Paper Is Not Silent:

U.S. Announces Another Female Poet Laureate

2019-06-20T13:53:00.002-04:00

The Library of Congress has announced the 2019-2020 U.S. poet laureate.

Carla Hayden, the Librarian of Congress, announced the appointment of Joy Harjo as the nation’s 23rd Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry for 2019-2020.

Harjo is the first Native American poet to serve in the position. She is an enrolled member of the Muscogee Creek Nation. She succeeds Tracy K. Smith, who served two terms, and who was featured on this blog in 2017.

Harjo will take up her duties in the fall, opening the Library’s annual literary season on September 19, 2019, with a reading of her work in the Coolidge Auditorium.

In her interview with WABE (Where ATL Meets NPR), Professor Harjo said, "Communities that normally would not sit with each other, I would love to see ... interchanges with poetry," Harjo says. She suggests gathering "cowboys and Indians" for a poetry summit. "I really believe if people sit together and hear their deepest feelings and thoughts beyond political divisiveness, it makes connections. There's connections made that can't be made with politicized language."

There have been seven female poet laureates in the United States as opposed to 23 males, according to information gathered from the Question-and-Answer section of LOC website.

Harjo joins a long line of distinguished poets who have served in the position, including Juan Felipe Herrera, Charles Wright, Natasha Trethewey, Philip Levine, W.S. Merwin, Kay Ryan, Charles Simic, Donald Hall, Ted Kooser, Louise Glück, Billy Collins, Stanley Kunitz, Robert Pinsky, Robert Hass and Rita Dove.

It is worth noting that Dove was named US Poet Laureate in 1993, the first African American to hold the new title of Poet Laureate. Just forty years old at the time of her appointment, she was the youngest poet ever elected to the position.

According to The Root, Gwendolyn Brooks was named Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 1985, which was the old title of Poet Laureate.

Robert Hayden also was appointed Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 1976. He was the first African American to hold the position of what is now called the Poet Laureate.

-----Quotes and other references are excerpts from the Library of Congress, Reddit, The Root, and WABE.

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

The Meaning of Poetry Is Hidden in the Ocean

2018-07-25T12:59:00.000-04:00

As I get ready to publish books of poetry this year, I came across this blog entry, and it struck me as profound. I am re-posting it because it resonates with me and carries my philosophy about poetry, its study, its appreciation, and its creation.

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“Getting the news” from poems means reading between the lines and noting every nuance, inflection, and sound. When reading a poem and when trying to determine what a poem conveys, it is very imperative to examine where and how words are situated. Every vowel has weight; every consonant carries a message as semi-vowels and mutes. Every semi-vowel (l, m, n, and r) performs its own role as if on stage and contributes to the fluency of sounds. Even the mutes (b, d, k, p, q, t, c, and g) are very important as they can “stop the breath” if they are at the end of the syllable (Oliver 22).

As a writer and as a reader of poetry, I hone in on connotations and “feel” what the words are working very hard to convey. Every lilt of the tongue and every sound that forces the tongue to touch the roof of the mouth (or not) conveys a special message, even if the message is packaged in an alliterative container, hidden in similar beginning consonant sounds or assonance—repeated vowel sounds. There is immense beauty in both.

Not necessarily in any order, and not necessarily conscious of the process, but after or before the tongue separates the vowels and the consonants, my voice pays tribute to all the efforts I put in by enlivening the performance: the reading of poetry. The eyes, the ears, and the lips work collaboratively for effortless flow so that I and/or readers of my poems will/can enunciate words correctly. This is the process of poetry reading for me. My heart quickens in anticipation of the joy in beauty or The Beauty in My Joy (the title of one of my books of poetry). Each word, syllable, letter (vowel and/or consonant) is not a quick study but a deliberate devotion to determine what a poem conveys to me about the human condition.

Sadness, happiness, elation, melancholy, achievement, deprivation, celebration, poverty, infidelity, and other emotions and conditions line up and vie for places in my poems marching in time and in tune with how I chose to arrange them. The gravity of the depth or the height of the ascension of my mood depends on how I choose to arrange poetic elements with craftiness, creativity, and surprises strewn all over the lines and in-between, unseen, but felt.

