about/this/blog

This site holds my poetry – finished & in process. Please be mindful, much of what you read is raw, unfiltered, (unedited as of yet) – a private and openly creative, social commentary on my life and the world around me, in this moment. Read at your own discretion and…enjoy the ride.

D. Raheemah

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Please note: this poemblog, MindStream, is a work-in-progress. Feel free to support, comment, question and respectfully critique.

Undulate

breath and spirit
winding down the floor
potent power

focused calm

vengeful, joyful acts

spiraled consciousness
found in drum-song talking
unrelenting magnificence
refusal in the act of flexion
within extended break-beats

spoken words
pouring sweat
down backs and arms
veins of light trembling
at originating arrogance
a refusal to engage weakness
a refusal to engage excuses
for lack of movement
(the first response)
toward deep-sound

crooked backs, wiry limbs,
full thighs and strong egos rule
quiet men and raucous laughter
beside
women with a bone to pick regarding
domesticated mediocrity

a break in time

a moment to regain strength
water breaks, the time to flirt

water breaks, a birth of destiny

water breaks
and souls rebirthed are
flying to the drum-song talking

making deals with angels and the devil
(in truth, the inner fire)
(the force of realization)

polarity is freed
opposition unhinged from its lawless swing
and crushed

undulate

the place of solitude

a communion
between
flesh-based beings
and the earth
a devotion to renewal, a vow of compassion
freeing other beings
just by being
in the smoke;
an energy of strength
(the immortal’s choice)

free-will consciousness

sound and body manifest
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All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, copied or reprinted in any form, including electronically through internet usage, without expressed, written permission from the author.

Copyright © 2010.

(Untitled/Stream of Consciousness)

thumping resonance
resounding through lacey shoe tops
the elixir of boredom found in a pen to paper
dipping bodies in vats of laughter as oppression’s balm

sending out a message to the stars
the black night
the creamy warmth
of a good night’s rest
inside fingers, toes, and arms wrapped around each other

cocoa tones and ebony symbols dancing down the hallway
the ghosts of ferocious honesty-making

driving slowly down a dusty backwater geechee street
filled with muggy moss and seawater jugs aligned against an
elder’s porch

old hands reach out to touch your cheek,
welcoming you home, surrendering you
in spite of yourself
dropping citified expectations to take up with convenience
(a technological impotence)

bare feet in sands, the grains of Old Ones
blue cloth breezing along your legs
the seagull’s call striking your vein
their eyes boring wisdom into your mind
making certain that your visit is a final return
is the end of wandering
people-less
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All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, copied or reprinted in any form, including electronically through internet usage, without expressed, written permission from the author.

Copyright © 2010

Contemplate (Part I.)

First thoughts come to my mind
revolve
around
walking out
and never coming back

My thoughts (often) incite soul-rioting
demanding time to get spacious
to walk the land and set fire to
a time clock running
9-to-5

I mean,
my loins are speaking loud and clear
they are asking for, petitioning
to interlock and engage
they are asking for, demanding that other loins
take better care of one another

If my soul-rioting
came
to full fruition,
what would its anthem sound like?

Full bass-beats and hard steps,
knocks and whispers inside cottonwood trees,
dancing to bata drum, toning out to Iemanja
An oceanic mother and Her seafoam floor

I would be praying to Poseidon,
walking with Persephone and gathering my strength to meet Ogun at the forest’s edge.
I mean, my cutlass – the sword, is sharp
and ready.
It would sound like climbing up the mountain,
snow crunching underneath my boots,
a crystalline sky and air full of blue twilight at high noon
a hiker’s-trek rendition of meditative practice.

You would hear my breath going up and down
my lungs
snaking through,
with elegance,
the hairs upon my head,
Medusa Herself would be my Guru
An Argonaut, my Guide

I mean,
this is nonsense,
this lack of spaciousness to unveil oneself to
another

I mean, this is foolish
the punching in-and-out
the tallying of minutes spent staring at computer screens and mad-back attitudes, layered stress and egos damaged from no recognition and meager pennies.
(The punching-in-and-out always
extending into punching him or her).

I mean, my stakes are high.

I am writing poems,
desiring a creative license
over passing out
business cards
and accepting kudos

There is fire in breath
I am cracking my own head
against brick walls
and wooden desks

I mean.

