Thoughts Of Free Spirit

www.carlenespiritroberts.com

Support The Fight Against The Spread Of HIV/AIDS

Posted

 

I'm positive.

 

Like that first kiss felt.

 

Like...

 

when he told me about

 

annual medical check-ups

 

and monogamous relationships.

 

Even listening to him

 

speak on his "healthy lifestyle" habits

 

seemed comforting.

 

Perhaps, my hips

 

made the truth slip

 

beyond recognition.

 

And so we continued...

 

kissing.

 

The momentum seemed more

 

promising than the 98%

 

chance of me living.

 

If

 

I

 

used

 

a

 

Condom.

 

Seven months later,

 

anual visits turned into

 

monthly trips to the specialist.

 

I

 

am

 

positive.

 

But not like how

 

that first kiss felt.

 

Like now,

 

it's too late

 

to be conscious

 

about reaching for the protection.

 

Instead of whats under his belt.

 

Cause now...

 

I'm laid to rest

 

with the rest

 

of his truth.

 

Left In The Morning

Posted

They always leave in the morning.

Before busy traffic hover over street lanes and highways.

They are gone like last night.

Like last night was a fantasy

and this mornings empty bed brings me back to reality.

Their memory is faded in to my poetry.

Written off like taxes.

And the only credit I them is

for my midnight happiness.

But my commitments are different at day break.

I never initiated them to stay.

Even the morning quickie is quickly time in their departure.

I never offered a menu for a late lunch.

Maybe it was me, why such mornings were so temporary.

No day light courtesy.

Maybe that was as far as my expectancy went.

Maybe if I went and made space for their shoes in my closet

instead next to the closest exit.

Maybe if I hung their picture on my mantle by my keep sakes.

Or awake with fresh fruits, whole grain pancakes, and maple.

Maybe they would have been able to stay for a Saturday afternoon stroll.

Or even forever.

 

20 Things To Do Before I Die

Posted

A few things I want to accomplish before God takes me. No particular order.

1. I want to fall "IN love" because I feel like one of my greatest tragedies would be never to have felt that feeling.

2. I want to bungee jump or sky dive.

3. I want to visit the Holy Land & the Mother Land.

4. I want to do humanitarian/mission trips to third world countries to sooth dying babies, feed the hungry, educate mothers/fathers, and hug those that feel like they are not loved.

5. I want to do whats right AND righteous.

6. I want to go to a KKK meeting and tell them that I love them.

7. I want to be there for all of my children's accomplishments.

8. I want to live in another country... I am soooo sick of the United States.

9. I want to go to a festival that is like Woodstock... since I ever made it to Woodstock... I was not born as yet.

10. I want to build a Museum for poets.

11. I want to pose nude... tasteful nude, for a Christian magazine.

12. I want to completely learn to play an instument.

13. I want to marry an artist.

14. I want to tell O.J. that he did it and best thing he could do right now is to repent and ask God for forgiveness.

15. I want "complete" freedom of speech to say exactly.

16. I want to do a duet with Paul McCartney, Yoko Ono, Babyface, & the Wu Tang, my cousin (Sammy Keys),

17. I want to go to a nudest colony for vacation... with my husband.

18. I want to get over my fear/issue of sleeping by myself.

19. I want an afro as big as Diana Ross

20. I want to do all these things on this list and be a disciplined Christian woman at the same time.

Falling In Love With A Poet

Posted

Falling In Love With A Poet

I want to fall in love with a poet.

No a prophet.

I want to hear love softer

Than a child's laughter.

I want to feel love deeper

Than seas struck by Tsunami's.

This is my spirituality.

This is me before and after Christianity.

 

This is me believing that churches

 

Belong on nude beaches,

 

With us on the bleachers

 

Consummating our faith.

 

Never have I fell in love

 

With an existence beyond mortality.

 

I live and die in his presence.

 

And possibly his essence will be my scent.

 

I am confident to say that

 

I have never been in love before

 

His prophecies spoke to me.

 

This is my energy

 

Lost in songs and poems with out words.

 

Just rhythm.

 

I often wonder if this is my sanity jaded.

 

Or fading from lost emotions.

 

Rusted,

 

From corrosions with miscellaneous sex

 

And compromised kisses.

 

This time I will lay completely naked within his presence,

 

In scriptures.

 

In dreams pictured in marriage.

 

When I salvage for inspiration

 

To complete my stanzas.

 

I will accept his touches.

 

Answer his questions about the

 

Other handprints on my bosoms.

 

I will tell him the truth

 

They were lessons to get me to my blessing.

 

Him.

 

I explained, "Even though these handprints are like wounds,

 

How else would I have identified your truth?"

 

He continued.

 

Performing our expressions into miracles.

