Archive for the prose Category

The Strength Of Mother Africa (Soliloquy for female)

Posted in Love, poetry, prose, relationships, social commentary with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 28, 2013 by blackstarr

 

            This is a play about a Black woman, a mother, a lover.  She finds that for whatever reason, she is about to lose her man, her family, her life.  If we should assess our situations, and find ourselves not unlike this Black woman, it may be well worth our time to give the answers that she gives.

(She turns to the right, as if looking up a set of stairs.)

            “No – you’re not getting anything else to drink tonight.  Now, close your eyes and go to sleep.  Good – I love you, too”.

(She turns to the front of the stage and pauses.  She takes a deep breath as if getting herself together.  She wipes her eyes with a tissue that is in her hand, and then turns left to face the man who is seated at the nearby table.)

            “I can’t begin to tell you how I feel.  Just what the hell is it that you want?  Am I a disappointment to you?  Do I nag too much?  I try my best to be the woman that makes you happy, but with all my efforts, the best you can do is stay in the streets.  Well, this is for you”.

(She balls up the wet tissue and throws it at the man)

            “Those are the last of my tears.  I refuse to cry another drop.  Don’t think for one minute that my tears are a sign of weakness.  Those tears are the emotions that come from my heart.  I am not weak, I am strong.  I am the pride of Mother Africa, and the most extreme conditions only serve to make me stronger.  So, if you think that I am going to fall apart, if you think that I’ll just roll over and die . . . think again.  I am the woman who loves you.  I need you, and you need me.  You have two children up those stairs who think the world of you, and you still can’t be happy.

You might as well start smiling, because this is where you belong, and this is where you’ll stay.  Is there another woman out there that you think can make a better home for you?  I never thought that you’d cheat on me, and, right now, I still don’t think it can happen.  But, on the outside chance that there is another woman, be advised that you belong to me.  You tell that wench that I will bring her mad drama!

That’s always the first thing that comes to mind.  I suppose that the streets and you so-called friends can try to take you, as well.  Have you forgotten who I am?  I am the woman who has been at your side through it all.  When Mister Charlie said he didn’t need you anymore, it was this Black woman who went out and got a job.  It wasn’t because I was hungry – it was because you are my man.  Who cries in your place when your macho standards hold your tears inside?  Who hurts with you when prejudice tries to make you believe that you’re less than a man?  Tonight, I remind you . . . in case you’ve forgotten.”

(She raises her hand in a “Don’t speak!” manner, and then runs her fingers across her lips.)

            “These are lips to die for.  These are the lips that kiss away the pain when you think life’s not worth living.  They speak the words that make your heart sing, words like ‘I love you’.  When passion comes to play, these lips glide across your body, and send you into ecstasy.”

(She smacks her hip with her right hand.)

            These hips are strong.  They bore babies for you, and they still rotate like the earth on its axis.”

(She cups her breasts with both hands.)

            “These are the breast that fed Mother’s Milk to your children.  I know that they hang a bit more than they used to, but, even now, when your hands caress them, it’s you who breaks out in a cold sweat.  It’s your moans that echo into the night.”

(She sweeps her arm the length of her body.)

            “Black man . . . tell me you don’t want some of this, and you can walk out that door and never look back.  I won’t lift a finger to stop you.  But, the, again, I won’t have to, because you know you can’t walk out on this.”

(She walks over to the chair where the man is seated, and lifts one foot onto the chair beside him.)

            “I get older with each new day, but I keep myself desirable for you and only you.  Touch this skin and tell me that you are leaving me.  I defy you.”

(She returns her foot to the floor and kneels beside him.  She grabs his hand and holds it to her heart.)

            “Touch my heart and tell me that you can’t feel the love that waits for you, and I will set you free.  My heart beats only because there is you.  You can’t find a woman who loves you more . . . because she doesn’t exist.”

(She rises and walks back to center stage.)

            “Yes – my body is worn and I have seen a few years, but I am no where near finished.  I don’t have to beg you to stay.  If you leave, there will be another to take your place, and willingly.  But, that’s not going to happen.  Understand that I am not begging you – I’m just trying to make it plain.  You belong to me.  If there is no other woman, then you tell the streets that they can’t have you either.  Do the streets keep you warm at night?  Do they feed you when you’re hungry?  Do they love you when that need comes over your body?  No?  I thought not.  Well, they can’t have you.  I refuse to let you go.  You’re a good man.  If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have to leave.  I’d walk out the door my damn self.  But, you’re a good man, with a good mind, and a good heart.  This body, this mind, this heart . . . they draw their strength from Mother Africa.  Nations have conquered every part of her, and she has managed to survive.  She has managed to thrive.  As she is strong . . . so . . . am . . . I, and I will not be defeated.”

(She begins picking up clothes from the backs of chairs.)

