Category: Chick Lit.


MARACUJÁ (PASSIONFRUIT)
            ~Written By Arose N Daghetto

 

I’m sitting in the kitchen
holding the fruit of infatuation
Waiting for the one I love
To show up in the room
I speak in passionese to grandfather time
and all he says back to me is
tick…
tock…
tick…
tock…

 

Who will bite this fruit of infatuation
growing warm in my hand
should the man that I love
not come home tonight?
Can you tell me
my old and wise grandfather?
tock…
tick…
tock…
tick…

 

Precious grandfather
minister of parable thoughts
You’ve always been the sparrow
on my shoulder
during insomnia and quiet conversations
Come out of your silence, Grandfather
Talk to me
enlighten me
tick…
tock…
tick….
tock…

 

The big hand covered the little hand
In a reverent embrace
between grandfather’s polished eyes
They braced themselves
for the arrival of a new hour
and the official departure of another day
GONNNG….
GONNNG….
GONNNG….

 

Midnight drops itself in the chair
across from me
I don’t flinch at its laughter
nor the heckling hums of my refrigerator
I looked at Grandfather with Lois Lane eyes
longing for intervention
tock
tick…
tock…
tick….

 

Click-clack goes the door
Boom-boom goes my heart
Creak-crack goes the floor
and after a time capsule of silence
CRUNCH goes the maracujá
and her blood
down the sides of my wrist.

 

 

Poem (not pictures) © Copyright 2012 by Arose N Daghetto for Black Girl Down Publications. All Rights Reserved.

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Red girl ©

      Written by: Arose N Daghetto

 

Rebel girl, skin like fire

Tell the Lord your heart’s desire

 

Dancing doe, blazing tornado

Stirring sandy winds of smoke and shadows

 

Fire manifests in your human form

The rage of God in the image of a child of corn

 

Crimson child with hints of scarlet

By product of the Holy Spirit, cosmic starlet

 

Passion is your paternal, Beauty is your maternal

Elemental in the spiritual, extraterrestrial in the physical

 

Fleeting blood voyaging through the vien of life

Symbol of a beating heart, pulsing strife

 

Nature’s princess, the world’s empress

hindered by labor pains of grief and injustice

 

Red girl wilderness burns like wildfire

As you dance into your Rites of Passage full of desire

 

Red woman, dance on…

Dance on, Rebel, dance on…

Yell if you must but dance on…

Scream if you will, just dance on…

 

Carry on in that warrior’s ancestral dance

Until your barren land encounters the tip of chance

 

Dance with all your might until you find

The Holy Grail and favor of the Divine

Dance until your wilderness is disturbed with light

and the rustling of the trees invades your silent night

and the stomping of your dancing feet ignites

smoke signals over the black trees in clouds of white

 

Dance strong in the rain, dance through the fall

Dance harder through the snow but most of all

 
Dance until daylight breaks

and the birds sing

Dance until you achieve your full reign

Dance until the shimmering trees refrain

And The Great Man emerges, saying your name…

 
Breathless Red child, you survived the storms of womanhood

God has given you a Helper as He promised He would

Now when you dance, you don’t dance alone….

You dance in Holy matrimony…

two warriors plus one.

 

 

Poem (Not Picture) © Copyright 2011 by Arose N Daghetto for Quiet Storm Enterprise. 

All Rights Reserved.

Sorry, Wrong Color©

           ~Written by: Arose N Daghetto

 

 

Yesterday I paid a visit to my local library.

I browsed through some Poe,

shook down some Shakespeare,

and caught a chill off Chaucer…

Awakened by the Chinua in my Achebe,

I relived August in some Wilson,

took out a few Counteé Cullen’s.

Leaving a few Dust Tracks on the Road

and a Rage in Harlem,

I found my Native Son

leaning against A Raisin in the Sun.

I gazed at my Beloved with the Bluest Eye

and was prepared to praise him all the way home

in The Color Purple.

 

 

Blessed with a tote bag full

of History’s finest literature,

I was about to hike it to the circulation desk

when I saw this Pharaoh beauty

browsing through a book two aisles down.

He was the personification

of all the alpha ingredients

that a real man could supply

this thirsty bookworm

ounce for ounce, good to the last drop.

 

 

God created him immaculately

from head to toe.

His dewy skin was rich like Egyptian toffee

and his twisted coils were bronzed

in kisses of mahogany.

Sorrow blanketed my heart

when I saw his woman

shouting at him in whispers

He didn’t flinch though

He just kept quiet, leafing through

Eldridge Cleaver’s “Soul on Ice”.

