A Little Bit Of Sunshine

She's 23, you know Like a newborn shoot, lush and green A tender reed bending in the breeze Crisp as the new fallen snow Jabbing against the stream with her elbows For her voice is not yet bold Oh, but she is lovely... A summer storm in human form What she lacks in grace, she makes up  for in beauty  She is collecting loves like flowers to weave in her hair Although these will soon sour For she could never stay planted  in one place Cheeks awash with that youthful glow  She floats  from branch to branch With childlike wonder as a rope

But you memorized all your lines And measured every step But you hung a calendar and wore a new dress  But you took up a dance class And packed away your regret  But you painted your room a vibrant blue And knelt beside your bed But you lit a candle and burnt incense  But you shoved all your belongings in a tiny suitcase  And took pictures in a swimsuit  But you sipped mimosas in a swanky bar And bought a new car But you fell asleep in strong arms And followed your heart  And you believe you have come far But you are running from yourself Eating up the road to get away from who you are But you are more than just your plans The depth of your pockets, the fit of your pants You are the grooves on your skin Unmoving, unchanging  Worthy in the moments you're still Beautiful in the ways you try Victorious long before the fight

I know we've met before On the distant shores of time The tides were higher then Our smiles were wider then We were wind and sea The heavens within our reach Though we never did see So content we were, on our little beach How changed from your former selves Now reduced to shell You who held the power of the sky  Now holding a breath  And I whose frame stretched wide  Now terrified of depth  Will we ever find the place  where we met  And retrace our steps on the sand To live without regret Only time will tell. 

My lips are cracked from misuse Throat burning with the truth I swallowed whole and unchewed A terrible case of indigestion With every unspoken question I might be driven to drink  In effort to shove them down  If love were a balm, I have not found the right one If kisses were redemption, I'd be renewed by now  Imagine my surprise when  the answers were found On the tip of my very own tongue. 

I grew up hunched over, like a question mark.  Baked in uncertainty.  The tiniest hint of a smile, with vacant eyes. My mother was an exclamation point, sharp, relentless and unyielding. She would pierce me anytime I tried to stand up tall.  You find it endearing when a child walks for the first time, looking for your eyes. "Am I doing it right mama?" they seem to ask.  But I never want my kids to walk through life with their heads backward, searching for my approval.  Instead I want them to look inwards, ask themselves... what is my truth? What do I want to do?  And forge their own path, not try to rewrite my own.  It may be out of left field, and this is the difficult part, it may be the most outrageous idea you'd ever heard.  But it least it were true.  I believe the inner self cannot lie.  Even if they miss the mark, which, of course they will. At least they're aiming in the right direction. 

"These women were invasive  and blunt, but in the darkest times they knew how to show up." Teatime was a ritual, more rigid than early Sunday mornings and  the rim of our mothers' church hats When the china had been polished and the floors scrubbed clean The parlor was filled with mamas and aunties and the smell of citrus.  Their perms and pearls, glistened in the sunlight pouring through the aluminum windows  They prayed and gossipped in equal measure  For they had very few pleasures...  Fingers fussing over loose threads A bout of good weather   Someone's daughter or other graduating school Strangely, they seemed to relish bad news For it gave them something to do  And how they wanted to do , to be of use Be it a prayer circle, or a casserole  But on that unremarkable afternoon, Amanda's scandalous affair would have to do.

Our heroes fail us.  Because they must.  We need to see our heroes bruise and bleed, become weak Fall short and stumble bare their teeth in agony Their heads which once stood tall, hang low  The shoulders upon which we cried,  long since dried Their earnest promises, forgotten and unkept  Those steady fingers we once held,  should slip off the pedestal we built We must outgrow our idols and surpass our mentors We must outclass our teachers And deliver our preachers Then, only then, may we look inwards,  to the voice that whispers And find there our very own truth Once we finally break out of the confines  of someone to look up to. 

(artist unknown)  She doesn't know it, but her life is a painting The walls of her home are on display  The chipped teacups and plates, reimagined as authentic and quaint Aristocrats study the pattern of her curtains and solemnly nod, "Must be a metaphor..." The riffraff look at the stains on the hardwood floor and shrug "Had those before..." She's on tiptoes, her darkened soles exposed Arms thrown up high, head tossed back.. she appears to dance Some say she's on the cusp of yawning  But she is reaching...for something unseen, Uncaptured, unwritten, beyond the picture  She doesn't see the beauty of her own life Is taking two steps at a time to get to the other side of her painting She doesn't know she's in one The greatest painting in the world wasn't the Mona Lisa, but Da Vinci's face while he painted it: Uncertain, frustrated, unaware of the greatness that eminated out of his fingers. 

We were all too busy looking for the heart of the matter That we missed it, plain and bare upon its surface No one dared say it ...but I suspect it wasn't ugly enough To rouse our interest We were waiting for carpet stains and cigarette butts We were looking for mould in the undergrowth The ugly truth is, truth wasn't always ugly Where there was brokenness, certainly was beauty Where misery, also jubilee Not despite.  But each part of one whole... you wouldn't understand Just looking at one side

Today I do the darnedest thing : I accept myself completely   I feel brave, free and a little silly As I lift my head and kiss my skin. I stretch my hands and land on something solid and unmoving : I am worthy It holds me firmly and leaves no room for questions. 

Bheka! Ngimile eMpumalanga Emuva kwezintaba...  Ngimithi nokukhanya  ngyavutha!  Ingaphakathi lwami alisoze lacishwa Ingaphandle lwami Kepha ngivuza sokampopi Ngize ngithinte konke, ngishintshe konke Ngikhanyise konke Ngikhumula ukumnyama njengegubo yase busika... Ngilande nezibani zabanye  Sichichime sonke sakunye! 

"Threaded there between the gritty residue that coated our shoes, that covered our hands with soot, was a love story. Not simply between man and woman, but man and his chiseling tools that filled his hands when there was nothing left to do, man and his family, who met his needs yet left him wanting, man and his fellow man, man and his entire neighborhood." - Naledi Biyela on If Beale Street Could Talk I ain't never seen anything like it before. I suppose I've read some. But my mind couldn't conjure a picture as efficient  As to see, actually see, our lives our people, communities.. Under this, not sugar-coated But very warm gaze. A gentle lighting.  The golden hour before the sun sets At complete odds with what our world looks like in the dead of the night Under a harsh fluorescent light, unforgiving flashlight Where shadows are exaggerated, distorted And everything becomes ghoul...  I can't explain how amazing it feels to be seen, instead of studied.  Like a ...

Snot-faced, dishevelled, He fidgets between the church pews And pulls on his mother's skirts She stills him with a sharp word But clasps his hand in hers, as the pastor reads a verse  He can't see the eyes piercing her skin The uncertainty brimming within  But propped on her hip He knows only the soft song of her lips as worship  And heaven, the little nook in her chest where he lays his head.