A City in My House

A city in my house lies in comfort

Blanket spreads with determination

Over earth’s moving immobility

So we can rest from blinks

Wide-eyed useful functions stall

The vista from plane’s altitude

Views a city half asleep, half nodding

Within natural darkness

And semi-sleeping houses

Is the city of my house

I navigate geography’s pencil marks

No hurtful eye blinders

Up the steps into the sanctuary

All is quiet now and still

So still paper's voice sounds screechy

No singing and dancing machines

Yet, I pause at unguarded entry

All at attention, saluting sharply

Caught unawares by resting machines

Who’ve quit singing and dancing

But would not, like humans, sleep

They stare unblinking, filled with caffeine

Pinpoints of light in the sky

As beauteous as the down view  

Forcing me to guess who was where

Making me guess what was near

These pinpoints of unnatural lights

Blink not as I blink not

--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 Name Is Deaf

 

Deafness has descended now

My name stopped hearing

No longer called

    In Memory of My Mother

No longer heard

Once glorified and proclaimed

Forever as silent as my dead

Deafness does not feel music

The lilt of my name

Bestowed on me lovingly

She who breathed life into it

A priceless crown jewel

On my head preciously placed

Only my mother, queen

Called it

No one else could sing its melody

Confetti of love and affection

Rained down in glory

Unique shades and feelings

On me when she sang it

Lost that legacy untimely

She took it with her

I mourn severally

I cry severally

My name is deaf 

My name is dead

--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.

Image from http://feedseniors.org

Chattahoochee River

Walking the trail

Rewarded by the view

Of soft gliding water

Going about its business

Into it I gazed, seeing the bottom

No longer the Chattahoochee

Flipping, it sent me

Back many years to girlhood

Straddling that river

My Nja-aba River

Coursing through proud veins

The river of my instruction

Father’s masculine voice booming

Chanting encouragement

For this girl to master that river

Float, immerse, swim, stroke

Conquer the river, father coaxed

Encouragement the elixir

Propelling me to be its mistress

Scaling tree branches

Jumping like a lioness into feet of river

Landing like a silvery fish

Into my Nigerian river, Nja-aba

Cradled gently like a babe just born

Through civil war of self-abuse

Three tribes against language and greed

Of dusk and dawn journeys

To refluent ebb and tide to bathe, fetch

To launder, fish, drink, play

To sustain a proud village

During childhood escapes of coolness

Away from the city’s clamor

I traveled beneath the Chattahoochee

Touching the other clear bottom

The pebbles, the dictator of color

Of my Nigerian river unlike this one

Brown from abuse and neglect

With trunks discouraging friendliness

Dissuading interaction

My Nigerian river, Nja-aba

One of several nourishments

Endowing proud banded people

--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.

An Ornament of Solace

Sitting on it defies the codes of its purpose

Defies the purpose of its existence

Dies the logic of its monetary expenditure

Meant to sit two, it sat none

It is the reminder of hopes not purchased

Of languid, windy days not experienced

Of loveseat’s unsatisfied requirement

Sitting on it defies the logic of its positioning

Out, front, center of my mind’s sense

It has never been sat on

It has never been visited

Still, joy it gives in its neglect

Being present is reason enough

Being absent creates a yearning, a void

An ornamental discontent

Yet an ornamental solace

Meant to sit two

Never did serve that accepted duty

For me, it has served plenty of purposes

--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.

Fighting With Food

Must I fight with food

My desire only to savor cooked

Why must I fight with food

Meat fried so hard the fork’s afraid

Some of Frances' favorite fruits

Knowing it cannot pierce outer layer

Fish fried dry to the bone

The oil feels so cheated

Demands its vanished self back

Noodle so tasteless

The dog spews all out in anger

The coffee so terrible

The mug jumps away fast

Refusing to be poured into it

Why must I fight with food

Potato salad so horrible

The bowl flips over the edge

Choosing to break itself instead

Why must I fight with food

I choose to avoid cooked hereon

I choose to eat raw vegetables

I choose to eat fruits, not drink them

No one can bungle raw

--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 Became the Truth

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 boldfacedly

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

The accelerator sped with fast calories

Birth and deaths shoveled fatty tissues

They failed to ask my desire and piled high

Future Frances @140 pounds

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

Why stop there? Next stop, 140

--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.

