Check me out on La Palabra!

This month, I will be featured on the web site La Palabra, which is a female writer's collective that highlights women doing incredible things. At the link you will find a video performance and two written poems, including one that was originally submitted as a cover letter (that liked it so much, they wanted it as a poem!) So take a look!

And while you're there, click around and check out the other women featured on their site. It's worth it. :)

the Tuesday I announced my tour

the cop sits in the middle of the street
I see her, but don't flinch
I wonder if she will bullseye the target on my car

in surburbia
the cops always follow a little too close
their grills smile "you will how high when I JUMP!"
but they pass

here
where the rich, middle and priviledged tightrope the edge of my neighborhood enough
for coffee and books
the cops play target practice

I am less than a mile from home and the cop
stops me before I can cross the light
there is no fear
her routine is familiar and so is mine
for me
I turn off my music cause you dare not sully the sweetness of this CD

I wonder if the woman under the uniform
chose cop over civilian to escape herself
her past
if she thinks the control she gained tastes better than
the misery she watches from the barrel of her cop car

she returns and tries to chastise a little girl into me
why are you driving?
the bus runs everywhere
correction: the bus runs everywhere you want me to be
ahem, I don't have money
you had money for gas
I don't have gas, look, see

her stance hardens
I realize to her
I am not a flying skeet-shooter plate on the descent
I am a carnival game
one duck in an endless row of targets she'll shoot over the side
I stop talking
wonder when she put a finger on the lid of the pot crabs can't push ajar
there's silence
I visibly agitate her cause
I'm not 'yes ma'am, thank you ma'am' her reprieve of not taking me to jail
the consolation prize of two tickets and a long goodbye to my car

ok
for her apathy I make her wait
take
every valuable to stuff in my bag
whisper blessings and prayers to the woman who got me this far
my car is just another girlfriend I didn't let go soon enough
I am only down
at the prospect of duck-walking my way home
slewfoot and shouldering a bag now double in weight

can someone take me home? I've got a bad knee.
you said you live close, right? you'll make it.

I'm going on tour! (revised)

Ok. So. Big news. *deep breath*

I'm going on tour!

It's my first one, and although it's a short one, I'm still super excited! In October, I'll be in:

Houston, TX - Super Happy Fun Land for Odd Thursdays October 3rd
Dallas, TX - Dallas Black Pride's "The Movement" event October 4th
Oklahoma City, OK - Saturday Afternoon Live! at the Paramount, OKC October 5th
Oklahoma City, OK - Open Mic Night at the Hubbly Bubble Hookah & Cafe October 7th
Oklahoma City, OK - Red Dirt Poetry Slam at Sauced on Paseo October 9th

Wooo. That's a lot. :) Thanks to Morgan Coleman Alexandra Marie for helping me set this all up. It goes all the way down next month.

More dates and events will be announced in the coming weeks. So come see me! :)

**UPDATE**

I'm having to edit this post because I'm added a ton of new shows to this tour, so Oklahoma City, I'll be all over you next week! And Dallas, we gon' have some fun.

Here are the new show dates:
10/ 4 - Dallas Black Pride Comedy show and Concert
10/ 5 - Saturday Afternoon Live! at the Paramount, OKC
10/ 7 - Open Mic Night at the Hubbly Bubble Hookah & Cafe 
10/ 8 - **NEW**Open Mic Night at Urban Roots  
10/ 9 - Red Dirt Poetry Slam at Sauced on Paseo 
10/ 10 - Cause.Life.Is.Too.Short Volume 2 at Michael's in Arlington 
10/ 13 - Spotlight Sundays with Masterpiece at 1011 Grill 
10/ 25 - F.L.O.W. at 1011 Grill 
10/ 26 - The Free Word radio show

AND, I'm releasing my first chapbook, Faith Move Muscles, this week. I'll have copies available at all my shows.