            “I’m done.  My ranting is over.  I’ve already bolted the front door.  Don’t think that puts you on lockdown.  I’d be the last woman to try and kill your spirit and freedom which lies within you.  You have a key.  You have both the ability and the right to walk out that door, just like you’ve been doing, lately.  But, hear me, Black man:  I’m going upstairs, and if you know like I know, tonight, and every night hereafter, you’ll be right behind me, to warm my feet and caress my body and to make me understand that . . .

(She touches her finger to his forehead.)

You have not . . . lost . . . your mind!”

(She turns towards the imaginary stairs and walks off the stage.  Fade to black.)

*

copyright 1997 blackstarr

*

freerealm@gmail.com

Poison (part 1 of 8, from “A Tincture Of Tellurium”)

Posted in Dreamscape, Love, poetry, prose, relationships, satire and sarcasm, social commentary with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 17, 2010 by blackstarr

Tellurium . . . she was its human portrayal.

born in the year of fifty two,

passivity consummately overdue.

When she revealed herself to me, this sensuous Aphrodite

was a delightful one-hundred-twenty-eight pounds,

sister to the four winds, free-spirited, untamable.

Tell them that she is as exotic as neon, but, is, in no way, as innocuous.

Her beauty will be astonishing, a rare sight, to be sure.

But, let them be warned that she is

at the same time . . . toxiferous . . . noxious,

a tincture of tellurium.

Her voice was euphonic, yet, like a Grecian siren,

it was full-scale seduction,

and, imminent destruction.

She came to me as the eidolon,

that dream of perfection found, which never comes to be.

And, in the end, she became

. . . my injection,

. . . my addiction,

my reason for self-annihilation.

She was liquid xenon, flowing and unresponsive,

and, nearly as unattainable, her free heart unrestrainable.

My actions brought no reactions.

My words of affection were

. . . weightless molecules,

. . . soundless thoughts,

lost to the wind.

She was a secret code, an indecipherable mystery.

Here was the essence of the arcane,

perched upon a cryptographic plane.

Her eyes pulled me in, and,

her touch replenished.

Her kiss drained me of life itself.

She remained . . . ensconced, . . . unsolved,

even cloaked in a veil of non-divulgence.

Tellurium . . . but a faint trace is certain obliteration.

for to grasp the exotic, to taste of the erotic,

obliteration would have been a welcome relief.

So I grasped, I tasted, and, hastened my own undoing.

She was . . . astonishing . . . a rarity, she was a tincture of tellurium.

***************

copyright  1997  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

***************

photos from across the web

young white sburbanite (excerpt from “the village”)

Posted in humor, music, poetry, politics, prose, racial discrimination, satire and sarcasm, social commentary with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 27, 2010 by blackstarr

on any given friday night,

a young white suburbanite,

cruises in his beamer,

into the city, bose blastin’ fiddy.

he sports the latest, greatest, hippest, dopest, phattest rags

that his daddy’s silver spoon could buy,

but that silver spoon is the very reason why.

he protests the riches that they don’t deserve,

lashes out at his very own private federal reserve.


he’s looking for some black flava,

or some brown suga’,

or some white powder,

music getting louder.

young white suburbanite,

in the middle of the night,

loses himself in another man’s culture.

not understanding the subtleties of cp time,

he hits the club way too soon,

stands around with beer in hand,

realizes that the night was not so well-planned.

but he’s fly and hip and dope and –

and thinks he’s ahead of his time,

but the reality is that he simply

got there way ahead of time.

the music swirls within his head,

and the sistas think it’s so dred

that he’s holding his own,

while out of his element.

but to his detriment,

the beer pulls him to the dancefloor.

now, whitebread ain’t so fly no more.

and we think “ooh, that’s gotta hurt!”

beer has him moving to the beats,

the sight has us fallin’ out our seats.

“yo – young white suburbanite!

some fly sista would like ta get witcha”,

but homeboy’s homeboy has had

one too many rollin’ rocks.

young white suburbanite

struggles with all his might

to get his homeboy standing upright.

now, homeboy’s homeboy wants to fight.

young white suburbanite

came to the city,

blastin’ fiddy,

lookin’ for some black flava,

or some brown suga’,

or some white powder.

whitebread

got that gangsta beat going ‘round in his head.

cruisin’ in his jet-black beamer.

he’s just trying to understand

why we always catch it from the man.

tries to understand what that’s like,

he beats a path to every open mike,

struggles to get a feel for what it’s like.

a fruitless pursuit and he can’t see why

he can never feel the pain like you and i.

he innocently protests and lets out a sigh –

“it wasn’t me and i refuse to carry that lie”.

it’s neither out of compassion,

nor because it’s popular fashion,

but, instead, because the guilt of the fathers

prey upon the innocence of the sons.

