Just the thought

It's every writer's dream and hope to be the next one in line for the big break. However, writing is a gift. A form of release, which can only be done with love and passion. I may never be the next Terry McMillan, but that won't stop me from continuing to touch many hearts and souls via my craft.

Compliments Vs Accomplishments

Many of us are seeking to live under the rooting spotlight. Bowing for awards without shedding the actual sweat. If we are standing on the account of living for compliments- worst case scenario is, we be regarded as those who are dumbfounded and maybe lost in the clouds- because half of times, we are never willing to put a red cent of effort for the dream we want to transcend. In reality, we must strive, and perform on aspiration to attribute the level of accomplishments. Why does everyone has to win a trophy? We need to think differently. living for compliments is like a form of mindset-limitation, which can turn onto the wrong course of life. It is said, we have to walk the walk, and participate in the help to put the dough in the warm oven. On that aspect, we can experience the true meaning of hardships, that lead to climb to the latter of a merit accomplishment.

                                                       

Lingering love

What's worse than the feelings of love that trampoline one's heart beat? Sometimes sentiments can be stubborn, and make one reluctant to accept the ironclad law, that substantiates the right and wrong parameters and consequences.

~Perfectio-Maniac~

Usually the word Perfection seems to blow smoke out of my ears. What is perfection? Who claims to be? What is the greater good of it? If so, who score 100% right off the bat on the Ten Commandments scale? Crickets! So why blow the whistle when someone makes a mistake? As human, we traits through different racial characteristics, and our spiritual evolved through different ethical beliefs, conduct, values, principles, creeds etc... Whether we are come from the Huxtables-type of family or a broken home “The mine is better, or Home! Sweet home!" Is always embedded in the back of our heads- We are all in complete denial, unable to see the boogers in our eyes. We are all full of weakness in errors. Started from the contents of how we made of, and the individuals we are- excluded our souls of course. Why aren't we invincible? Still a Perfectio-maniac?                

                                 

It is addictive

Reality stroke my eyes

From the moment I noticed

The reflections of the woman in the mirror

Hello, my name is Becky

I live on the Hay hill avenue

My house is the one next to the Pot’s

My associates refer to me as Loony Becky.

It all started long, far ago

Then, a lovely, kind, young lady I used to be.

Naive to the sun

Innocent to the moon;

When It made my acquaintance.

I was just a newbie in the dorm

So my peers were my concern.

Oh my very first day!

My first trial…

It manifested in me like the joy of a thousand stars.

The second time around

It conducted me into this delusional world;

My environment appeared like Eden was being in the midst of the earth.

Danced without music being played

Laughed without any joke being told

Levitated without being on a spaceship

And so, times have gone by

It had turned around on me.

It had enslaved my whole being.

It had become vindictive.

It took my all rights...

Not even the right to turn onto my faith

Not to even say hail Mary full of grace our Lord is with thee.

It had destroyed my brain cells.

It had robbed me of my education.

Through It I had grown the pair of horns.

Now to you!

You should know by now

Why I’m Loony Becky?

Certainly…

You would not want to follow my path.

You would not want to dance my moves.

You would not want to sing my song.

Enough…

You would not want to mimic me at all.

I am brain dead!

You!

Yeah you!

Young and sweet

Seems just the right description for It;

So very the right prey

Now I see It parading at your door steps

Aware…

Be very alert

Cautious must you take

Clever you shall be

It constitutes of ruse

It has a way of arousing onto you.

It, is nothing but pretense

Offers sky rocket ecstasy

Just for a split moment

It is a brain fryer

You!

Yeah you!

Don’t become

The woman in the mirror

Yeah!

She is me

The unrecognized being

I…

Become

Hey

My name is Becky

And

I

Am

An addict!

© 2011 by _Patricia Etienne

All rights reserved

A note from the Author

This is a stand-up poem

Being a Nurse and through my overtime observations/ experienced with friends/ patients battled with long time drug addiction had allowed me to write this poem.

One of my favorite poets/poems

Parsley (1983)

  

     1. The Cane Fields

     There is a parrot imitating spring
     in the palace, its feathers parsley green.
     Out of the swamp the cane appears

     to haunt us, and we cut it down. El General
5     searches for a word; he is all the world
     there is. Like a parrot imitating spring,

     we lie down screaming as rain punches through
     and we come up green. We cannot speak an R-
     out of the swamp, the cane appears

10     and then the mountain we call in whispers Katalina.
     The children gnaw their teeth to arrowheads.
     There is a parrot imitating spring.

     El General has found his word: perejil.
     Who says it, lives. He laughs, teeth shining
15     out of the swamp. The cane appears

     in our dreams, lashed by wind and streaming.
     And we lie down. For every drop of blood
     there is a parrot imitating spring.
     Out of the swamp the cane appears

     2. The Palace

20     The word the general's chosen is parsley.
     It is fall, when thoughts turn
     to love and death; the general thinks
     of his mother, how she died in the fall
     and he planted her walking cane at the grave
25     and it flowered, each spring stolidly forming
     four-star blossoms. The general

     pulls on his boots, he stomps to
     her room in the palace, the one without
     curtains, the one with a parrot
30     in a brass ring. As he paces he wonders
     Who can I kill today. And for a moment
     the little knot of screams
     is still. The parrot, who has traveled

     all the way from Australia in an ivory
35     cage, is, coy as a widow, practising
     spring. Ever since the morning
     his mother collapsed in the kitchen
     while baking skull-shaped candies
     for the Day of the Dead, the general
40     has hated sweets. He orders pastries
     brought up for the bird; they arrive

     dusted with sugar on a bed of lace.
     The knot in his sore throat starts to twitch;
     he sees his boots the first day in battle
45     splashed with mud and urine
     as a soldier falls at his feet amazed-
     how stupid he looked!-at the sound
     of artillery I never thought it would sing
     the soldier said, and died. Now

50     the general sees the fields of sugar
     cane, lashed by rain and streaming.
     He sees his mother's smile, the teeth
     gnawed to arrowheads. He hears
     the Haitians sing without R's
55     as they swing the great machetes:
     Katalina, they sing, Katalina,

     mi madre, mi amol en muelte. God knows
     his mother was no stupid woman; she
     could roll an R like a queen. Even
60     a parrot can roll an R! In the bare room
     the bright feathers arch in a parody
     of greenery, as the last pale crumbs
     disappear under the blackened tongue. Someone

     calls out his name in a voice
65     so like his mother's, a startled tear
     splashes the tip of his right boot.
     My mother, my love in death.
     The general remembers the tiny green sprigs
     men of his village wore in their capes
70     to honor the birth of a son. He will
     order many, this time, to be killed

     for a single, beautiful word.

All in the Language

 

Poetry has evolved from a spectrum of sources range from archaic age to modern time.

As Shakespeare used to say  But twas not>>

Modern Poetry is of  voice, style, cultural tradition and approach

Poets are like the megaphone who transcribed words through ink, and extract the scary little voice that sometimes hides inside many hearts.

Poets express their thoughts in different ways: some choose to use direct language, and some use abstract thinking and metaphor. All Poets have one common ground ”The language.”