If you want more information about me, my shows or how to get merchandise, email me at princess.mcdowell@gmail.com or like my Facebook page.

sweet mo'ning haiku

she sends me haiku in the mo'ning

sun, kiss her for me
dance on her shoulders today
a reason to smile

they are sweet whispers awake
a kind balance to the screams I fall asleep to
she tells me she's not a poet
just a fan of the 17 syllable symphony

the words you spit are
treasures you do share with me
in awe I'm silenced

i don't haiku
not enough discipline to pare down words so samurai
graceful and mercilessly
she tells me she's not a poet
so when she wraps me in silk first moment I wake

i will paint your skin
fingers brush neck, back, hips, thighs
dance with me sweet love

i remember how she touches iambic
how we made shakespearean sonnet
so deep, so beautiful
i hadn't made love poem in so long

head laid on chest
tap to the beat of your heart
walking into love

i don't haiku but
maybe together, humans (5)
linked by the divine (7)

Late Nights, Early Mornings: NPS Edition

it started after group piece finals. after the obligation of competition lifted and I could truly breathe in the present as it was. we headed back to the hotel, and joined in on what felt like a back alley dice game in its rawness, though there was no aggression, no disadvantage, just all love and opportunity to share who you were on the mic. 
nupic is the purest slam I've ever seen, and it was beautiful in a way that's hard to describe. if I envied, it was the ones who said truths unearthed after digging deep, so deep that they had to scream out the words, though that may not have been the intention. I watched like a small child, marveling at the sacrifice and bravery.
after, filled with adrenaline and love I circled the lobby looking for something to pour my heart into. I thought I wanted it to come out in my poetry, that is how I usually release now, but I couldn't find what I was looking for. I wanted a drink, just to enjoy a cold beer as though that would make the moment that much sweeter, but my spirit wouldn't let me search enough to find it. 

Boston sunrise

once I made the decision to go, to go find "it," it led me and my brother to the 15th floor of the hotel. and although our destination was originally higher, the unlocked Empress room door and the wall of windows felt like x marked spot of our adventure. beginning and not end. we gazed at the skyline over the charles river in muted, astonished, marvelous silence. the sky was still dark enough to illuminate the lights in the buildings, and as the sun rose, glistened off the water, the shadows stood up and slinked back in appreciation of her majesty.
 people came, younger poets young at heart and looking for the memory that would last. they were respectful of the silence, revered the space we'd created. soon, we were surrounded by eagerness, and I couldn't scrape the smile off my face.
they found a way outside, and soon, we were witnessing all this up close, accompanied by the warmth and chill of the morning and a slight wind. I asked my brother to spit, not expecting him to freestyle the moment into verse, but he did, and it worked beautifully. the entire time - since leaving nupic - I felt like something special would happen. I didn't know what, but I was to be finding out with someone I've come to hold close.
I recited Music, and although the reverence of beauty had started to fail in silencing them, i felt like I was speaking to everyone present. it was an honor.
we only left once a hotel employee told us we couldn't be there. we walked into town so he could take pictures of the street art. he wanted the architecture, but there was no disappointment because the Most High had already blessed us with a beautiful morning. we dare not ask for anything else. we simply flowed. 

street art

it was about 6:45 a.m. and we'd stayed up the whole night. we needed food and I suggested a place in davis square I'd discovered before a bout. we had egg sandwiches and he listened to me talk, sympathized with all the struggles and hardships I've endured this summer in slam.
when we left, a poet sat outside the cafe, selling copies of his poems for $5. Ricardo, with the two-toned eyes and grey hair. he read a poem probably older than us both, and it made me grateful. we bought a copy of whispers, me combining one of my two-dollar bills with his $3. if you're gonna spend a two-dollar bill, let it be worth it.
on the train back, we snatched winks and embraced the tired that had seeped into our bodies. the walk back was not long. i disregarded a woman's bitter, her anger, because she obviously wanted to hold onto it - I let her - and he reassured me that my heart was in the right place.
I didn't want to sleep once we parted ways and I got back to my room. I knew I needed to. I laid out the blanket with a little more cushion and slept uncovered. the day had been so good, I reluctantly and quickly fell asleep, like a child the night before the first day of school.
two hours later, I was too excited about the morning to sleep. I went for my brother, but he was spent. 
I let him sleep, and followed some other siblings out again, this time to a Dunkin Donuts. on the way, during and after, I talked with my little sister about accepting what you have been given, and not feel apologetic about it. i paid for her food and drink, and sat with another small makeshift family, the boys still wrapped up in the strategy of the competition. on the way back, my little sister shared her joyous news with a brother, and he danced a happy that made me smile. it was a kind moment.
somehow we parted ways differently than imagined at the hotel, and instead of experiencing the planned picnic, i stumbled into an old-fashioned tea party. it was deliberate and exclusive. women, queer, trans only. this created a space for us to talk candidly over hot tea and pound cake, cheese, crackers and "bad bitch lunchables." seated in our circle were some of the most talented and revered women in poetry, and I felt honored to share such a space with them. the experience was needed, especially for me, and I was grateful.
after two hours, people started to disperse, and I snuck off to the room to sleep. the nap was only 15 minutes. even still, it felt like I woke up to a new day. there was still one major thing to do - finals night - and I knew it wouldn't disappoint.