 

Turing my reality into circular poems

 

In the middle of my nature.

 

No one has reached that far before.

 

Turning time beyond 24 hours.

 

I will lay naked every night

 

To accept more of his wisdom.

 

Be apart of his kingdom,

 

Where nothing will come before his God

 

Or me

 

His Queen.

 

As a child, I seen him in fairytales

 

And later in life in my intuitions.

 

I am waiting

 

Inpatient.

 

Still holding the deepest part of my intimacy,

 

Sacred for my poet.

 

No my prophet.

"The Rhythm"

Posted

I got that rhythm.
Passed down from my
great
great
great grandmother's
great
great
great grandmother's
grandmother
on my mamma
mamma side.
Old school rock, rock, rockin it.
Like underground basement
parties in Brooklyn .
Shiftin like B-Girls pop locking
breaking stereo types.
The rhythm smooth like your hands
maneuvering that 6 on the ceelo dice.
Hype like wen went back to cassette tapes
and Spinderella push, push, pushin
little girls egos before low self esteem sets in.
Women, we are everything.
Like the rhythm free styling through generations.
Through great, great, great depressions.
Living through children resurrecting children.
Learning lessons, like every snap shop of my M.O.M.
is a Moment Of Motivation.
Through her smiles that hide the struggle.
Through wrinkles that reveals her wisdom.
Through wombs that snuggles eternity.
I got my great, great grandmothers beauty.
I got the hip-hop,
the hip, hip, hop.
I got the hip-hop,
the hip, hip, hop.
All in tune like a symphony.
The rhythm marching like
oppressed hearts crossing desegregation.
Like Diane Nash leading the SNCC students.
Like Elaine Brown leading the Panthers.
The rhythm like African drummers leading a spiritual cypher.
I got the rhythm passed down from my ancestors.
A reincarnated soul of every domestic violence victim.
All my sisters that witnessed our brothers lynching.
Wives that waited for their husbands to get back from Vietnam
and now wait again for their sons to get back from Iraq .
Strong enough to resist prostitution, temptation, and addiction
in our lowest moments.
From being submissive to owning corporations.
Ask Oparah, ask Maya Angelou, ask Jessica Care Moore.

Ask me, Sug, or Deidre the mothers of Diversity Poet Educators.

Ask all the other sisters of grass root organizations.

The Rythem even cross nations.

Ask Ann Frank, ask Mother Theresa,

ask the two Mary's that nurtured Jesus destiny.

The Rhythm, even gets mixed up in political controversy.

For that you can ask Condalisa.

Cause we have all sort of rhythms.

Passed down from my
great
great
great grandmother's
great
great
great grandmother's
grandmother
on my mamma
mamma side.

"Habit"

Posted

I have a boyfriend now.
I am not saying this to brag.
But they say that it takes
3 months to form a habit.
So lets just say for over a year,
I have indulged
Heavily in single hood.
Now, in too deep in lonely rituals,
I wonder which is most comfortable for my life style.
Tamed but wild,
Am insecure of myself.
Maybe afraid of loosing myself
In some one else.
Or having him getting lost in parts of myself.
I think of those lonely nights and my nipples get hard.
And I think of those lonely nights and my clitoris gets moist.
Because I think of those lonely nights,
When I wanted to be touched in parts lost to pain.
Parts lost to men with the same face.
They're all too familiar.
Each taking a particular piece of my sanity.
Each adding to my insecurity
and the need to vent my soul out in this poetry.
I am safe with my lonely nights, my pen, and my wet dreams.
Safe with my silent prayers when it seemed like
God was saving me for this revolution.
That has yet to come.
Like I am yet to cum from parts
afraid to climax past the last promises never kept.
Because his handprints don't fit the imprints on my privates.
He is not familiar not yet maybe never.
Maybe, I am not wet enough for him to breech my broken hymen.
I am still silent and insecure of my self.
Maybe he deserves more of a woman
less in the evolution of her black pride.
Or maybe that could hide behind her hesitations.
Like how I am hesitant about this commitment.
I have been misled before.
I've been fed that romantic propaganda.
More often than I feed my sorrows in my poetry.
I am hungry,
Like how my words are empty.
But these are my insecurities
And I am afraid of them.
Anxious that they will one day
corrupt my decisions.
Like one day, leaving him.
For those lonely nights
Wet and unabsorbed.
So I am forced to face this irony,
that I have a boyfriend.
And in three months maybe he can mold me
Like how God molds the curves on my body.
They are forever.
Like my vague past.
I am still naked and I want him.
Like a feen's eyes on a crack vile.
He can be my habit.
His hands like my blanket.
Absorbing my cumming.
Touching me.
Touching me.
Touching me.

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Poet_Spirit
  • Location: Virginia Beach, VA
  • Age: 32
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