Mary Oliver says that the reason contemporary people write poems (whether they know it or not) is out of a desire to be liked (Oliver 11). I am split on this opinion. Most of the time, I write poetry for me and play with words and aim to surprise myself even with discordant words and/or incongruous words. I do this on purpose like throwing in this line, “To womb much is given, much is required,” not to bait any reader, but that is the type of surprise I insert as a stroke of ingenuity and craftiness. It has nothing to do with the reader.

Even when I am reading poetry for sheer pleasure, my mind cannot seem to take a break; it works for 24 hours. Therefore, I continually analyze poetry for style selecting words for the perfect sound and the perfect shade of meaning. This is a lesson I learned from Les Edgerton, to “fetch synonyms for sound” (20).

I am continuously studying other poets and writers. I study style and emulate the greats. In my collection are poems that resonate with the distinct style and voices of Maya Angelou in “And Still I Rise,” Robert Frost in “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” and Langston Hughes in “Mother to Son,” to name a few.

I read extensively. When this course began, and I saw the list of books, I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw Mary Oliver’s name. I own at least one of these craft books and guidebooks from these renowned authors: Oliver, Edgerton, Laraine Herring, Henry James, Don Murray, Gregory Fraser, Jane Yolen, Heather Sellers, and others. After reading each seasoned author, I resolve to take away something that will alter my writing life as I know it.

Every poet writes hope into the lines: hope that the reader will take away a valuable lesson, hope that the reader will experience some sort of a paradigm shift, and hope that the reader will cry or laugh while or after reading the poem. Although most of my poems are thematic poems, I am on a new path toward “tone” poetry that will cause some sort of mood change, a change like the traffic light, switching from emotion to emotion on cue as if programmed like the traffic light.

As boring as this topic sounds, I have been hooked on tea (the hot version and the culture) all my life and saw it as a passionate art with its tradition and class and etiquette and virtue (patience and practice). It took a while before I forced myself to move on to other subjects. The ocean seems to be a recurring theme because it holds my muse on its undulating surface.

I grew up about 30 miles from the Atlantic Ocean. If I can be near an ocean, I tend to write my heart out. My childhood does not have a whole lot to do with this muse-by-the-ocean phenomenon. I blame the fixation on the movie, “Something’s Gotta Give” and that laissez-faire writing lifestyle of the main character and the impressive oceanfront haven located in the Hamptons.

Maybe I will find my muse and a better tone in the oceanfront house. My tone used to be strident and preachy (two horrible mixtures). I aimed to let the world know that it and its teeming six billion people needed me to “fix and repair” their wayward ways. Again, like tea, I had to let it go and realize that preaching is the nail that will seal my poetry career permanently. My tone is softening, a work in progress.

Ultimately, I would like the readers of my poem to find themselves in the lines, to discover something relatable, something they need, a link to themselves. While they are on that self-discovery, I hope they will have fun and get lost in the creative surprises in the lines in my poems and remember some of those lines and quote them willy-nilly.

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

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Work Cited

Edgerton, Les. Finding Your Voice: How to Put Personality in Your Writing. Cincinnati, Ohio: Writer’s Digest Books, 2003. Print.

Oliver, Mary. A Poetry Handbook: A Prose Guide to Understanding and Writing Poetry. New York: Harcourt, Inc., 1994. Print.

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Congratulations to Tracy K. Smith, Our Next Poet Laureate

2017-07-04T23:22:00.002-04:00

Photo credit: Rachel Eliza Griffiths

I am borrowing this headline directly from Melville House Publishing Company.

Congratulations to my sister-in-poetry, Tracy K. Smith. She has done the world proud.

As actress Ava Duvernay tweeted, “Pretty wonderful. Congrats to Tracy K. Smith. Our new U.S. Poet Laureate. And congrats to us. We're lucky. Something to smile about today."
Well spoken!

Read more about Tracy here.

Footnote: It has been a l-o-n-g time since my last poetry post. I apologize profusely. I was in the throes of peeling layers off the perfection of poetry. It is funny how a person thinks he/she knows something very well only to discover that there are infinite unpeeled layers to the "thing." I am glad to learn more than I supposed there is.

