Hello wonderful readers/poets,
I apologize for my silence these last few weeks. Life has been happening at a ferocious speed. What am I saying exactly? Does life happening outside this page prevent scheduled postings? Does it mean that when I post or stay here that I have no life? For answers to this circuitous situation, please visit my literary blog at  http://literarynomad11.wordpress.com/. Thanks for visiting!

Sincerely,
Frances Ohanenye
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A Hip Thing

The confident walker

Was not born that cool

Ungainly stops and starts

The infancy of inexperience

Pays toll with leg’s challenges

Dropping coins in tollbox of experience

The teenager’s sass in steps

Ain’t seen nothing yet

Need to put in miles of life’s lessons

The twenty-something’s swagger

At the start of race of responsibilities

Gained job’s required walking

Ain’t seen nothing yet

Confidence rises like water

At calibration’s perfect punctuation

Rising with lessons’ speed

This confident walker has stories to tell

Not born that cool but increasingly so

Arriving now in forties with confident swagger

A boatload of all requirements exceeded

Confidence found its way to the hip

A mind of its own, to sway, sashay

A hip thing it is

The hip has taken over

 

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

My Last Dime

Newly minted for shine

Tossed, turned, tenderly regarded

The proverbial last dime

Purchased scarce commodities

Lassoed heaven to earth

Delivered the unreachables

My proverbial last dime

The umbrella against thunderstorms

The deluge-scaling boat

Roof-top sanctuary against floods

My never-ending last dime

Secured penny-stock securities

Stopped leaks in life

Advanced classism to next rung

Draped designer frocks at the drop

Reeled in necessities at the brink

My never-ending last dime

Tossed, turned, tenderly regarded

Heads, life is livable

Tails, livable is life

Newly minted for shine 

 


--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Painting Circle

I painted them brown

Framed them in white

To reach those perched up there

Who must come down

I stood back with pride

Such handiwork finished

By a woman not handy

But the brown got on the white

And the white got on the brown

I dabbed on the brown

A makeup artist’s blemish cover

It got on the white

I dabbed on the white

To conceal my imperfection

It got on the brown

I dabbed on the brown

It got on the white

When will this end?

How will this end?

 


--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Anthony

My father’s right-hand man

Decades did not change humility

Civility learned a lesson from him

Who knew not to express own beliefs

Who knew not to profess superiority

Of education, attitude, and future

But sat, year in year out

Devising his own way to count

Money gushed like open dam daily

Wealth he counted, no salivation

Sponge in a tub of water served him

Money dried his fingers crisp

Caused phalanges to hurt

Counting all that money with spittle

Coming by way of tongue-slicked fingers

He counted all that money

Disseminated parts of fractions

Carried all instructions humbly

Invented service before it spread

Distance polarized our relationship

Never got a chance to declare openly

Bottomless gratitude cherished

Thank you for decades of service

Humble, easy going, respectful

I hope respect returned itself to him fully

Thank you so much for tolerating

Nine children and uncountable relatives 

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

A Lie Becomes the Truth (Reloaded)

Frances @ 165 pounds

I am woman given to delusions of slimness
I am woman given to whims of fancy
Society expects no lie but with exceptions
Women hold fibbing license with boldface
Too lax, too lazy to work at its achievement
The chant I offered to those demanding
Once upon a time, 130 was mine to sway
Sauntering with a model’s insouciance
Fitted with a model’s draped egoism
Accelerator sped with 168-pound calories
Birth and deaths shoveled fatty tissues
They failed to ask my desire and piled high


The yardstick of validity


In retrospect, 130 was a skeleton walking
 I wanted meat on bone for man to hold
I wanted holding place for man to pull
No fear of breaking me in half, should he
Declared my weight 150 with bold face
 Repeating many times, I bought belief
Chancing a glancing in that crystal ball
Showed clearly the achievement of a lie
No stopping now when lie becomes truth
Next stop, my weight 145, now a lie
Will become the truth one day soon  



Achieving a Lie

That fat lie a slim truth did become

The yardstick of validity, a dress dotted
Hung in my closet, a secret resolve
How did such a magic come about?
I’m grateful to corn and wheat intolerance
Those two bullies achieved my goal
Now, the lie once told with a boldface
Has become the truth at sassy 145
Therefore, your honor, I rest my case  