Writing Against The Machine featuring Princess!

The other week, I spent some time talking about my poetry, slam, performance and other things writing with an old college friend. Check out the podcast on their blog, Writing Against The Machine, and let me know what you think!

the most powerful four letter word. . .

the first morning i slept alone
i looked in the mirror
noticed
you kissed a four-letter word under my bottom lip
i thought
the last time you pressed yours to mine we were saying goodbye
rather
you bid adieu to the me that loved you past myself
loved you
til pain felt the same as loving and living for you
noticed
the same four-letter word stamped on the inside of my lip
know i never spoke so
it must've branded itself through my teeth
came up but refused to go down or out
mirror images of what we both want but can't have
you used it like a machete
swung at my arms and my legs as i inched toward the door
this four-walled hand I've been dealt
like this
four-letter sentence I'm serving in the new prison of reality without you
amplifies every time i tie my shoes
close doors behind
echoes like creaks in the floorboard
my home is not supposed to be haunted by a word you never said to me inside it
a word you never said just
rom-com kissed me into believing
fucked me into needing
I wrestle with peace when I'm up and when I'm dreaming
I'm sorry i couldn't stop you from becoming what you always wanted to be
bittersweet tragedy
shakespearean in its legacy
allegory in its relevance
you exist as real as the shadows on my bedroom wall
as real as the four letters you footprinted on my face expecting me to give chase
when all i can do is stand in the middle of apartment
heart
head
present
future in my hands
past like ashes from the sage smudged to clear the way for you
maybe i shoulda opened the window for that smoke signal
or just branded you like you branded me
that way
STAY
could be something you'd have to taste
feel and look in the face
every morning you wake

snow shields

*from a workshop I did with Desiree Dallagiacomo

snow comforts
encompassing white and blue sky
arms taut in my jacket
this is what it feels like to be surrounded and alone

i wasn't scared
did not fear the white
longed to touch the blue
my arms don't move
my voice has no use
just time and snow cold
tall to protect
tall to guard
like my mother guards
she'll be back soon
i know this
I'm not scared

snow shields
the wind blows swirls
on my face and my feet
keeps company as I wait
white and blue smile
high
feels like hugs
we should hug
she is warm

Tons of YouTube videos!

So, lately a bunch of people have been taping me doing poems. So take a look!

At Bill's Records in Dallas:
Lions and Trees



Snowflake



At the Battle of the Metroplex:
Snowflake

The night of. . .

Late night. driving a young man home to the same neighborhood I used to call home. hearing the verdict and all the sadness and all the everything from a people desperate for justice. Watching this young man til the door of his home is safely closed and locked behind him. Seeing much of myself in him. His bright face bespectacled and glowing like the neon green shoelaces from his 16th birthday gifts. . . trying not to write a poem.

Hugging the boy I once watched grow. Now 5'6", 11 years of man-child and mirror image of his mother. Boy in his smile but man in his glare and knowing. All the track practice in the world don't outrun bullets and fear and systems we can no longer run away from. . . Trying not to write a poem.

Working my retail job, hoodie up, and reading the faces for the same sadness crying down my insides. The black man looking for chess books I nickname Deacon cause his scent reminds me of my father's church, though at 10 a.m. Sunday he is not. The white woman arguing her book price with fervor practiced in her bathroom. The man asking for a markdown on the book for his daughter, quiet and reserved. Balancing anger and sadness in routine salutations. . .trying not to write a poem.

Her voice repeats, "if i could write this shit in fire," and. I can't. If i could, if we could, its ashes would have spread seeds and outgrown these old world problems. Still. . . Trying not to write a poem because. Because. Actions speak.