The more he kept his peace,

the more she unleashed war.

She swung her bone straight mane

over her delicate shoulder,

revealing her milky beige face

marred with exotic African features.

 

 

Anger twisted the beauty 

right out of her supermodel face.

Her fashion chic clothes hugged

her flower vase physique,

giving all the praise 

to her generous posterior

hot off the assembly line 

of her Yoruba foremothers.

 

 

Unable to tolerate being invisible

in front of her lover a second more,

the irate beauty flipped her hand in his face

and stormed away.

 

 

That’s when I, 

being the fearless bronze sista I am,

approached the humble brother close enough 

not to invade his personal space.

I said hello, he smiled.

I gazed at him, he gave me the once over

finding my thickness acceptable.

The corners of his lips

curved into an upside down smile.

The corners of mines curved sunny side up

into a ego trippin’ smile.

His eyes peaked with interest

for a fleeting moment

before retreating back into the unknown.

I told him my name, he murmured his.

I swallowed hard… the silence was cold.

I noticed him staring into space.

I wasn’t sure if he was daydreaming

or about to go into a seizure.

Whatever was going on with him,

he stayed like that for a while.

 

 

I followed the direction of his ogling stare

to the end of its trail

where a virginal black beauty stood

staring dreamily back at him.

Her complexion shined like an onyx gem.

White pearls for teeth embroidered

her plush, satiny lips.

silky Bantu knots sparkled like ice crystals

on top of her head.

Her deep mystical eyes were hypnotic

like blood diamonds.

She had a figure so petite, so graceful

that it could be immortalized on canvas.

Her sleek, elongated arms and legs

were like whips of lust

leaving welts of desire all over

my Pharaoh beauty’s heart.

 

 

Before I could attempt to win him over

one last time

he excused himself 

and walked over to the stallioness

waiting patiently for him to make his move.

My heart thumped like it was on life support

when I saw him lock arms 

with this island  princess

 

 

As the prelude to their storybook romance

unfolded before my eyes 

he looked back at me and said,

“Sorry, wrong color.”

 

 

…Ain’t that a bitch.

 

 

Poem (not pictures) © Copyright 2011 by Arose N Daghetto for Quiet Storm Enterprise. 

All Rights Reserved.

WAR STORIES OF A SINGLE WOMAN ©

                                      By Arose N Daghetto

                                       

It’s not easy being a veteran soldier

battling on the frontlines of single life…

The longings, the urges,

the wanting to be wanted,

the needing to be needed,

the loving to be loved…

Living life solo doesn’t compare

To living life spoken for…

There are no purple hearts

only broken hearts.

There are no salutations,

no tributes to my victories

or my fatalities…

See my wounds?

I got this discolored one

across my stomach

when I was a POW:

Prisoner Of being a Woman.

I got this other one along my side

when I was MIA:

Misrepresented In America.

The long welts all over my back

were the number of times

I’ve been whipped by karma

in Vietnam.

The footprints all over my body?

Well, that’s when I was

pounced on by chauvinism

in Kuwait

and strung up by my own burka

in Afghanistan.

I was sentenced

to female circumcision

In Sudan,

Sent back to my homeland

castrated by a man called Black…

I’m caught like a deer in headlights

Trapped in a den of wolves…

Some have HIV

Others have another STD

They’re out to get me…

If I make it out here alive

I’ll reconsider

Proposing to abstinence.

This ugly scar between my breasts

is from all the open heart surgeries

performed by the Great Physician.

He had to exhume my blackened heart

and replace it with a new one…

It was a long process

that took several operations

in order to be reconciled with my body

so I could make it out of intensive care

and into recovery.

People say I’m not missing out on anything

I’d like to see them say that

when they put themselves in my shoes.

I want to see how tough they are

surviving days without the very people

who make their identity;

Their husband and their children.

Let’s see if they can make it twenty-four hours

Being manless, sexless and childless.

Tell me if they won’t crack up

if they don’t drop dead first 

from a massive panic attack.

I can handle those things

because I was born to be a soldier…

preparing for combat is my specialty,

fighting to the death is all I know

I was cultivated that way by society.

I learned the hard way

how to speak up for myself,

and how to handle men

Who like to beat on women.

I take pride in being a soldier

because I have the ability to go without

longer than anybody else can.

There are times I wish I can be a civilian…

I heard a lot about the benefits

to being a lady.

I try to conduct myself as one

but certain circumstances

won’t allow me to be one for long…

I have to cuss people out

after being stood up.

I have to live with being the target

for lovers to execute their PDA in front of…

I spend more time being Superman

than being Superwoman.