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

The Meaning of Poetry Is Hidden in the Ocean

2015-05-30T22:42:00.001-04:00

“Getting the news” from poems means reading between the lines and noting every nuance, inflection, and sound. When reading a poem and when trying to determine what a poem conveys, it is very imperative to examine where and how words are situated. Every vowel has weight; every consonant carries a message as semi-vowels and mutes. Every semi-vowel (l, m, n, and r) performs its own role as if on stage and contributes to the fluency of sounds. Even the mutes (b, d, k, p, q, t, c, and g) are very important as they can “stop the breath” if they are at the end of the syllable (Oliver 22).

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

======================================

Work Cited

Edgerton, Les. Finding Your Voice: How to Put Personality in Your Writing. Cincinnati, Ohio: Writer’s Digest Books, 2003. Print.

Oliver, Mary. A Poetry Handbook: A Prose Guide to Understanding and Writing Poetry. New York: Harcourt, Inc., 1994. Print.

An Elegy to Eugy’s Wisdom

2013-04-21T14:53:00.001-04:00

I was coming home to see you but the burdens

of growing a child alone turned me into a blur.

You must have remembered my arrival among

nine, all dotted behind you in the neat vegetable

garden of biannual rows our parents shouldered up.

They put eight impacted years between you and me.

You chose your wife who had my name and

brought children to walk in your kindness. I

carried the marks you fitted expertly like jigsaws,

leaned into the time you taught me, danced

recklessly to Elton John, the first music lesson

you pressed into my age. How could I forget how

you shook confidence into suits, assured challenges

of your unwavering devotion when you held my hand

through books bound with fabrics of unfamiliar flair?

You poured calligraphy into my ready hands and wants

into my legs, flung open our living room door, pushed

me gently to grow my own wings to absorbing America.

You slashed through hesitation and bouts from stories

Wild, Wild West told of America’s penchant for guns.

Death fought us in ninety-seven in tenacious Aba where

it upturned your centering gift with stealth and brought

your circle full force from your arrival in Anua Hospital

in fifty-one. Your birth erased the end of what would

have ended a fertile dynasty and even made prophesy

smile. You set that unwavering footloose ritual of

journeying from Aba to be born in the best, the custom

only the Civil War broke and spun us inward to know

the outworld. You vanquished clouds, raised the bar

to none-to-compare. You, the gem, glow brightly in

death. From one whose head you deepened, I honor

your wisdom to fortify me during these arid years.

--Frances Ohanenye

Elegiac Poetry

--My dream has loved paper so much and for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is replete with expressive sound.

Magenta Moment

2013-03-22T11:15:00.000-04:00

The mirror stares back awaiting my next deception.
It knows me, a shammer, better than the angel it doesn’t.
Like Kenny Rogers' gambler, I know when to hold back,
when to fold, but I cannot not walk away, cannot run.
The mirror stares back admiring the grip in my eyes.
I have counted my money, saved it longer than forever.
I refuse to draw my last air in my sleep for the love
of that color in the confines of a borrowed room.
Dark on dark, we both shimmer on planned outing.
We are an exhibit in the High Museum of Art,
the artistic architect pouring curved stratus, imagined
he knew my held breath, how it would layer on me,
dark on dark. We both simmer in the mirror.
But the dress is having a moment here.

--Frances Ohanenye

Cultural convergence

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

His Money—an adaptation*

2013-03-06T08:22:00.001-05:00

His nails are yellow and bitten back
yellow, unhappiness drooping
bitten back, his frightened hunger.
She doesn’t like him, and he could feel
suspicion pouring out of the lacquered odor
of hairspray. Neither war nor peace offers
the gust of self he needs.
The girl, her palate is dry like a potsherd
and eyes a bulging red air of intimidation
seem suddenly unsure of the power she grabbed.
The slap of misfortune reels him, bounces
on her authority and pounces.
Her irises burn him warning his pupils.
They retract, his frankness charge
after the tiger she sent after him.
His frankness leaves her holding
an apple exposed to the core.