**********

on any given friday night,

deep within the urban blight,

from dusk until daylight.

lookin’ for some

black flava,

brown suga’,

white powder.

out of the gloomy mist and into the light,

comes an urban legend . . . a young white suburbanite.

copyright  2008  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

Lose Yourself by Eminem

Images: silver spoon (metalmuseum.org), Rolling Rock beer (hoppsy.com), Flava (myrunkspace.com), Bey caricature (pinoypix.com), Philadelphia skyline (wordfromtheweb.com)

Thank you so very, very much.

Posted in humor, just for the bull of it, prose, satire and sarcasm with tags , , on December 19, 2008 by blackstarr

Thank you so very much Sharon, The True Urban Queen.  Thanks for the opportunity to write some more.  Thanks so much for making my brain work overtime.  No . . . really.  Thanks . . . a lot.

So, basically, I’ve been tagged, and this one is a long one, so have a seat, if you please.

*********************************

Ten (10) random things about moi:

queen-l 1- I detest cold weather.  I overdress for it to insure that I am not cold when I go outside.  I stay inside as much as I possibly can.

2- I was once a fantastic dancer.  They called me “Mr. Wiggles” and “Slinky”.  I was truly agile.

3- I am rarely seen in something other than dress pants, dress shoes, and on most occasions, a tie.

4- I love sit-coms.  I hate the “situations”, but, love the “comedy” which ensues.

5- I am the middle child (older sister, younger brother), otherwise known as “the forgotten child”.

6- I was born on a Friday.  Is that why I always shout “TGIF!”?

7- I love to write.  Sorry – I LOVE to write!

8- I drink either coffee or Mountain Dew all day long, seven days a week.

9- I hate fast food and rarely eat it.  When I do indulge, it’s either for a Triple Bacon Cheeseburger from BURGER KING or a huge roast beef sandwich from ARBY’s.

10- I love to hear Queen Latifah sing.  My favorite by her is “Travelin’ Light” .

Nine (9) ways to win my heart:

tights-05 1- Know how to cook the things that I like.  It’s one thing to be able to cook, but, if it’s not something that I like, it’s virtually a waste, now, isn’t it?

2- Dress like a hoochie but act like a lady (when we are together).  I love a classy lady, but I also like skin.

3- Assume that I am right, and save us both a bit of time.

4- Give some personal input on the poetry and novels that I write.

5- If you’re smarter than I am, try not to flaunt it 24/7.  Part of the day is OK, but, not all of it.

6- For six, seven, eight and nine – review item two (2).

Eight things I want to do before I die:

1- See the pyramids.

2- Return to Jamaica for my third and last trip.

pyramids-giza 3- Lounge around on a nude beach in Negril, Jamaica.

4- Dive from the cliff at Rick’s Bar (Negril, Jamaica).

5- Expatriate to Paris, France . . . just for three weeks or so – too many responsibilities here.

6- Attend my children’s college graduations (May, 2009)

7- Fall in love, again.

8- Write and direct a movie (sounds like some copycatting, huh?)

Seven (7) ways to annoy me:

1- If you’re not sitting up under me, at home, in your bra and panties, show your bra straps.  I HATE THAT!!!!!

2- Chew on ice in my presence.

3- Make me watch a LIFETIME movie.ice-cubes

4- Make me watch reality shows.

5- Chew with your mouth open.

6- Clutter up my space.

7- Don’t answer when I call your name.

Six (6) things I believe in:

1- GOD.

2- Cleanliness.

3- Neatness.

tuxedos-03 4- My abilities.

5- Being a gentleman.

6- True love.

Five (5) things that I am afraid of:

1- Snakes.

2- Losing my sanity, particularly to Alzheimer’s Disease.

3- Being embarrassed in public.

4- Being in very close, tight corners (claustrophobic big time!).

5- Being buried alive (slightly different from number 4).snakes

Four (4) of my favorite things:

1- My female muses.

2- Writing.

3- Female breasts and their “nibbles”.

4- Swimming.

Three (3) things I do daily:

1- Drink coffee.

2- Write.

3- Take two or three long walks (rain, snow, sleet, or hail).

Two (2) things I want to do within the hour:

1- Finish this dad-blaned post!!!!!!

2- Thank Sharon.  Really.  No, I mean it.

homerchokingbart1

One (1) person I want to see right now:

1- My longest running female friend and muse.

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D*mn, that was long!!!  Hey, Sharon – thanks, babe.  Really.  Thanks so very, very much.

I didn’t tag anyone because I don’t think I know enough bloggers like that.  So, if you haven’t been tagged, tag yourself and join in the fun.  Seriously – it’s a lot of fun.  No, really.  I mean that from the bottom of my heart.  Peace.

copyright  ©  2008  freedom

freerealm@gmail.com

“They Just Can’t Stop It (The Games People Play) by The Spinners

Photos are from various sites on the web.  If any belong to you and you wish them removed from this site, please let me know and I will remove them.