Dried Leaf Music

Dissonance was uninvited with discord partner

Rapture wanted sought-after invitation

What reached my sleepy ears

Hesitant chords of attempts at lilt

Turned me into an unwilling choir director

Imbuing, cajoling, a plucker of unwillingness

Cacophony acquired another name

Showing the struggle with sweet harmony

Not its fault, this insufficiency

Blown, scattered where they lay

Buffeted by nature’s powerful mouth’s air

Caused unpredictable migration

They landed where they landed

Unorganized orchestra of unawareness

No longer cosseted by lack of wind

Bullied into attempts at musicology

Discordance, the nature of their product

Caused the body to burrow, to find escape

To be spared, to be released from bondage

Helplessly bound in bedchamber

Shut eyes no shelter from inner turmoil

Not music, this apprentice’s jarring

Stingy rain droplets frustrate musical blend

No mellifluous perfection here

No blending of different sounds

Scattered drip-pause-drip of inconsistency

Chased sleep away with alacrity

This choir director failed woefully

Rain’s authoritarian dictatorship trumped

My gentle attempt at musical sanguinity

--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.

Winter’s Blows

Dressed in green attires they came, fresh from spring
Outstretched arms embraced me without discrimination

Cooling my forehead, restoring my calmness with songs

A newcomer in their compassionately fertile midst

Such hospitality would have made any mother proud

Tenderness glowed like fire’s love in me, affection radiated

Allowing life to be lived leisurely against the sun’s

Searing death, protected from neighborly telescopes

Eyes’ zooming intrusive lenses of inquisitiveness

Nature robs them boldly, exposed to cruel freezer limbs

Come naked, stripped, a victim of nature’s calendar

No fault of theirs, this inhospitability, frigid gasps from winter’s

Blows through paper-thin ribs and chest

They look helplessly at me, a willing recipient of tenderly

Love, a reluctant giver of tenderly love

How can I help them, victims of nature’s unransomed hostage?

My arms too short for a maternal protective shield

They have received such cruelty

Such subjection bleeds my heart

©2010FrancesOhanenye

--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 Car That Owns a House

She sat uncertain in front of the house she owns

Undeserving of the class, inherent heritage

A monstrosity of brick-by-brick finesse

Whipped cream carefully sandwiched

Tastefully assembled and stacked

A toothsome gluing of generations’ legacy

She sat undeserving of forced ascension

Cheap, loud, and banged

She sat uncertain

Diminutive, low quality’s showpiece

Metallic scrap though fairly new

She sat undeserving in front of the house she owns

I guess she was an afterthought

Don’t you hate when that happens?

--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.

THE QUILT LOVER

Type of Poem:  HEPTASTITCH

First quilt, a pre-baby purchase

Awaiting the arrival of perfect hope

Second hands' made, a secret pal’s bequeath

Blazoning a message about education

Future aspirations shouted in confined space

Third symbol, Tweety’s loving message

Trumpeting daughter’s love to him

Fourth sewing, catalog-ordered

Offering prayers for all ills and woes

Fifth stitching beckoned to soul’s thirst

Heralding the prophetic birth of Christ

Next one filled with colored eggs and blooms

Memorializing the month Mama left me

A hindrance to Easter’s blooming essence

Another quilt, very toned, masculine

Celebrating Father’s Day’s significance

Enshrining Papa’s departure to God

Next cover, goodness’ cornucopia

Showcasing all fills of thankfulness

Ninth puff stitched love to lovers

Filled with hearts; Cupid shooting arrow

Tenth comforter honored St. Patrick

A man of Ireland, unknown to me

Linked with Nigerian surname of O

Last patchwork, a stake to future claims

Anticipating a continuation

Connecting daughter’s unborn offspring

Granting me assurance into future hopes

--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.