--Frances Ohanenye

--Cultural Collision

*Adapted from poem of the same title by Ted Kooser

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Sitting and Pitching

2013-01-26T22:07:00.000-05:00

Desperate benches are lined and glued
hearts sit in empty river bowels
not fed by employment's beggars

we sit and pray with hope
we sit and wish for eternity
each side pulling justice's sleeves

the tug of war of success
crosses the border of heaven
we sit and pitch desperation

we sit and pitch tears
we sit and pitch cruelty
begging the law to lean back

to whisper hope, strings of loss
to make my heavy heart cleaner
to fill my sad heart with color

with music from hope catchers
tinkling, twinkling, sparkling
make my heavy heart flow

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Full Speed Ahead

2012-12-28T10:45:00.000-05:00

A tornado is she
With varying speed and force
The better the gift
The faster her speed
The more forceful her impact

The day she received her Mustang

A day of deep reckoning
Taking the stairs severally
Screaming her own siren
Louder than all three combined
The fire, the police, the ambulance

She took the stairs

Three at a perfect time
Full speed, full throttle
Coming at me forcefully
If I hadn’t braced myself
Against the impending storm
Would have been knocked down
Ever so joyfully
--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

For Those Who Have No One

2012-12-24T19:10:00.001-05:00

They say the holidays are the hardest

Solitude is pronounced, shouted

No one hears the cry of the lonely

Watching families thronging in, hugging

Singing, eating, laughing, kissing

No one sees the loneliness of the alone

Far away from loved ones who miss

The joy, the laughter, now a memory

The heart longs for what the heart misses

The silent cry of the lonely resonate

No tree to decorate, no turkey trimmings

No stockings stuffed, no embrace

Inner light's extinguished for now

The ache is so deep it cracks dry land

Take heart, you who are alone this season

Find a comedy show on that channel

Plug in a comedy movie to laugh-cry

But laugh, really laugh to alleviate the pain

Laugh, really laugh to gladden your heart

Laugh, really laugh; you have no choice

Bundle up, eat ice cream; fill your diary

I understand dinner for one; I've been there

See the flip side of that: all that's for you

Write songs, dream of the New Year

This, too, shall pass, I promise

Make your heart feel and see tomorrow

TRY to be happy, be merry, be joyful

This, too, shall pass, I promise

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Gestures of Love

2012-12-14T08:36:00.000-05:00

I talk too much for no cause

He writes, “Shush,”

With manliness on my lashes

Butterflies flutter nonstop

My breath evaporates on his face

My heart runs a cross-country race

Do not ever let my lips be free

Cover them with our future

Entwine my fingers with luck

Entwine my feet with haste

He carries me on his lap

Eyes talk when lips refuse

Permitting magic to infuse

Pour bumps on my receptive skin

Arm holds my back to his side

A way he found to make me helpless

My breath catches me unaware

Hold my hand for no reason

Let the electricity sizzle

Let sugary words drizzle

I am here to stay

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Motions of River

2012-12-07T11:12:00.000-05:00

Vibrant river strong in faith
Motions of colorful nations
In prayer
In hymns
In adoration
Glorifying
Kneeling streams run as one
Standing in unified fluid motion
Coursing in one grateful chant
Sitting rivers ebb and flow
Moved by the tides of devotion
Without undue clues and prompts
Like breathing air, knowing when to glide
Unlike television audience’s cued applause
Genuflecting
Shaking hands
In prayers
In hymns
In adoration
Glorifying
Place that camera the world over
Capture motions of fluid rivers
My Catholic motions of river
Regardless of continent
Regardless of language
Countries glide simultaneously
Like abundant rivers of the world

Flowing gracefully at God’s command

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

See Through

2012-11-23T16:03:00.000-05:00

Glasses said to see through them
Windex clean and causing head bangs
I spied what nature hid from me
Months of feelings of abandonment
When fall comes, leaves fall
Exposing see-through forests
When fall comes, trees undress
At the slightest, gentlest breath from air
Prance about in mild winds turning cold
When fall comes, shrubs and bushes cry
Exposure lays bare all guarded secrets

Newly arrived in this boisterous vicinity

Unaware of concealed activities

Famous cars zip up and down the hood
From unknown origins, sweeping streets
They had unwarranted, unfair advantage
My house of a corner lot laid me bare
Nothing to hide, no seasonal mystery
No running around of hide and seek

