Were U There?

Were U There?

Tom Ford’s Oud Wood brought me back to a time when there were Better Days. Days when I wondered aloud if a train would ever come down those Tracks. Come barreling through the Tunnel to join us on the sweat stained floor. Were you there Tom? Were You there?

Were you there in the Studio on 54 when the silver streamers came down around our feet, leaving note-shaped blisters on our souls?

Were you there when Sylvester made us laugh and cry all in the same breath? Were you here all the time? With Beauty, style, and tall dark Grace. Sparking face with each strobe light flash. Our bodies swaying like Slaves to the Rhythm of the beat, beat, beat. That Glorious Disco heat.

Were you there when Donna served us our last chance for romance? And we danced that dance as the key to Staying Alive. Were you there?

Were you there to Ring My Bell when we strolled through MacArthur Park? Did you leave your umbrella at home when The Weather Girls told you the rain had magic feet?

I was there Tom. I was back there again. I knew it the moment I took a deep breath… Oud Wood. I could feel all the bodies flickering in the electric light. Oud Wood. I remember now. I was there Tom. Were you?

-B. Poree’ © 2018

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This is my ode to Tom Ford and his fragrance Oud Wood.

It’s amazing how a rich dark scent can take you to the place before time rendered delicate changes and sifted in harsh realities. I stood at the Macy’s counter just breathing it in. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to relive those memories of good times, dancing in the clubs of New York in the very early 80’s. I might have to buy a bottle just so I can periodically access that olfactory time machine and memorialize those memories of sublime uninhibited bliss. Maybe I will.

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Missing Me

Missing Me

I miss the me who danced the dance of thieves.
Stealing time, stealing glances at days long passed with juvenescence reclaimed.

Clipping moments of fresh cut joy and abandoned wistfulness.
Having; taking; giving—living wonder in excess and laughing at its fullness.
Sharing all once thought lost, but now found.

Dormant beneath the moss and overgrown chimera, she waits for me.
Slipping back down into the earth with roots fully extended.
Drinking; feeding; stretching long and wide.

Finally pausing to gaze upon the once barren fields of hope—now blessedly bathed in morning dew and blissfully showered in flowers. 🌺💐🌹🌻🌸

-B. Poree’ © 2018

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It’s been a while since I shared anything creative here. I didn’t feel I had anything new to share. Now I think I can work my way back to sharing new things.

I realize now that I have been missing for the last 2 years. The me that I was, left everything that was here and went to a place of no reminders of the past. I didn’t want to remember anything nor did I want to forget. I saw both as voyages downstream with Scylla and Charybdis flanking right and left. The only real option was to just go forward. But my heart said, “No! Avoid the stream altogether. The stream is filled with lizards, poisonous snakes, jagged rocks and slippery stones.” But that very stream is also a part of my path onwards. I can’t continue to avoid it or stagnation will engulf me and stanch my flow. I must step out of the shadows of pain and back into the sunlight.

I miss the part of me that bathed in the warmth of the sun. I miss the person I became when I allowed the fire of creativity to course through my veins and fuel my sense of being. I need to reintroduce myself to her, take her in and nurture her broken spirit back to health. But can I? I’d like to believe and sincerely hope I can. ✨🙏🏽✨

The Penman and His Vice

Through the penman’s eyes, I see wisps of black smoke lick the bottom of my soul as I rise,
never too high

lifted to powerless heights above the tower of mortality.

Rings and things less divine left wasted on the tip of my tongue, as I cough out a lung and decline.

Silver threads of self loathing spin masterful swirls and twirls of feigned relaxation and quiet death. Living here in this morally reprehensible space in time is no longer living.

This home, these cells, these walls, these plates and cups crash in waves of black ash and congested chests of drawers.

As its mental foundation crumbles and quakes beneath the wickedness of the very idea of succumbing to an actual vice, the heart, lungs, and true soul of the penman spins on.

Forever weaving and stirring the witches brew. Black ink coursing through leather bound and paper lined veins. I see the penman and know the truth.

To have no vice but words, unspeakable is the crime.

I stand firm in my conviction of my conviction, my punishment is…

THE END

-B. Poree’ © 2016
Submitted for WordPress Writing Prompt Challenge
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/vice/

THE WANT KNOT

Strike the question from all pages of the mind,
4 the question of want, creates a want knot.
1st question in the book of tales transcends time.
What is it that u want? 2 want knot.

A loaded question gunning down your life force.
A knot in your stomach that dares u 2 want it untied.
A cord wrapped so tightly around your tongue, that u scream your desire 2 loose its grip.
Desire 2 hide
want.
Desire 2 want knot.

“I want 2 b happy”. Happy 2 not want.
Knot.
But happy is a word tied around the index finger of your right hand, reminding u 2 want the want knot.
If u r happy, u r content with what u got.
Being content means u want nothing;
Happy 2 want not the want knot.

Collect

We the human COLLECTive,
COLLECTors of trash, debris, refuse.
Sand, slipping through 2 the bottom of the 8th hour glassy eyes see treasures in gold painted rocks,
rocks our existence 2 eternal damnation and self-loathing,
spawned by things most likely mock.

Eager 2 climb the mountain 2 the topic not slated 2 be aired on this channel.
Networking hard towards a goal that spits 4th no true wealth that knowledge of litter is king,
cause… we all work in sanitation.