jennifer. “Talk! Talk, Mother!”
Tears hide behind wild eyes incessantly
darting from aunt to mom. To navigate
between love and betrayal. In her ear,
the words replay. Heightening anger and fear.
The loud silence fills the room, feeding fear.
Falling to her knees, facade dissipates.
Jennifer wails and tugs at her left ear.
How could Aunt Ally deny her a mother?
How could she allow her to navigate
through life mourning mom’s death incessantly?
Told her real mother died. Incessantly,
Aunt Ally and kin folks lied out of fear.
Always saying cancer cells navigate
stealthily. Quietly, life dissipates.
“The disease stole life from your dear mother,”
they would whisper in young Jennifer’s ear.
“Don’t fret, child. Lay your cares upon God’s ear.”
Now, Jennifer bellows incessantly.
Allison hugs her child. “I’m your mother.
The deception concealed my parents’ fear
of raising a teen mom.” Hate dissipates.
Love does not allow hate to navigate.
They navigate lies with an open ear.
Doubt dissipates. Hope reigns incessantly.
Despite fear, the child forgives ... her mother.
Being You
Everyone notices your fragile shell,
But we shall never blow your disguise –
Your defense against a self-imposed hell.
Everyone notices your fragile shell.
Behind your pristine affront, we hear the wail.
It must be exhaustive upon a pedestal held so high.
Everyone notices your fragile shell,
But we shall never blow your disguise.
Roles of Discourse
Dr. Tim Humphrey's heart hangs heavily
As he silently observes his daughter.
Feet encircled by a white paper sea –
Crumpled petitions that plead, try harder.
Waves of frustration furrow her damp brow.
A writer's toil to encase life in verse:
Judiciously depict a mourning Frau's
Glum promenade alongside her groom's hearse.
No, the doctor may not offer relief.
Once again, he must let his daughter grow.
Allow words to be of her own belief;
To rise and deliver the precise blow.
When the father is a poet himself,
He saves his words so the child finds herself.
Love Unconditional
Sometimes, I think about the men I've loved. And, I weep.
Regretting the love I wasted on their lust.
Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Mourns the lovelorn.
But, there had to be one -- at least one -- whose heart
was pure each time his lips uttered, "I love you."
Or, was he only mimicking my heart's desire? A most treacherous liar.
Telling me what I wanted to hear rather than what I needed to hear.
Selling me a woof ticket of loyalty and devotion
when I needed honesty and respect.
These men knew I wanted acceptance, so they listened. Attentively.
These men knew I wanted children, so they made love. Passionately.
These men knew I wanted them, so they promised me forever,
which expired when they tired of my neediness. My cry
for genuineness, permanence ... a hand in marriage.
Yes, when I think about the men I've loved, I weep!
For I haven't really loved. Haven't taken time to love me.
Be devoted to myself, first. Be honest about my sincerest yearnings:
to be relevant. To be acknowledged. To be loved ... for me.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The hands of Time mock me.
Years fleeing like doves across the leagues of my life.
Ah, but, alas, I rise the victor, Father Time! For I weep
no more. Not when I reflect upon how I now love myself
And only give my love to men who earn it. Who deserve it.
No longer shall men cause me undue grief. And make me weep.
Soul in Verse
Whether upon lined paper, the parchment of a journal
Or an incandescent computer screen, black words spill.
Revealing the voices and lives that abide within. Bashful
At times; brazen at others. Even hunted like the bluegill.
But never permitting a kill, for the soul in verse is agile
And honest in its depiction of humanity’s freewill.
Grappling with line breaks and rhymes, the soul battles
To enrich the mind and write many lives upon a playbill.
Act after act of innocence, woe, triumph, and prayerful
Drama, the soul rises victorious, looking towards the hills.
Thank you for reading my poetry. Hopefully, you
found something to spur the heart and the mind.
- Michelle