Creativity Is Surprised

Never a man or woman set out on a mission

Determined to be declared creative

Uttering the demand will not command

Creativity to appear as a butler ready

The land of the unfamiliar welcomes all

Like the land of the survival of the fittest

Crafted, planned, itemized, willing thoughts

Lie on the mattress of boredom and lethargy

Energy, fanfare, trumpet lie listless, silent

The planned shows itself, a bad photocopy

Creativity arrives unanticipated

Creativity arrives when the planned errs

There are those bending brains to conform

Twisting gray cells to convince humanity

Creativity surprises all, especially itself

After frustration has slapped itself silly

Materializing at inopportune time

Uncertain what it will do next

Like Jim Carey, Eddie Murphy

Unscripted, unplanned, improv

Just leave the door wide open

Accept creativity unconditionally

When it arrives, don’t hoot and holler

Drink its unquenchable juices greedily

It arrives at its own good-and-ready time

--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.

BE CAREFUL

Editorial: Usually, I avoid posting a comment about the topic of my poem, preferring to let the voice of the poem speak for itself. Today marks an exception. As tongues wag about Whitney Houston, and as someone who has been embroiled in several episodes of death, I ask people to be careful what they say to the survivors of the dead. There are they-said-that-she-said incidents involving Aretha Franklin about Whitney. People need to be quiet and let the bereaved mourn in peace. Because of intense pain, anything you say will be taken out of context. That is a given.

I was very angry with death as it was, but when people who called themselves my "friends" found themselves trying to sound wise at a very difficult time in my life with both my parents passing and losing my siblings, I cut off from them so that I could mourn in peace and save my sanity. Consequently, I changed my telephone number, moved out of where I lived, and lost all contact intentionally. Therefore, be very careful what you say to the bereaved. Anything you say will be taken out of context. Let silence speak for you.

****This posting is in honor and remembrance of my dead and in recognition of the two-week death anniversary of Whitney Houston.
 ========================================================
Be Careful
 

Be careful what you say to a bereaved

Who has lost someone dear

Be careful what you do to a bereaved

Who has lost someone much loved

Your presence more valuable

Than anything you could ever say

Being there more important

Than anything you could ever do

Please do not give lame consolations

About loved one being in a better place

Or going home or answering a call

Or the sun coming out tomorrow

Or being able to smile someday

Anger sufficient food to feed on

Anger sufficient clothing for warmth

Anger sufficient shelter to live in

Losing you because of what you say

Feels like nothing compared

To this pain that eats the inside

Asking you to leave with your flowers

Will douse the extra pain you caused

By your supposed compassion

Be on pins and needles, do you hear?

Sigh constantly with the overwhelming

Lack of appropriate words to utter

Practice empathy, shed a tear honestly

Give a hug, cook a meal, hold a hand

Stay till late, spend the night

Spend more time

Act like time froze in place

Do not talk about the living

Or fashion, goals, wealth, job

Close the mouth; open the ears

Listen to the consoling silence

Sigh constantly with the overwhelming

Lack of appropriate words to utter

But be careful what you say or do

To a bereaved who has lost someone dear

©1997FrancesOhanenye

--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.

Clouds Passing

The psychologist asked

How does that make you feel

The clouds are passing

Migrating north east

What could cause this exodus

How does that make you feel

Blankets of whiteness flow

Uniformity of motion glide

Hiding the sun behind the brave

How does that make you feel

Is the root of clouds passing

Because my mother liked clouds

Because my mother watched clouds

Deciphering hidden messages

Of rains’ tearful surprises on

Unsuspecting perambulators

Is that the root of all my angst

How does that make me feel

That the blue provides transportation

The means of clouds speedily passing

Going their merry ways to unknown

How does that make me feel

That refrain annoys the dickens

Clouds move; rain falls

Life must go on; humanity must thrive

Don’t ask me that question

Unconnected to my essence’s core

It doesn’t make me feel anything

Find another angle of relevance

The inner sanctuary of my being

How does that make you feel now,

My eminent psychologist

How does my answer make you feel?