I spied what nature hid from me

Via see-through prescription glasses
By means of see-through windows
By way of see-through forests
I spied what nature hid from me

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

In-between Thoughts

2012-11-17T12:13:00.000-05:00

My mind slides to home base

Verdant roses and hydrangeas

Bud and bloom in happiness

Wasps of delicate vines entwine

Wrap around my fecund mind

In between rows of thriving verses

Barren land asks for seeding

That they may germinate with abandon

That they may bloom into prosaic wisps

In between thoughts, dryness stares

They cause doubts of ability

Cast burdens of writer’s block

They say I should sit and write

Unworthy thoughts not my best creations

Vacant lots welcome all travelers

The house of lackluster prose

The house of distressed property

My mind hits home runs

When silent cheers rebear energy

I prance around like Ali, the Greatest

Delivering uppercuts and jabs

To in-between thought vacancies

Swift moves away from ensnarement

Attempts to grab arms by in-between thoughts

When my mind refuses to bloom

These are any writer’s nightmares

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

An Irony Grabbed Me

2012-11-09T14:26:00.001-05:00

Preface to Poetry: I wrote this poem several years ago when the injustice of immigration laws hit home. The irony of being a "citizen" of the United States of America is that all are foreigners or foreign born except Native Americans. They and only they have the right to ask anyone to go home.

As the new wrangling continues about immigration reforms, I went into my "portmanteau" and pulled out this poem that makes a mockery of "citizens" (what I call residents) harrasing those who are deemed not to be. America is a melting pot for a reason. Mitt Romney (whose great-great grandfather was an immigrant) stated that foreigners will be sent back to their countries of origin. Sean Hannity (whose grandparents--both maternal and paternal--were immigrants) is allowing himself to take stock of his ancestry. Republicans (who are still first generation, second generation, third generation, or fourth generation Americans) are finally agreeing that something has to change regarding immigration because Romney lost them the election. They are allowing common sense to prevail.
====================================================================

An irony grabbed me

Rolled me on the floor

I kicked out, kicked out
The hilariousness of it all
Rolled me on the floor
I kicked out, kicked out

My eyes beheld a man

A first-generation American
Handcuffing the foreign born
Accusing the foreign born
Harassing the foreign born

An irony grabbed me
Rolled me on the floor
I kicked out, kicked out
The ludicrousness of it all
Your parents you are arresting
Did you know, did you know?

A second-generation American

Chasing foreign-born people
Demanding citizenship proof
Your grandparents you’re chasing
Did you know, did you know?

A third-generation American
Deporting foreign-born people
Demanding immigration papers
Your great-grandparents you’re deporting
Did you know, did you know?

A fourth-generation American

Instituted tough immigration laws
Passed merciless decrees, mandates
Enacting anti-immigration laws
To keep out those foreigners

An irony grabbed me
Rolled me on the floor
I kicked out, kicked out
The selfishness of it all
Rolled me on the floor
I kicked out, kicked out
The ignorance of it all

American residents pontificating

Had your parents been sent back
You’d not be here today pontificating
Had your grandparents
Been sent back years ago
You’d not be here pontificating
Had your great-grandparents
Been sent back years ago
You’d not be here pontificating
How far back would you like to go?

Ignorance and greed blind

The bridge you have crossed
On your way into America
You've demolished now that bridge
Future immigrants dare not come
For you have made it through
Into these United States

This land is not your land

This land is not my land
By any name you calll HIM
This land is God’s land
For all to fetch milk and honey
All lands are nature's lands
Greed erected borders and inhumanity
After crossing bridges and oceans

An irony grabbed me
Rolled me on the floor
I kicked out, kicked out
The avarice of it all

All are comers from other lands
All are usurpers in this land
This land is not your land

This land is not my land

By any name you calll HIM
This land is God’s land
All lands are nature's lands
Nature shall remain forever
When humanity is gone forever