The whirlwind that was New Orleans and Southern Fried

I'm a child of conferences.
Every since I was in high school, I've been blessed to be able to attend conventions and spaces that feature people that are interested in the same type of things that I like, so getting to travel to New Orleans with my Dallas Poetry Slam teammates was destined to be an experience because I'm so in love with poetry right now. And hearing new voices saying courageous things in ridiculous ways already had me pretty hyped.
But Southern Fried wasn't just about poetry for me. It was also about New Orleans, and I almost feel like, because of the history and Hurricane Katrina, people should visit the city just to get a sense of the resilience that the residents had and continue to have.
That city is strong. And it works hard to stay on top.
The funny thing is, I can't even say that that's something I actively saw with the community. It's definitely something you can feel - driving on the super long bridge into town, your first look at the Superdome (which gave me equal parts infinite sadness and incredible hope), the smiles of the natives. New Orleans plays no games.
That said, Southern Fried introduced me to poets that are genuinely filled with love. I mean, overflowing. They love their poetry family. They love the words. They love just being around each other - not just their teammates - and it showed. It definitely made me understand that, if you let it be, poetry can be a nationwide (and yes, worldwide) community that'll embrace you with open arms. And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is a beautiful thing.
As a rookie national poet, which feels weird to say, I wanted to make sure I took in the opportunity to meet everyone I could. The friendly faces from WoWps definitely helped quell my anxiety. Poets who I had only made myself available to via the gushy compliments after bouts or workshops, came up to me with smiles, hugs and love. So that was cool. :)
Because of the purpose of the trip - it was still a competition - I didn't get a chance to go to any workshops, which really helps to establish relationships with people that you wouldn't otherwise meet. But thankfully, staying late for bouts that started after ours made for great networking opportunities, and we even met a team that welcomed us in enough for us to kick it on Bourbon Street with them. (Which, by the way is. . .you know what, nevermind. . .lol)
Speaking of people, my breakfast with *Luka was pretty kick ass, too.
The competition was amazing. As I've said, I'm not necessarily a slam poet. I write what's on my heart at the time, sometimes it has metaphors sometimes not, but I'm not all into the competition. So during our bouts and others, I just wanted to listen. I was able to do that and. . .man, listen. . .those poets were phenomenal. I'm still reeling over Team Treat Yo Self.
Watch this (hands down my favorite poem):


My team did well. We made it to finals, which was a blessing in and of itself, because we got to share a stage with real heavyweights like Denice Frohman, Dominique Christina, Ed Mabrey, G Yawazawa. Several had kind words to say about us, and I thank them for that. I got to perform Snowflake twice, and my teammate Simon Phoenix, who you should check out here because he's a great photographer and performer, consistently did awesome (he was with me in Taos also).
Overall, Southern Fried felt like going to a family reunion on your dad's side. You're not sure who everyone is, but you can feel they love you, and now you can't wait to have another reunion just to see all the faces again. So I will be going back. Greenville, SC 2014.

weapons

I carry my broken pieces in a shoulder bag
They jumble when I walk
Sharpen themselves inside my canvas to make machete of my edges
she wants to take them out and examine the shine
I say, " I never want to know what your blood looks like
so stop touching me."
I only touch
when I wanna feel progression
since I can't reform glass
I am better
when I see me sharper
but everyone wants to see me walk with these weapons in my shoulder bag
walk on these weapons in my shoulder bag
instead of putting myself together on the journey
people like broken pieces
one piece at a time

Mountains speak. . .

Of all the times I've ridden through the mountain country, the red dirt rock of New Mexico, looking for adventure outside my home state, I can't help but feel like I'm passing the adventure right there. The shrubs and trees that dot tall structures, the formations of sleek earth, hard and strong, call out to me. They'll wait for me to ready myself, they say. They've got nothing but time and my ancestors and spirits and angels are waiting to speak to me from atop those mountain peaks. There are stars for me to see. There are toxins waiting to run screaming from my body when I sweat and climb and push my body through that which I've never experienced. My English professors would call it a vision quest.

I rarely miss them when I drive by. Even if I'm sleeping, the Most High wakes me up to see the terrain that whispers to me. It made sense that Stephen was the soundtrack to this ride. He sounds so much like his father. He sings so much discovery and redemption with the percussion that feels like what Bob would have been. Him, combined with the view, calms me like home. I want to sleep under the cloudless sky. Conversations with the moon. Melt into the rock and feed the cacti with the water of my spirit. When I look out at the passing peace, I tell it I'm coming. I won't forget. I picture the adventure, the sun rays smiling at me as I walk lone, scale land my feet will want to know better. I'll open my mouth so my dreams and fears and silent prayers can float out untethered. I will receive the lessons. Growth. Strength. The ancestors and spirits and angels will smile at my arrival. They've been waiting for me, they'll say. We are glad you could make it.