--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.

Eleven Shades

By birth, always positional

Aware of my perfect place

Happy Black History Month!
(c)pix2012FrancesOhanenye

On the spectrum of family paternal

My ancestry, I readily trace

Stratified on birth’s timeline

Creating offspring so, so fine

Always been the middle child

As far as gender issue goes

Always been the last child

Being spoiled, I assembled foes

Somewhere in family lineage

Position the generations of faces

Creating a spectrum in our age

Having mixed genes with other races

History’s revelation of Israel’s descent

Followed all the way to Nigeria’s extent

At least vying are eleven shades

Placed precisely by ascension

Beautiful hues abound in spades

Mixtures flow over the generation

Perfectly placed in the middle

Not the shade of one too light 

Just the shade with enough meddle

Not the shade too dark as night

But a shade dubbed light chocolate

Perfect mixture, better than a gimlet

Eleven shades of perfect hues mixed

Stratified on black people’s pride

Such variations cause joy, not nixed

Conquering, straddling, all hate astride

 

©2006FrancesOhanenye

--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.

Loving U Is A-2-Z

At-first-sight-love

Beaming-smiler

Centerfold-calibre

Defender-of-my-virtue

Effortless-date

Fascinating-accomplisher

Gift-of-gab-persuader

Habitué-of-my-abode

Insatiable-donor

Jester-my-jester

Kingly-kindness

Lover-of-my-soul

Mandarin-sweet-personality

Novelty-enduring-man

On-knee-ring-proposer

Paragon-of-piety-Christian

Queuer-of-my-good-qualities

Radiator-in-winter-body

Sucrose-powdered-lips

Tête-à-tête-plotter

Ultimate-male-essence

Virile-virtuoso

Warrantor-of-life-long-marriage

Xylophone-player-of-my-rib-bars

Yang-to-my-Yin-perfecter

Zealous-father-pacifier

Happy Valentine's Day!
(c)pix2012FrancesOhanenye

©1991FrancesOhanenye
--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.

The Date Is Blind No Longer

It’s blind

But he can see

So can I 

Valentine's Day dinner for two
(c)pix2012FrancesOhanenye

It’s just the date

That’s blind

I did see him

In my mind

I did hear his voice

In my head

Preparing to meet him

This stranger I’ve known

But have not seen

Left: Pulse Raised; Right: Laughter Heard
(c)pix2012FrancesOhanenye

Only in my mind’s eye

Wondering if the date

Is still blind

Since I did see him

In my mind’s eye

Should I go

Or should I stay

At home doing chores?

Should I go

To a pulse raised

To a laughter heard

Me in his lenses

And cause a change

So date and love

Will have vision to see

What I’ve seen

So date and love

Will be blind no longer?

Should I go

Or should I stay?

The date should be blind

No longer 

©1999FrancesOhanenye

--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.

His Eyes Make Me Move

Awareness of his loving eyes

Full of admiration and love

Full of tenderness

Filled with naughtiness

Causes my moves

Causes raised pulses

To sing and dance

The feel of his gaze

On my stepping-away back

Causes confidence in the steps

Moving for moving sake

Causes a sway in hips

Causes a swagger in steps

Causes jauntiness

In the legs that will return

The certainty of his affection

Causes a pivotal playfulness

In the heart that overflows

In the eyes that behold 

In the arms that stretch open

In the steps propelling

With sure knowledge 

Of the eyes watching me

Make exaggerated motions

My pores pouring out

The emotions filling

With sure knowledge

Of him watching me

Just watching me move

I love you

Watching me move

--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.