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Doctors Know a Praying Soul

2012-11-02T11:41:00.001-04:00

Baffled by medicine's numb edge

Confounded by mysterious healing

Doctors marvel at who miracle saves

Despite themselves, physicians in tune

with the metaphysical allow introspection

Accept performance beyond their gift

Science unravels but has limitations

Conditions medicine fails to cure

Conditions physicians fail to erase

Point to a higher salvation

Doctors marvel at what miracle saves

Accepting that they and medicine cannot

heal all who throng through their doors

Doctors and nurses know and accept

A praying soul has hope of healing

A praying family surrounding a patient

Has hope multiplied a millionfold

Wrapped in hope’s miraculous aura

Doctors and nurses know piled evidence

Prayer’s efficacy delivered with no rhyme

Channeled through faith with no reason

When all efforts fail, we sigh and resign

Accepting the time has arrived

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

2012-10-22T10:17:00.002-04:00

Hello wonderful readers/poets,
I apologize for my silence these last few weeks. Life has been happening at a ferocious speed. What am I saying exactly? Does life happening outside this page prevent scheduled postings? Does it mean that when I post or stay here that I have no life? For answers to this circuitous situation, please visit my literary blog at http://literarynomad11.wordpress.com/. Thanks for visiting!

Sincerely,
Frances Ohanenye
=====================================
A Hip Thing

The confident walker

Was not born that cool

Ungainly stops and starts

The infancy of inexperience

Pays toll with leg’s challenges

Dropping coins in tollbox of experience

The teenager’s sass in steps

Ain’t seen nothing yet

Need to put in miles of life’s lessons

The twenty-something’s swagger

At the start of race of responsibilities

Gained job’s required walking

Ain’t seen nothing yet

Confidence rises like water

At calibration’s perfect punctuation

Rising with lessons’ speed

This confident walker has stories to tell

Not born that cool but increasingly so

Arriving now in forties with confident swagger

A boatload of all requirements exceeded

Confidence found its way to the hip

A mind of its own, to sway, sashay

A hip thing it is

The hip has taken over

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

My Last Dime

2012-09-14T16:26:00.000-04:00

Newly minted for shine

Tossed, turned, tenderly regarded

The proverbial last dime

Purchased scarce commodities

Lassoed heaven to earth

Delivered the unreachables

My proverbial last dime

The umbrella against thunderstorms

The deluge-scaling boat

Roof-top sanctuary against floods

My never-ending last dime

Secured penny-stock securities

Stopped leaks in life

Advanced classism to next rung

Draped designer frocks at the drop

Reeled in necessities at the brink

My never-ending last dime

Tossed, turned, tenderly regarded

Heads, life is livable

Tails, livable is life

Newly minted for shine

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Painting Circle

2012-09-07T11:43:00.000-04:00

I painted them brown

Framed them in white

To reach those perched up there

Who must come down

I stood back with pride

Such handiwork finished

By a woman not handy

But the brown got on the white

And the white got on the brown

I dabbed on the brown

A makeup artist’s blemish cover

It got on the white

I dabbed on the white

To conceal my imperfection

It got on the brown

I dabbed on the brown

It got on the white

When will this end?

How will this end?

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Anthony

2012-08-25T00:24:00.000-04:00

My father’s right-hand man

Decades did not change humility

Civility learned a lesson from him

Who knew not to express own beliefs

Who knew not to profess superiority

Of education, attitude, and future

But sat, year in year out

Devising his own way to count

Money gushed like open dam daily

Wealth he counted, no salivation

Sponge in a tub of water served him

Money dried his fingers crisp

Caused phalanges to hurt

Counting all that money with spittle

Coming by way of tongue-slicked fingers

He counted all that money

Disseminated parts of fractions

Carried all instructions humbly

Invented service before it spread

Distance polarized our relationship

Never got a chance to declare openly

Bottomless gratitude cherished

Thank you for decades of service

Humble, easy going, respectful

I hope respect returned itself to him fully

Thank you so much for tolerating

Nine children and uncountable relatives

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

A Lie Becomes the Truth (Reloaded)

2012-08-17T17:27:00.001-04:00

Frances @ 165 pounds

I am woman given to delusions of slimness
I am woman given to whims of fancy
Society expects no lie but with exceptions
Women hold fibbing license with boldface
Too lax, too lazy to work at its achievement
The chant I offered to those demanding
Once upon a time, 130 was mine to sway
Sauntering with a model’s insouciance
Fitted with a model’s draped egoism
Accelerator sped with 168-pound calories
Birth and deaths shoveled fatty tissues
They failed to ask my desire and piled high