An Apology to My Ribs

Little girls grow and wait for you to fade into the background of new frontiers
Puberty hits and
Breasts steal the spotlight you've waited to hold since birth
I'm sorry for that
You are the closest things to my heart I could touch and yet
I shied away from you because the world has made you a symbol of what's wrong in America
Starving for attention
Starving to be a beautiful we never were
We were just beautiful
To each other
The lovers say
You don't belong on the outer frame of my silhouette
It hurt when they would look through you as if you were not important
My ribs
Are the reason I can stick my chest out so far
The complement to my backbone
I don't downplay you as the reason I stand
I'm sorry for all the times I blamed you for my broken heart
For the people who I thought you let in too early
You are no gate
Their kisses were not keys to my sternum
You did not fly open
I thank God you did not fly open
When it felt like they were ripping me to shreds
My soul doesn't feel like a caged bird when I run my fingers across you
I feel blessed to be able to feel the steel in my body armor
I'm sorry that sometimes I walk like I'm not used to your breast plate weight
Adam gave a rib to be whole and I've
Taken in enough evenings alone to start believing that you
Solid bone
Complete me like no other
Thank you for being physical, visible proof of how strong I am
I heart you inside
And out

Find me on SoundCloud!

And, I've launched a SoundCloud page where you can listen to tracks off Not A Storybook <3 .="" always="" as="" contact="" copies="" directly.="" downloading="" for="" me="" or="" p="" physical="">

New YouTube video

I've got a new video uploaded to my YouTube channel from the Dallas Grand Slam (so you can actually see what I was talking about in my post). It's down here:

talk

I don't believe I started talking at a young age
My mother says different
Says I was an articulate adult at age four
Told her to call me what I feel like at age three
A prodigy who slow dances with her demons
Oh I wanna dance with somebody
I remember struggling to form words and sounds that were so elementary to my peers
They didn't want to play under or at the tip of my tongue
I couldn't talk
Lying is not a defense mechanism
Its a fingerprint on your lover's favorite CD you could wash off if you gave a shit
I don't lie
I've just given my honesty to people who regifted it back to me without the packaging
Book with no dust jacket
I can't use this registration code again
She wants me to be fully open like
Like that's easy
Like you can handle the full narrative of the hero all backstory everything
That's a lie
Omission is not lying
It is the shield I fight with until you knock it out my hand and I only have this pen
This tongue to protect you and I keep both sharp on accident
Talking is not easy when you have a mouth full of jagged teeth chewing on life's hard candy
We started this way
Dipping my finger in to taste her blood
Kiss her open wounds cause my lips are suture
Are liquid bandaid until they became vice
Clamp
Pliers pry open to serate and I can't control it
I didn't lie
You asked me to put down my shield and got mad at my shrapnel
Struggling to form words
Pushing them off my tongue
I've never been an articulate adult
You can't want and hate what you asked for
I'm new to this talking thing
But I can slow dance
My partner is waiting

Dallas Grand Slam and little 'ol me: also, I still can't believe all that stuff actually happened

