Sun splash, 

Crystal Palace,

Bob Marley and green pear tea.

Pancake breakfast for three:

The century before cars, ministers travelled on their feet.

Prayer amidst the pain, mellifluous and soothing.

Rich enough to spare a smile when the  purse is down to dimes. 

Life (is) spiced by relationships.

As permanent as white beaded anklets, sincerity is its own tatoo.

The ratio of joy to rain is 3:2.

-R.S.

Written 5-2-2015 amidst surviving.

Sweet Orchard Skittles

Atlanta, poetry., Self Esteem, Spirit and In-Spirit-ation

11 out of 22 poems for my king: Birthday Variety

Poems for my king: Birthday Variety, poetry.

tingle

9-20-2012

A Thursday where aunts die and grandmothers’ earth suits are viewed without breath or blood.
Wherein attempts to revitalize yourself, you wore your brightest summer shades: pink, teal, and orange.
Your heart aches at constant ripping and repair, scattered with sawdust.
Exhausted with dosages of heartbreak medicine.
Little snack-size dark chocolates cannot sweeten the bitter taste.
The coarsest wool salts against raw skin, applauding the assortment of thoughts and fears.
Frosted with the softest sprinkles of high voltages of intense emotion,
you linger
Like an afflicted body spread on a racing gurney with closed eyes and labored breath,
sensing the changes in light from hall to hall and room to room.
But this is not movie, not at all a feature film,
this is our life.
Absorbent of both the best and the worst of what the lowlands have to offer.
Let it all fade away, tie your sunbonnet under the walnut tree and hum spirituals until everything stops.
Freeze.
A birth has been reported.
A rebirth has been reported.
The corset of life has been loosened,
The wallet that contains your strength is filled.
Back in orbit.


10 out of 22 poems to my king: Birthday Variety

Poems for my king: Birthday Variety, poetry.
Limbo, Limbo, Limbo

Slink your shoulders underneath the broom bar, 
Tilt your back towards the Earth.
Ah, this middle ground betwixt near and far,
A pose to prep for passing; checkpoint before rebirth.

Fair-warnings blow to let not this game 
Become a humble abode, a phase become a form.
Not cold, not hot. Nor bold, nor tame.
Limbo outperforms none, what a drab cruciform!
To hang, nailed hands, awaiting death and fire.
Before I land in limbo again, I would rather fall on a spire.

9 of 22 poems to my king: Birthday Variety

Poems for my king: Birthday Variety, poetry.


Forte

Fear of the Brink?Wild blink.
Applaud withdrawin link to
Vital earth,fresh Ground-ed
Not sink
Blot ink. Cornucopia’s retreat…
Shroud miserable company
Now – Forgotten, Inc.

“Genie-ology”, lampshady labwork
Pick a Pair half-Work
Make it fully have worth
Crackles echo Skittle paper-
Thunderclad surf
Extremes, esteemin em things like Kings had serfs

My Lord,
Thy torn, World.
Reformed ever by Morn, hurled To-Day
Curly as cumulus, my Girl touché.
Inlaid through da Dust, scape curves voluminous
Fake shapes losin fluff
Proving us.
GodGold IncuPlated
You to Trust

By: (husband) Robert e. Fitzgerald a.k.a. Whip

8 out of 22 poems for my king: Birthday Variety

Love, Poems for my king: Birthday Variety, poetry., RetroStank

to a jewel of a man,
always strong even in the dark.
my sunbeam.
love streams from my soul for u.
its a keynote, played at fortissimo.
i send u the fruit of my fancy.
as we pen this love tale.
forevermore.

-Ladylove blu (Lauren Fitzgerald, me)


7 out of 22 poems to my king: Birthday Variety

Poems for my king: Birthday Variety, poetry.

doing things like driving alone at the dead of night.

scared on a lonely old country road in the pouring rain.

in black sequins and satin blazers, I reach Stuttgart and know I’m close.

Memphis is like the heavens to a Moon waiting to greet the Sun.

bank accounts on the slim sides don’t count none to a young pair.

a pair of dreamers.

 

finding a pillow for the Saint,

and now its seven-thirty,

and in the most sensuous way imaginable, two souls form a{maze} of embraces,

unraveling a love for each other in such a whispering way,

its just understood.

tender.

 

i can see the beauty in marriage when i see you sleep.

 

 

the country dinner i prepare signals nights to come.

that hour you got to think, I wonder what you thought?

before the errands for currency and smiles for two at nineties’ movies and you falling asleep before me.

 

Monday.

when we can hardly getout the bed for tangling in it.

ice and acrobatics.

mmmmm

this love has a green apple and caramel taste to it.

water in dem curls of yours.

 

fried fish, fries, friends, baked beans, broken ice machines, and tomato relish.

then once again we’re off, to divide once more.

the last kiss is the sweetest.

By: (Me) Lauren Fitzgerald

“Ruby Slipperz” 6 out of 22 poems to my king: Birthday Variety

Poems for my king: Birthday Variety, poetry.

We search, seek, and destroy for distractions.

Unfulfilled in distant lands…400 years still aint home.

