DOROTHY CHARLES BANKS:
Poet With An Opinion is a mixture of take no prisoners editorials and comments written by me. I posted my first comment 3/11/2010. There are also reflections of the past. Poetry is my first love. In writing verse I can create fantasy characters, mixing them with real situations, or I can go fantasy all the way, using common language to create vivid images. For the benefit of relatives who may start their own genealogy search, I've started the process.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Straight from my Literary Corner
Dorothy Charles Banks
like one of Pavlov’s
your mouth waters
as your hot trembling
hands travel downward
to toy with the
i hear your breath rushing from you in short gasps
I hear you panting in labored agony
when I ask if
you are one
of Pavlov’s dogs
you hurriedly say
“Yes. Who is he?”
I knock your hands and
turning on my side
I slide out of bed
alone and panting
I was not raised to
make love to
copyrighted by dorothy charles banks
originally published in Metis Passages Women and Their Work
Looking Glass Self
I’ve looked down
was close enough
to inhale its stench
to hear its roar
was close enough to
have it tease my
with plates of food
it wouldn’t let me eat
was close enough
to have it ride
my back until it hurt
was close enough
if its name
was my own
I Can't Take You With Me
Forgive me, my love.
I can’t take you with me.
My journey will take me many miles
From here. Many miles from you.
If death was a bounty hunter, it would
Not find me until I’m ready to surrender.
Time will be my companion;
Space will be my temporary home.
I’ll devour the wisdom of scholars,
Retracing the footprints of their historical steps.
In the prime of my journey I’ll lay
In the arms of a mythical river with a half
Moon clenched tightly between my teeth.
On the river bank I’ll birth mythical twins,
Naming them Infinity 1 and 2.
I’ll recite ancient poetry to them
As we ride a fast hurricane across
God’s marvelous sky.
I will look for Jesus and ask
Him to bless the three of us.
The twins and I will hum
Songs in the key of life: my life,
Their lives, our lives together.
On my journey’s end I return to you
With a clear head and a heart capable
Of loving you unconditionally.
I ask that you set me free to fly;
Free to grow in my own way.
I have to meet happiness
On its original terms. I have to
Meet me before I can meet you.
Please forgive me, but
I can’t take you with me.
when love walks out
you don’t recite love poems to me anymore
when you do, your mood is dry
and void of emotions
I don’t hear that melodrama and natural
excitement in your rhythmic voice
so meant to recite the classics
that boldly boasts of love
when we’re together there is no
intensity in our exploring lips
no heat riding the full length of our desire
no sensation of any kind taking
hold of me, taking hold of you
I don’t see that badboy sparkle that
animated me in more ways than one
ways that solicited a response to:
can your tire meet my road?
you knew what I meant
I hate the listlessness in our eyes
we pass each other like
night ghosts, barely touching
unwilling to acknowledge that our
love has grown lackluster
we both admit we are to
blame for love’s withdrawal
we reflected too much on the past when
we should have stayed in the future
going our separate ways will
cause some pain, some uncertainty
but if we must part,
take a piece of me with you
as I’ll take a piece of you with me
maybe one day you’ll hear:
can your tire meet my road?
Trying to Catch
white boys track hopping
tanning golden brown
natural white folk traits
salon curling straight blond hair
just to charm black girls
they hope they'll catch
in the coolest bars in town
black boys powder
down and sweeten up
to go downtown
whispering in low deep voices
trying to catch and
influence long haired white girls
who are scouting for
in color only
poems copyrighted by dorothy charles banks
Taking My Time
When I was a boy many years ago
As my friends got into trouble, I waited.
I was chided and teased for being slow to act
But I wanted to go deeper than being baited.
Today I am often still waiting
Watching listening and taking my time
Deeper is my thing still
Someone is always running game or a line
I try to weather the layers
They hide under covers to conceal
Reality... I just wait until I can see their trueness
Deeper looks help to reveal
Who they really are.