Here, the perpetual nerd
in me
is
unfurling
Her Own Wings
She is
make-believing that her Self is
Regenerate, like star fish and their limbs.

I mean, I am over it.
This stop-start-and-go-useless-catch-up-game-just-to-prove-to-others-how-hard-I-can-split-my-gut-and-mind-in-two…for you…and your agendas

Where are tree tops when I need them?
I mean,
snow cap mountains,
mango and
palm trees are calling me,
I mean, my skin is craving lush moss
and redwood cedar oak and iroko trees to talk with
I am looking for elder Ints in my dreams
I am waging war on poverty that cloaks itself
as someone else’s boss.

I am stepping into horse-stance, breaking bread with Rabbis, gliding inside clouds amidst Dakini-wisdom,
(I mean, I am holding terma inside my eyes)
I make salat, and call to prayer,
an unveiled woman in front of men,
next to them,
yet, away from lies and deception of womb-based power and its true sweetness.

I mean,
I am pouring sacred gin for the Earth,
standing on red stones
fully naked
hair,
cinnamony-cotton and untwisted
raw,
like soft bee pollen and their petals

I am libating water on the rocks of a lodge
dressed in white, eyes aligned with coal underneath
a heart of diamonds
nose like roses next to a rainbow honey bee

Breathe…

there is no more time to waste…
my flesh is twisting into spirals, locking souls.

Rioting

to,

begging

to,

sit still and chant for
just…

…one

fucking…

.minute.

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All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, copied or reprinted in any form, including electronically through internet usage, without expressed, written permission from the author.

Copyright © 2010

spontaneous journal entry (no. 5)

“Working hard” doesn’t always mean working well.

“Staying late” sometimes means you got suckered into cleaning up someone else’s mess.

“Unsolicited advice” means someone’s else’s opinion on your life (was not asked for) – and should be disregarded.
……………………………………………….
pause -
extra-nice bass beats -
a -
bit -
of -
scratching -
fade out – for this edgy-life remix…

How to Write A Song of Joy

(For the Addict, Who No Longer Is One)

We awake early in the AM,
shaking off sleep and fear,
those stains of blood from
long-rehearsed excuses
for why
we
cannot
choose
to be happy.

I stumble into shelter shower stalls,
then, down alley ways,
looking for a fix,
between someone else’s legs and my own,
with water on the skin,
or
heroin in the veins
herbal smoke inside lungs
one more drink, a coursing-through
of fruitful tannins
bitter roots, an after-taste of numbness.

A choice to fall asleep
a choice to resurrect
a decision to live or die
shallow
unremembered

Burial rights
the song of treason against flesh
still ripe for living
still able and capable of change

Stirring magic cloaks of fury
They engage their own tongues
and re-write
their own narrative

The Liminal
A Marginal Wall
cracking at its foundation

(Birthing rites)
the place where mortar and placenta meet
where blood and whispers
mingle
next to cocktails and wisdom-keepers

(Where men are also midwives)
and manifest their gentle hands to wrap around baby-fresh new life.

I write a song of joy
for my mother, the one who left her mind a long time ago,
and gave me life in the sacrifice.

I write a song of plenty for all the days I went,
and still go hungry,
an appetite lost for love/living/sex and smiling.

I write a song for new green shoots welling up within,
bamboo working to heal the scaring of my old hands,
nurturing them into youthful forms of sensuality and grace,
soothing cracks in my self-esteem,
moisturizing subtlety in my intonation toward new love

I write pleasure for me and you,
the woman and the man,
the season and the storm

I dance a form of destruction,
keeping time like warriors on a hunt

I love unconditionally,
like warriors in their last breathe before a battle

I sing a song of bliss,
sirening the dolphins away from nets
I call up my bones and skin, call back fat to my hips and thighs,
and sweetened sweat into my mouth
I anchor my own boldness, digging into earth and stone
pulling up stars and medicine
to teach and learn from.

I give you second chances,
the death-and-life of you, synced
inseparable
and
immeasurably
truly
yours

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All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, copied or reprinted in any form, including electronically through internet usage, without expressed, written permission from the author.

Copyright © 2010

spontaneous journal entry (no. 4)

Thinking about natural disasters and the reality check everyone seems to face for…maybe (?) the next 30 days…(?) before going back to same-old, same-old. Am questioning how I will continue to contribute to the end of destructive waste of resources (in my own life), so that riots, hurricanes, tsunamis and earthquakes are the last resort to me engaging others in more immediate and humane ways – consistently.