I have a lot of Lois Lanes to rescue…

I’m beginning to think I really am

Superman.

Who has time to be a woman.

when you gotta be the trinity:

mother, father, breadwinner.

That’s how I earned the title Superman

‘cause I can do it all and do it well.

So I must really be a man

wrapped in a woman’s flesh…

a veteran soldier designed for combat

who has plenty of ammunition

(in my mouth and my fists).

There is only one more thing I need

to make my look complete…

and that’s a pair of cast iron balls.

Poem (not pictures) © Copyright 2008, 2011 by Arose N Daghetto for Quiet Storm Enterprise. All Rights Reserved.

SLINGING IRON ©

                                 Written By: Arose N Daghetto

I’m in a chain gang…

standing in a single file line,

singing the same old love songs

along with all the other

iron slinging women

while pounding on iron hearts

trying to get in

but he won’t let me in.

Back to back to the broke down back

the new man becomes the new enemy…

Status Quo is yelling in my ear

about my biological clock,

torturing me with images

of women in my age range

and younger who been married

or engaged to say the least… 

This line of women slinging iron

is getting thinner and thinner…

I’m wiping the sweat off my brow

noticing I’m doing most of the work

By myself…

My muscles are sore

but I got to keep pounding

and grunting

and singing

much more than complaining

trying to make Status Quo happy

because Status Quo says I don’t get paid

unless I meet it’s expectations,

I don’t eat unless I break through

the very last iron on the crossroads track…

I don’t get revered

unless every train coming and going

comes and goes softly,,,

and smoothly.

Lord, I don’t want to disappoint

Status Quo

I got an ego to find

and reputation to defend…

I’m still working

While seeing my former iron slingers

leaving the tracks for a better life…

They’re being celebrated

for the work they completed

while killing time

on these broken down tracks…

I’m trying to catch up with them

so I can get to where they are…

but I’m losing sight of the goal

and I can’t do that

’cause Status Quo hates

when I take too long

doing the work laid out for me…

Status Quo is watching me like a hawk,

hissing at me everytime my gung goes ho

and my head ’em up goes bottom down

and my grunts turn to groans

and my groans turn to cries

and my cries turn to screams

Lord, why did You create my body

to work slower than everyone else?!

Why did you create my brain

to catch on to things

slower than everyone else?!

Why did you create my features

to fall below the standards of beauty?!

Why did you create me to fail

the paper bag test?!

Why did you create my name

to be associated with words like

least deficient, most imbalanced, truly unfit,

definitely unqualified, a little “off”

and a bit “out there”?!

Lord, why am I still slinging iron

while the rest of the women

are sitting on pedestals

in the finest gowns

sipping champagne

throwing their heads back

giving one of those Miss America laughs

and thanking God they’re not where I am

anymore…

I make up my own song

since I have no one to choose one

by starting off the first verse

and everyone else follows suit…

I sing through my tears

sing through my aching muscles

sing through my worn out bones

sing through my lust

sing through my loneliness

sing because I got an ego to find

a reputation to defend

and a very impatient Status Quo

to satisfy.

Poem (not pictures) © Copyright 2008, 2011 by Arose N Daghetto for Quiet Storm Enterprise. All Rights Reserved.

Pathetic ©

                                                 Written by: Arose N Daghetto

Now I could tell you

where to get off!

Take them grab bag hugs

and second-hand lovin’

back to the streets

from which they came!

And I could tell you

where you can put your

Ah baby baby’s

and what’s my names…

Take them back to Roscoe’s,

let him deep fry you some dignity!

Tell him baby baby sent you.

I could even tell you

to take your ragtime charms

back to the pool hall…

Mama need a new pair of shoes

and daddy need to catch a clue!

Are you feeling lucky now?

I could also tell you

to take your gumbo thoughts

bankrupt soul and foreclosed heart

and slithering slick tobacco tongue,

stuff them in an envelope

and give it to your alibi,

the mailman.

And if that ain’t bad enough,

I can really go all out

and tell you you’re a no good,

low down, two timing

snake in the grass

who don’t know how to do nothing

but get high, get laid and get paid!

You ain’t nothing but a full-time punk

in a part-time man’s body

who was raised

by a bunch of cackling hens

who spoiled you rotten!

They let you keep your boyhood

by taking away your manhood!

You wouldn’t even bust your ass

for a lollipop!

I wish I could tell you all those things,

but I can’t.

Not to your face anyway…

I can’t tell you those things

because I love you.

Poem (not pictures) © Copyright 2011 by Arose N Daghetto for Quiet Storm Enterprise.

All Rights Reserved.

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