At 145

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Slow-Motion Leaf

This poem is featured in Geogia's Best Emerging Poets
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Two sided mirror is the window of contentment

To see, to admire, both views of misconduct

Unlike the police department’s biased vision

Thin veiled inquisition drapery hangs

Giving uninterrupted view of curiosity

Of paraders on one side preening

Seen, but can not see  

Standing captivated and bereft

Watching it through window of contentment

Two sided mirror of voyeurism

I see it; it sees me without pause

Gliding slowly, broad view fanning

The noon sun puts it through tanning

Natural x-ray machine thins veins

Through paper smeared margarine drapery

Through blinds purchased with irony

Projected clearly for admiration

Every vein, every sharp edge

Splayed through private slide

Splayed through private screen

This leaf, autumn’s paint brush

Meta-morphed into seven shades

One leaf, seven shades, nature painted

Most prominent of the four, autumn

Paints earth tones and greens

Gliding, unhurried, leisurely down

As if lowered by a spider’s web

As if lowered by a puppeteer’s deception

Slowly it spiraled, pirouetted, paused

Downward gracefully, a swan’s pose

It glided, pausing for my breath to catch

Leaving me changed, pensive

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

First Book to Be Published Next Month!

Posted on August 7, 2012 by literarynomad11 (Frances Ohanenye)

 

I am working with BookBaby to release my first book on a long list of my writing adventures. This one, The Waters Family Chronicle, combines a very unique approach to teaching bodies of water with narrating a story about naming “children.”

This book brings a fresh and fun look to storytelling with clues and hints that get the brain popping. Students and all teachers of social studies, get your computer and brain ready to outdo Sherlock Holmes.

The Waters Family Chronicle is going on sale on Amazon early next month (September). Reserve your copy today!

Please visit my Facebook Author Page; click "like.": https://www.facebook.com/pages/Author-Frances-Ohanenye/348583808554457

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Vocabulary I Do Not Want

An oncologist, well trained

Her acquaintance I wish not to make

A bond leads to block-sucking end

Cardiopulmonary resuscitation

Its acquaintance I wish not to make

Pummeled to the ground, my end

Mr. Heimlich, his maneuver, spare me

His acquaintance I do not want

Grabbed in his embrace may be my end

A pathologist, well trained

His association I wish not to make

Consorting with him pronounces me dead

These and other death familiar words

I do not want a relationship with

Familiarity will spell my doom

 


--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Proud Parent Xing

An ambitious child delivers always
Accolades, pride, respect, recognition
Showered on the hard work of parents

Invitations arrive clockwork like

To orchestrated events honoring
The child achieving feats of challenges

It arrived and beckoned an appearance

To witness the glorification of mine
The stubborn crowd gridlocked

Like ancestral Moses with staff

I parted the Red Sea with breeze of fragrance
I parted the Red Sea with a hat of sass
I parted the Red Sea with a sway of hips
And with dignified chants of three words
Like ancestral Moses with the wand
The Red Sea I parted with gladness
Allowing this peacock a passage
Serenaded on this grand occasion

Avery moving confetti

An amazing recognition
An awed glory unto God
Raising this child for me
Raising her in His image
--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

I Am from (Remix)

I am from winding roads worn by feet

Green arms slapping me for getting too close
I am from fire chewing into coldness
Paved asphalt broken by potholes
I am from colorful attires, high head scarves

I am from fresh baked dome bread
Signature recipe, marrying yeast and wheat
I am from fireside stories handed down
Carefully protected in colorful wrappers
I am from ringing cash registers singing
Filling wisdom and bank accounts
I am from snap crackle sharpness of respect
Daring the young to be saucy or sassy

I am from fruits thudding at dawn, maturing
Freed from nature’s arms to independence
I am from blazing fires shielding me
From harmattan’s mouth-filled coldness
Heat lotions my skin with calmness
Cuddled in a warm parental embrace

I am from inside protective cocoa pods
Sweet, fresh, mushy exports to the needy
Attesting to sun’s tireless hard work
I am from sugary pastries salivating my songs
I am from the land of kings connected
Man’s oldest civilization fully grown
Reincarnated, growing anew as a child

I am from where the sun likes to hang around
Creating thirty-three hues of humanity
I am from lineage staying connected, tracing
Generations to hundreds without technology
Alas, new age broke the chains that bound

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.