Additional

Waking up to sounds of buzzing
from your
hungry mind and stomach

Watchtower smoldering ’round bends of lace
dripping down a seashore window

Mystery in the footprints of a seagull
The screech of towns
(laying shame to their own elders’) tears and laughter

Walking backwards to find “forgotten”
Tripping sideways to uncover “useless”
Gambling with the Reaper
Sowing Oats to pay the bills
Pimping just to keep the lights on for your baby girl

Those whose sole propriety
lay in hands fit for beating

Another Season
Another Dance
Another Implement

More Unfinished Business
Plenty Belts and Skirts a ‘flyin’

Dripping Wet and Drying
(Lying To Each Other)
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All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, copied or reprinted in any form, including electronically through internet usage, without expressed, written permission from the author.

Copyright © 2010

Code/Words

coffee aromatic
smearing eyelashes
lifting nose hairs
wandering tunnels of infatuation

breathtaking in the listening
exquisite peace, then gorgeous noise
harboring a dangerous mind

losing keys to a home
we never cared to revisit

cinnamon nature, willowed actions
harboring a dangerous mind
a practice in unrefined fidelity

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All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, copied or reprinted in any form, including electronically through internet usage, without expressed, written permission from the author.

Copyright © 2010

Untitled No. 4

forward
unrelenting
the new resilient
resiliency unruled
rocking slowly
a roller-coaster crunch of break-time
pen digging into sunlit pages
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All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, copied or reprinted in any form, including electronically through internet usage, without expressed, written permission from the author.

Copyright © 2010

spontaneous journal entry (no. 3)

I’m really not as narcissistic as (it may) come across in my poems, so far. For now, as an actively being-reborn-poet-writer, I have to go there, into my own space. (Just a tip, or a head’s up, for folks out there who wonder why so much “new”, “up-and-coming” art is full of self-portraits, pages and pages of self-aggrandizing written ‘mush’, and why musicians will always include a love and hate song in their most record-selling repertoire). Because…if we don’t know our own mind/body/spirit, at every moment of existence, who else can we help through our work? The blind leading the blind is way, way overrated. More on that for another day…

More importantly, if YOU have no clue what is rolling in your own emotional universe, how can you get (seriously) free?

For me, the true purpose of art is to heal and be healed. And, sometimes, you need to see all the pus and blood, as well as get a whiff of a yummy fragrance to understand your walk on the Earth. It’s hard as hell to be a human being in the 21st century. All this so-called progress, and most folks STILL manage to fuck up a good thing with other beings because of not knowing who the other and themselves REALLY are. Yes, I’m speaking of beyond and deeper than identity: beyond flesh, ancestors, one’s sexual or gender orientation, religious process, political party, shoe or cup size, and the neighborhood one’s 5th generation-strong lineage lived in/bartered for/overtook/over-threw/colonized/demanded back.

At the end of this life, the only one I believe we answer to is our OWN highest and deepest Wisdom, not someone else’s “god”, “ancestor”, “lineage”, or “psychic intuition”. (As much as I feel that these all hold deep validity, it is still a trap to think that someone else’s power is better than your own in the living of YOUR life). This self-evolving energy provides our unique glory (or demise), depending on how kind (or destructive) we treat each other, and depends on how we cultivate ourselves, while rolling through the Universe trying to make good shit happen.

I’d rather write myself into oblivion about my hurts and despair, joys and rage, in order to release – move and shapeshift – the energy into medicine for others, than never say a word and risk my sanity in realizing I negated my humanity (and humility) in the act of refusing my ability to share my full-spectrum self through creative life process. (Whew! that was a really long, run-on sentence. Still, some things must be said, even in an incorrectly structured line of thought).

It’s OK to say “I’m sorry”, “please forgive me” (and/or, to let go of ever needing to receive these precious, rarely used phrases). I believe that art, true and fearless art, creates a space for forgiveness and empowerment for all who stop by Its shop, peruse Its shelves, and maybe even exchange in currency an applaud for priceless hints at how to live an easier day than the last.
Anything less, after a righteously contained amount of creative, cathartic self-releasing, is egoic, useless drama.

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All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, copied or reprinted in any form, including electronically through internet usage, without expressed, written permission from the author.

copyright © 2009 Dorothy Raheemah