the last time I slammed off for a team was 2009. I won't say which team I slammed for, or give a lot of details, but I will say that the experience was nothing short of traumatic. there were a lot of different factors to that contributed to that trauma: trying to make a team with my girlfriend on my birthday in front of people who had never seen me perform. that night is part of the reason why I don't drink as much anymore. so, suffice to say, after that night I wasn't into slamming anymore. I think it was about 2 years until I hit a stage again.
flash forward some years. I had gotten back into writing. I got back into performing again. people really seemed to enjoy my poetry and I liked being able to share. I decided that one of my goals was to make a slam team just because I wanted to enjoy the camaraderie that you have with people all working towards a common goal.
the only thing about slam is, its so unpredictable - the judges can like you or not like you. you can give it your all and still come in last which hurts. like hell. in all the times that I had did slams before, I never won. always 3rd or worse. so my confidence has never really been high when it comes to slam.
preparing for the 2013 Dallas Grand Slam was more about making sure that I told a story over anything else. I wanted to make sure that my poems were memorized and that I was able to articulate the wording in them so that people would understand. I knew the poems that I wanted to do but I also wanted to have new poems to debut. during practices I never timed any poems. I didn't really care about time. its never been about that to me which is funny when you do slam. (and now definitely has to change)
day of, it was really important to me to get into a very comfortable mindstate so that I wouldn't put too much pressure on myself. I purposely didn't picture or try to visualize what would happen that night so I went in with zero expectations.
I pulled number 4 during the draw which I felt really good about and just tried to get in the zone so be able to perform my poems.
when I'm on stage I don't ever really hear audience reaction. I'm so caught up in making sure that I articulate the poem, and give enough pause for audience reaction that I rarely actually hear any audible noise.
I won't go into how I felt after every performance, but I will say that everyone seemed to enjoy it. There were times when I had to gather myself.
performing snowflake was great to do but I know I didn't perform it as well as I thought I could have. I can tell you the places where I slipped up or stumbled over my words or rearranged phrases to make it to the next part of the poem. apparently other people didn't notice and everybody in the room absolutely enjoyed it. I'm saying that from a place of hindsight - all the people who mobbed me or hugged me or told me how great that poem was when I got off stage because I had no clue. the most important thing for me at that time was making it out the first round. and I did. With a time penalty.
the rest of the night was a blur of emotion. I will say that one of the best parts of the night was having my mother there. although she's been supporting my poetry for a while now, it's still really nice to have her there, to tell me to stop being nervous cause I got this. she can be awesome sometimes. :)
so, after the second round, two things were brought to my attention: 1. I was doing incredibly well. 2. I was going over time. a lot. enough that a few poets threatened me, more than enough made sure I knew, and one told me I was fucking it up for myself. so the last two rounds, I just tried to breathe through them to make it.
once the slam was over, I was nervous as hell. a part of me still felt like I wasn't going to make the team, so I started preparing myself for that. but then, I had to be realistic and prepare for the fact that I may have won. when my name was called second, there was so much joy in me, I can't even describe. I was crying by the time I hit the stage (which, if you know me, is rare because I do not cry). it's definitely a dream come true.
the things that I will remember the most about that night are all the people who told me how proud they were of me, who said encouraging words and were pulling for me to win. I'm not disappointed that I didn't win - my brother Rage just proved how he's been doing it for years and excelling at a national level. I'm super proud of him, and I can't wait to get started working.
2013 is turning out to be a great year, and we're only 4 months in. . .

mermaid

The sand between my toes is my first reminder that we existed
the grit gathering in the crease of my skin makes me smile
I remember how it got there
building sandcastle foundations with our body imprints in the only space we can ever share
between normality
fantasy
and ecstasy
the night I watched you sink with Atlantis across the horizon
I knew
I'd follow you to the bottom of the ocean
but you met me halfway
we lay
Tempurpedic shore or suspended stasis of ocean blue
and become one
lovers split between two worlds
I am lucky you breathe for me
take the oxygen from my lungs when I stare at your majesty
blow life back in me when we kiss
met above the clouds of her world
she calls me her falling star
a comet who stopped streaking past the sky to become the wish she'd always been denied
she is
the woman I would forsake land for
give God my ribs for gills since I've found the Eve of my life
though she only rises when the skies dust dark as the ocean floor
I would
love fully a woman I can only see in the nighttime
who can only love me back when she feels like dreaming
link on the surface of my consciousness to swim
easy laps around impossibility
you weren't always a mermaid
couldn't be
you coiled ankle around feet and your thighs whispering you love me
are my second and third reminders that my subconscious didn't create you
to keep me from drowning in my misery
you
beautiful defense mechanism
muscle memory mythology
I press her stray fish scales to my ear to hear what she's left for me
eloquent sea shell poetry
laps like gentle morning waves
wafting sonnets and couplets like
cool breezes under the sea
Ariel pursuits will only take you so far
down
to where the ear pop pressure forces you to the
surface where the tide slowly wipes away from fingerprints
mermaid
don't leave
wake up next to me and prove again
that we existed

National Poetry Month's 30 for 30

In honor of National Poetry Month, I'll be attempting to write a poem a day. Today's piece:

On these spring mornings
The sun beams, breeze kiss my skin
And count my tattoos

WoWps performance videos

So, as you may have guessed, I spent last week in Minneapolis, MN competing at the Women of the World Poetry Slam. It was my first national competition, and I was extremely excited just to share my poems with other wonderful female poets from around the country.
I managed to get my performances in the second bout recorded for your viewing pleasure, so please comment, view, share and all that jazz. Without further ado:

Scarecrow



She Eats

Cheekbones

*At a body workshop at the Women of the World Poetry Slam, we were given time to compose a poem about a body part and the opinions protected onto it.

