#ThrowbackThursday Poetry: Moonlit Madness

It still amazes me that I have 150 poems archived on this blog (give or take 5 poems that might have been revisions). Despite being able to write and post so many, 62% of those poems (don’t ask why I used such a specific number — you get the point) I never want to see again. Especially the ones I shared when I first started this blog. They’re just so bad! They don’t even get views anymore . . . if they ever got views to start with.

Maybe one of these days, I’ll muster up enough courage to share those older poems for a Throwback Thursday post . . . but today is not one of those days, so here’s a poems originally published July 3, 2015 for the Write or Die Wednesday challenge. Please note, in order to get the full eerie effect of this poem, you have to play the music with it! 

Moonlit Madness

It was 1:37 when she heard music.
Awakened in a glowing room,
moonlight seeping through blinds.
Down the hall, ascending,
descending notes echoed off
walls, a hauntingly beautiful
melody— like swimming
in the night; head under
water pouring into ears,
saturating her in silence.
More frightening than a
mysterious pianist in her home—
she owned no piano.


WODW: Letters to Devon

I wrote this poem three or four years ago, and I think it best embodies the prompt for Write or Die Wednesday, which is the following quote:


I had plans to include this poem and a handful of others into a chapbook about pain and loss and emerging out of a toxic relationship a better person. Unfortunately, I have a problem with finishing what I start. Hopefully, sharing this poem will reinvigorate my desire to publish that chapbook. Enjoy!

Letters to Devon

Jewelry, shoes, phones, TVs, guns, galore.
Law enforcement pushes through the door
You call me to implore.

Eating junk
Vomiting it up
Pulling hair
Crying in despair
You promise we’ll be together soon
I pray it to be true.

Hair thinning
Weight climbing
Tears flowing
Same routine as before?
Pacing the floor
Wondering why you don’t write to me anymore.

Mother screaming
Hands trembling
Stomach churning
Different routine from before.
Positive test hits the floor
Doctor’s appointment set
Doctor’s appointment broken
Still pacing the floor
Wondering why you don’t call me anymore.

Scribbling frantically
Begging you to come back to me
Others make visits
Notice my name removed from the list
Return to pacing the floor
Wondering why you don’t want to see me anymore.

Rubbing cream
Looking inside
At pictures black and white
Laughing uncontrollably
Thought you’d love to see
What you’ve always desired your first child to be
Continue pacing the floor
You still don’t write to me anymore.

Checking phone
No missed calls
Peeking in mailbox
No white envelopes
Months passing
Tummy rounding
One debt to society paid
Again pacing the floor
You still don’t call me anymore.

Rage swells
And dwells within
Body pulsating
Typical that you wouldn’t stay through thick and thin
Letters ripped and torn
Disheartening confetti float to the floor
I’m glad I don’t have to write to you anymore.

Stomach spreading
Hair still shedding
Too weak to pace on feet
Resting in bed
Wishing you dead
You still refuse to come see me
Friends gossip
Love’s blossomed
Your new heart and soul
Says I’m a lying whore?
Hee . . .hee . . . whoo . . .
You better pray you don’t see me anymore.

Puffy face
Red eyes
Stained cheeks
Sensing an air of defeat
Wiping tears
Hand dropping to belly
A strong kick felt within
Creeping smile
Warm radiance embraces
Why should I cry over you?
Someone pure and new
Will be arriving very soon?

Baby’s coming
Father’s missing
With no hand to hold
A bittersweet delivery
Tears of joy
Tears of pain
Cuddling my new man against my frame
Eyes connect
Fingers caress
Affection encompasses
As his lips touch my breast
Love returns
Anger recedes
No longer pacing the floor
I don’t care that you don’t call me anymore.



WODW: Empty Space #poetry #CharlestonShooting

Hate comes in air bubbles
injected in the bloodstream
with soiled needles
of syringes tainted by
A venomous pocket of gas
Lodges into the heart,
creates an empty space, void of
Indoctrinates a man to raise
a gun before God,
massacre the children
who worship Him.


This is in response to the following prompt for Write or Die Wednesday:


And is also in response to the horrendous shooting that took place in Charleston, SC last night.

Click Image to learn more.
Click Image to learn more.

#WODW: Lazy Lions

“People are just like lions,” Aisha complained as she scrapped the licked-clean BBQ chicken bones, popcorn kernels and potato chip crumbs off the plates and into the trash can. “The woman does all the work while the man lies around, licking his ass.”

“What’s Quinton done now?” Taylor’s muffled voice asked.

Aisha pressed the phone onto her ear with her shoulder. “I mean, I cook. I clean. I take care of the kids. I’m cordial with his bitch of a baby mama, and let me tell you, that shit is hard. I suck him off when he’s feeling extra special. And what do I get in return? Empty beer bottles thrown all over my living room floor and a bunch of strange men in my house yelling at the top of their lungs at the TV while Scandal is on!”

“It’s the playoffs, Aisha. You know men don’t think during playoffs. Plus y’alls TV is huge, and the picture is like 3-D without the glasses.”

“It was the season finale!”

“I’m sure you can catch it online tomorrow.”

“Yea, I’ll just spend the whole day wearing ear plugs while everyone and their freaking mama blab about it till they’re senseless!” She slammed the last dish into the soapy water in the sink. “They could’ve at least used the paper plates. What do I even buy them for?”

“Stop being a drama queen. You know you love him.”

“I’d love him more if he’d ever buy me a ring,” she mumbled as she scrubbed each plate with the sponge and held it under the stream of hot water pouring from the faucet.  A sudden roar erupted from the men sitting on the couch in the next room, startling Aisha. Her phone slipped off her shoulder, balancing momentarily on the edge of the kitchen counter before falling into the trash can. “Shit!”

“Babe, you gotta come see this,” Quinton said, lingering in the doorway. “Curry just sank this beautiful buzzer beater!”

“That should be a six pointer!” a disembodied voice called from the living room.

“Hell yea!” Quinton said over his shoulder. Then he turned to Aisha. “He shot it from the three-point line on the other side of the court.” He overlapped his arms to demonstrate.

“They ’bout to show the replay!” the voice said again.

“C’mon!” Quinton grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her into the living room.

“But—” she said, looking back at the trash can.

Quinton waved her off. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get the dishes later. He stood her behind the couch where five men sat squashed, shoulder to shoulder, lips enclosed around the rims of Corona, enraptured by the movements of Stephen Curry as he tossed the ball from his chest, and it sailed across the court, dropping into the basket and swishing the net.

“Splash!” they all sang in unison, arching their hands in the air as if they had shot the ball themselves.

“Beautiful,” Quinton whispered and kissed the crook of Aisha’s neck.

“Golden State winning it all this year!”

“They gotta get past Harden and James first.”

“Not a problem. Nobody can stop the Splash bros!”

As the men debated the skills of their favorite players, Quinton wrapped his arms around Aisha’s waist, rocking her from side to side and nibbling on her neck. Mmm, she thought, maybe being a lion isn’t so bad after all.


Write or Die Wednesday is a biweekly writing challenge that provides you with a prompt and lets you run with it. This week’s prompt was:


See what other lion writings are lying around, and have a go at it yourself!