Nutmeg and Crab

hailing from the island of spice,

you get a better me,

in a post-war life- the Marshall plan has done me right,

installments of your sincerity, laid bare on my willingness to keep moving,

we are prospering left and right,

and

you can’t resist, and neither can I,

we are an explicit reggae song

and you know how good I am with that.

Island spice, with a Maryland base

the Grand Canyon

soon under us,

it’s a new story,

of things unimagined together,

together.

Call for Submissions

Such is life…

Silver Linings

He says his father is the greatest man he knows,
Which makes me smile when he says
I’m incredible,
And he laughs
Because I tell him I love his golden skin in pink,
And that he works too much.
He says that makes me just that much sweeter.
I remind him of my injured wing,
“Project management,  remember,” he says…

“I got this.”

The Inevitable

A third of red later,
Zap Mama.
Badu.
Seu Jorge.
Jah Cure.
Wednesday night
Extends its boundaries.
It is spring in the fall.
A new muse is here.
And
It is permanently morning.

Second Wind

Sweet sunrise,
On what is to come.
A repacked self,
The undone
is done.
Wearing perfume
And it smells like life,
Inevitable mornings,
In defiance of night.
A whiff of goodness,
And I’m high on sincere,
A long gaze forward
and a present without fear.

Cosas Part II

a half-marathon holding hands,

a stolen kiss

as bikram ended,

a ride to nirvana

on I-75,

we were present,

our love

fresh,

alive,

as we sat on the balcony,

and listened to zouk,

fish and batata,

cilantro,

we cooked.

Lingerie

in black

turquoise

and lace,

brown-skin,

dark lips,

your hands,

my heart-shaped

face.

Foreign films

and the Moth,

barefoot me,

and

African

cloth.

Sundays wrapped

in rockers lyrics,

cosas upon cosas

that have now just drifted,

away.

Dear Shango

owner of fire and me,

god of breaking hearts,

red and white you bleed,

all the while steadily leaking me,

saying I’m your favorite,

while others you keep,

I’m Oya to you,

lighting you are,

I’m struck again by

your  lightning rod,

struck repeatedly,

until no more,

all I could express

is Dear Shango.

 

-Oya

 

 

 

 

Indigeneity

New World Nubian:

Because this is just one of my all-time favorite poems. Even now. An oldie but goodie.

Originally posted on New World Nubian:

Be transient with me,  

Son of St. Vincent and indigenous seed,

A hybrid blackness springing from the salt of the sea,

You belonged to the earth,

But now to me,

I’ll tell you Old World myths,

You tell me about

Indigeneity.

 

Fasten me with pre-Colombian hands,

 To shipwreck stories,

About America’s lands,

Recount resistance,

On Roatan’s sand,

Debunk mestizaje,

And its backwards strands.

I’ll appreciate your black subjectivity,

But in your hands,

You can reduce me to my exoticity.

Cuz I know you get the fullness of me

and I get the totality of you

my maroon son of the Caribbean sea.

Copyright © 2012 Nichelle Calhoun

View original

Cosas

the balcony

a facial

the Moth in company

squeezes

a push north on your nose

a June night under the stars

a June day in the cover of ocean

Sundays

nights

a silk robe

kayaks

warm oil

canoes

us three

laughter

“I jig em'”

Fela

Ugandan dancers

lovetouchlove

other worlds of bliss and other worlds of sadness too

won’t discuss now

boniato

curry

corn

Junot Diaz

a cautionary tale

a ride from Tampa to Ocala

hands

skin

deep admiration

an Ashanti medallion in blue

southern states

African Diaspora

roses

zouk

bachata

Nikki Giovanni

lingerie

sunsets

sunrises

photos

get-togethers

recordings

a funeral

a wedding plan

and the end of all things

at the hands of

Every Thing

little by little

whittled down

the”cosas.”

 

 

 

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