Right angles
Straight
Defined
There is no curvature to me that I see
Although there is a window
Sun shining bright unlike any other
I am still a jail cell
There is no smell
The air stale to the aroma of the outside
I know it smells beautiful out there
but in here I feel enclosed
Like
Everyone will walk past and marvel at the history lived inside me
This
A dank room
Like now that I am contained
Unoccupied
A symbol of a past pain made beautiful illuminated by this radiant sunlight
They can touch me on the outside
Fingering me on the inside
It's ok
I am used to the pinches
I wonder
Do they feel the bricks in my smile
The paint peeling every time I flex against myself
You file past me
Wait your turn to peer inside the tiny viewhole
Do you always mean to only look straight ahead
At the sunlight
At the window
Are you afraid to look down
You don't notice the scratch marks at the base of the wall
I've clawed so long to escape
I pace
Instead of sleep on the dusty mattress that my father gave me
Sleep under the wool blanket my mother knitted for me
All you admirers
Marveling at my construction
Chipping into me with every step in front of my door
I am just one room
In the hallway of this aging museum
This renovated prison
Corner wing leaning against and into and onto a whole too thin and big and wide to be called a prison museum attraction
How much was your ticket?
Who told you you could come?
Who lets you in?
Who keeps the keys?
Why won't you come in and finger these walls
Burning from the sunlight you admire
And look in the mirror

Skydive

(This poem was written during a poet workshop session. The prompt was "I'm not ready," and we were given 13 minutes.)

She love me like skydive
Packed her parachute with the dreams of flying through the clouds with me
Letting the wind both carry and caress her on the way down
She'd scream
And laugh
and revel in the moments as they ticked away and we reached the peak
I haven't managed to pry my fingers from the notches on the side of the plane
On the outside I look just like her
My helmet is chin strapped to my inhibitions
My suit is the uniform of fallen angels
Falling angles together
I can hear her Geronimo in my fears
She's loving the ride and hasn't bared to look at her passenger side
If I jump now
I maybe can mask my hesitation
She'll never know my indiscretion against the metronome of our virgin flight
Cupid shot her
She shot herself off the cliff
The first step into blissful nothingness
If I shoot now
I'll be a bullet to catch her
Descend at the same trajectory
And we can fly like meteors
But love like birds diving
She can't see me gaining speed
My fingers graze her string and she jerks toward the heavens
Her wings block out the sun
And she loves like a skydive
While I scream

Ice cold

*suggested music: Tori Kelly's Stained

My hands have begun to crave your touch like I am draining without your skin on mine
I settle for your lips
And you kiss me like IVs
Like I can feel your wanting and I'm here
Its not my intention to fall in love with you
This big heart you claim I have turned to stone when I looked and loved too many Medusas
How dare you
Wrap your arms around my concrete
You don't know what it took for me to be ok with that cold
I had finally become comfortable in the not feeling
The not loving
The not dreaming
I've stopped talking in the future tense
I prefer moments to eternity
Eternity is squeezing you tight til we astral project this reality and I can feel you breathing inside of my chest
That's what intimacy with you feels like
I love it
More than I love you
But that is shifting the longer you contend to stay and deal with my bullshit
The longer you pretend to not feel me pushing you away
I will love you like you love me like after school
Like full speed bike rides through soft gravel
She's not afraid to fall and skin her needs on my sand
I've counted your scars and I don't wanna be your salve
A bandaid you neatly fold and throw away when you are healed
Or take off when your subconscious decides that wound needs air
Stop making me need you
Keep your saline kisses
I like my cold
I would rather lay in bed
Surrounding myself with the exhale of thoughts from people who will never know what they mean to me
How much I bask in their light because I love the heat of their sun
Its safer that way
Knowing that the smoke will dissipate
Its not supposed to stay
I don't want to love the semi-permanent you
The promised love that will stay
Until
Until the moment it doesn't
And the world turns cold
Dark
No, I want sun on my skin
And to keep my cold within