I travel with my shadow
around the world we are felt
though wandering into the night
my shadow shows great stealth
the night sky like a sleeping bag
as the ground below me a camp
my shadow and I together
exist like a hobo and a tramp
I muse if at the end of my time
As my life drives to its end,
will my shadow expire with me
or go find another friend?
To my friend The Mouse:
How can you be in bliss
It’s both funny and sad, still the same
What was once sweet must now be a bitter kiss
For when she claims that she loves you
What it more likely REALLY means
Is that she wants to change you
THAT'S her ruthless scheme
And when she says that she cares
Forever and always
It’s really only the truth
If her manipulation of you stays
But if she really loved you
She’d accept you as she can
Why change whatever attracted her to you
You need to buck up boy and be a man
To transform you from you
Will not give a true heart...
Control, not love her objective
From the beginning, the very start
To wrap you about her fingers
Her world and especially bed
The love you believe is a hoax
Because respect for you is long dead
What kind of woman would want a mouse
Unless she wants to be the man too
What sort of man would allow it
But a weak and spineless fool
You're much better alone
Than getting caught up in a mouse trap
Trying to make something wrong work right
Isn’t worth the cheese or the flap
But a mouse can’t see that
Even if a friend like me tells him so
He’s blinded for his need for the cheese
Ignoring what he should already know.
all poems copyrighted by Ron Means
poems from his self published book “Let The truth Be Told”
Little nappy-haired children
With runny noses
Big brown eyes
Living in poverty
Cheated and unaccepted
getting ripped off
Striving in vain
My Love For You
My love for you
I cannot explain
It’s warm as the sun
And moist as the rain
It’s sweet as honey
And soft as milk
More desiring than money
And more nourishing than milk
Forever, always my love is true
Always brand new
Why Darkies Were Born
Born in the heat of Africa
Yet born to be captured
Born to nurse the promised land
to look over little bright-eyes babies
to say yes sir master
yes sir boss
Born to obey
to hear half-breeds
Born to watch their babies
sold into captivity
Yet born to be unchained
To sing the blues
someday we shall overcome
Songs of love
songs of joy
Born to dance
to the music
and forever be free
Darkies were born
poems copyrighted by Cassandra Tunstall
from her self published book “Poetry”
The Fat Lady Waits
the fat lady waits,
locked in her torpid tranquility,
for the movers to come and turn her.
They are late.
Already she feels the dampness beneath her,
the cloth chafing her shoulder and buttocks.
She longs to be able to turn by herself,
to roll off the slab that lifts her
for the circus crowds to see.
Her legs are giant redwoods
felled in the silent forest.
Her arms are vats of dough, rising,
he fingers lost in folds of flesh.
Hey Hey It’s time to turn me
No one comes.
She feels her heart race
at the exertion of the words.
The skin round her neck prickles,
she moves her toes.
If only someone would run her ankle.
She gazes at the ceiling fan,
listens to it whirring above her
like a giant gnat,
waits for the movers to come.
Meredith: Moon Maiden
Her eyes pierce the stones
this little one
whose nappy hair
is happier than her eyes belie.
The cynics and the seers
have congregated beneath her skin,
and lie in ambush there
for all the singing saints
passing on the other side.
Listen to her chant:
It is ancient as these hills
where snakes rattle warnings
against the approaching storm.
It sings of death to the messenger,
the bearer of the word
which will not be heard.
The Day the Whales
In nature’s faulted cycle. There is nothing so rare as a natural death. Jacques Cousteau
A tiny paradise
not yet isolated by the biologist’s metal eye,
invades the ears
of the great herd of whales,
causes them to misread
the warning calls of loved ones,
to turn toward the land,
to cast their graceful hulks across the beach,
Baby whales flounder
besides their dying mothers,
thrash against the arms of men
who try to push them back into the sea.
The others, mournful,
wait in shallow waters,
You and I watch on color TV.
I weep. I am frightened.
All night long I dream of wars and separations,
of children longing to be loved,
and wake exhausted to this poem.
poems Mary McNanally
poems from her self published book “We Will Make a River”