The yardstick of validity

In retrospect, 130 was a skeleton walking
I wanted meat on bone for man to hold
I wanted holding place for man to pull
No fear of breaking me in half, should he
Declared my weight 150 with bold face
Repeating many times, I bought belief
Chancing a glancing in that crystal ball
Showed clearly the achievement of a lie
No stopping now when lie becomes truth
Next stop, my weight 145, now a lie
Will become the truth one day soon

Achieving a Lie

That fat lie a slim truth did become

The yardstick of validity, a dress dotted
Hung in my closet, a secret resolve
How did such a magic come about?
I’m grateful to corn and wheat intolerance
Those two bullies achieved my goal
Now, the lie once told with a boldface
Has become the truth at sassy 145
Therefore, your honor, I rest my case

At 145

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Slow-Motion Leaf

2012-08-10T13:57:00.000-04:00

This poem is featured in Geogia's Best Emerging Poets
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Two sided mirror is the window of contentment

To see, to admire, both views of misconduct

Unlike the police department’s biased vision

Thin veiled inquisition drapery hangs

Giving uninterrupted view of curiosity

Of paraders on one side preening

Seen, but can not see

Standing captivated and bereft

Watching it through window of contentment

Two sided mirror of voyeurism

I see it; it sees me without pause

Gliding slowly, broad view fanning

The noon sun puts it through tanning

Natural x-ray machine thins veins

Through paper smeared margarine drapery

Through blinds purchased with irony

Projected clearly for admiration

Every vein, every sharp edge

Splayed through private slide

Splayed through private screen

This leaf, autumn’s paint brush

Meta-morphed into seven shades

One leaf, seven shades, nature painted

Most prominent of the four, autumn

Paints earth tones and greens

Gliding, unhurried, leisurely down

As if lowered by a spider’s web

As if lowered by a puppeteer’s deception

Slowly it spiraled, pirouetted, paused

Downward gracefully, a swan’s pose

It glided, pausing for my breath to catch

Leaving me changed, pensive

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

First Book to Be Published Next Month!

2012-08-07T13:31:00.000-04:00

Posted on August 7, 2012 by literarynomad11 (Frances Ohanenye)

I am working with BookBaby to release my first book on a long list of my writing adventures. This one, The Waters Family Chronicle, combines a very unique approach to teaching bodies of water with narrating a story about naming “children.”

This book brings a fresh and fun look to storytelling with clues and hints that get the brain popping. Students and all teachers of social studies, get your computer and brain ready to outdo Sherlock Holmes.

The Waters Family Chronicle is going on sale on Amazon early next month (September). Reserve your copy today!

Please visit my Facebook Author Page; click "like.": https://www.facebook.com/pages/Author-Frances-Ohanenye/348583808554457

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Vocabulary I Do Not Want

2012-07-27T09:48:00.000-04:00

An oncologist, well trained

Her acquaintance I wish not to make

A bond leads to block-sucking end

Cardiopulmonary resuscitation

Its acquaintance I wish not to make

Pummeled to the ground, my end

Mr. Heimlich, his maneuver, spare me

His acquaintance I do not want

Grabbed in his embrace may be my end

A pathologist, well trained

His association I wish not to make

Consorting with him pronounces me dead

These and other death familiar words

I do not want a relationship with

Familiarity will spell my doom

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Proud Parent Xing

2012-07-13T17:05:00.001-04:00

An ambitious child delivers always
Accolades, pride, respect, recognition
Showered on the hard work of parents

Invitations arrive clockwork like

To orchestrated events honoring
The child achieving feats of challenges

It arrived and beckoned an appearance

To witness the glorification of mine
The stubborn crowd gridlocked

Like ancestral Moses with staff

I parted the Red Sea with breeze of fragrance
I parted the Red Sea with a hat of sass
I parted the Red Sea with a sway of hips
And with dignified chants of three words
Like ancestral Moses with the wand
The Red Sea I parted with gladness
Allowing this peacock a passage
Serenaded on this grand occasion

Avery moving confetti

An amazing recognition
An awed glory unto God
Raising this child for me
Raising her in His image
--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.