 

Bronze fingers.

 

Sometimes when you leave home you caint go back.

Cuz it’s not where you left it.

 

Vice Chancellors patronize, advising just take 

This semester as a mental break.

 

Aint no open arms for some…

 

Starving the same way out of school as in.

College ramen-noodle diets.

Pet dogs eat better and more often.

  

By: Lauren Fitzgerald 

5 out of 22 poems to my king: Birthday Variety

Poems for my king: Birthday Variety, poetry.

Zones 1-6

atlanta is a place where nobody asks where you from

it dont matter as we blend in together,

making a beautiful harmony of colors.

funky free,

i feeeeel my star brightening the avenue as i slightly gallop through little five points,  

trying to outrun the rain

laughter lives here, it collects in the air

atlanta is a dreamland

head spins loose in a trance

entrance granted

you knew the password

Maggot Brain

the bass based in my heartbeat 

the song in my veins

he will never leave you, he just visits other places 

always thinking of you

Atlanta with hands of a master teacher

giving me lessons on how to survive with my head up and my soul alive

gulps of air and teary vision

hazel leaves decorate city streets and the sun dries me like a towel after a shower

fumbling trying to click on the internal flashlights that number 144

she’s both bitch and beauty

that lady Atlanta

just to touch her again

her cacophony of street hollers and bus sounds

eat to your hearts desire

she will fill you again and again


4 out 22 poems to my king: Birthday Variety

Poems for my king: Birthday Variety, poetry.

 

Mister Fur 

 

By: (Me)Lauren “Crayola Mae” Fitzgerald

 

You look new. 

And I’m taken in.

Not wasting a moment of this, gotta have leftovers.

Something for my mind to eat on when you depart from my space. 

Tragically in love with you, razor sharp feelings that cannot be dulled by 

anything. 

Not the ashes that grace the ground where ambition burned our present union. 

You whispered to me, babygirl you’re amazing, and I wonder if you truly believe 

how much? 

And that just brought tears to my eyes, sent a tremble in motion from crown to 

foot soles and from physical to soul.

Overlook the past, I plead.

My heart falls from my sleeve and you dust it off and put it back, back where it’s posed to go, 

in the left chest cavity.

Brilliance cloaks you as a skin, a pelt of fur of the most unique beast.

Animal and god, and what am I? 

The powerful petite. Word woman.

3 out of 22 poems to my king: Birthday Variety

Poems for my king: Birthday Variety, poetry.

 

“Indian Ocean” 

10.8.12


Slightly wet eyes

Come about for an assortment of reasons.

Because a white-pearl stained dress blemished with diamonds and embroidery stands opposite a sharp sable-toned tuxedo.

Or maybe the first steps of a firstborn.

Or after a song sung so soulfully in Sunday service.

7

8

Spritely strolls across stages, hands itching to palm rolled paper deservingly secured and mightily merited

Movies, wars, surprise birthday parties, sickness, or bills

Yeah, tears run into eyeballs and jump out ready to greet the world


 

2 of 22 poems to my king: Birthday Variety (original poetry)

Poems for my king: Birthday Variety, poetry.

Venus

 

The ditches look good with no water in them.

Clean, even.  

More like a Mocksville than a Nashville. 

The morning air is still and sweet.

I take a long drag of it. 

Despite the fact that we were just rushing around like demons busy on this Earth.

Cuz we woke up thirty minutes too late, and you were posed to do the prayer at 10 o’clock service.

I get in the passenger seat of my car, smile at you.

I guess you were thinking about not being late and I was thinking about how beautiful you are, 

how handsome of a spirit ambling among us regular menfolk, womenfolk. 

You’re sharp.

Can speak to anybody, hell I suspect you could chop it up with the Head of State right now, leave him with his mouth dropped.

“Wow”.

You could get the bitterest of bitter bitty to show you what’s left of her teeth.  

And that’s why I love you, beyond belief.


By: Me (Lauren Fitzgerald)

1 of 22 poems to my king: Birthday Variety

Poems for my king: Birthday Variety, poetry.

 

  

 Wind and Wings
4-5-13
Be the pages of my book.
Be the flour, milk, and eggs to my pancake mix.
Be the amen to my testimony.
Be the worm to my fishhook.
Be the nine to my six.
Be the little to my pony.
Be my better half in matrimony.
Be the propaganda to my politics.
Be the Bond to my Jinx.
Be the pyramid to my Sphinx.
Be the money in my pocketbook.
Be the bra that gets unhooked.
Be the laughter to my joke.
Be the baby blue to my pink.
14 ways to transfix me.
So I can be the princess to your prince.
The ace boon coon to your clique.
The sex that drives a nymph.
The survival of your battleship.
The relief of a drunk piss. 
The reason to quit to an addict. 
The Rolex to ya wrist.
The screenplay to ya script.
The velvet to yo fingertips.
The midnight to your kiss.
 The memory lane to your reminsce.
The treat to your trick.
The concede to your  insist.
The Sierra to yo Mist.
The truth to shut down the hypocrites.
The shrimp to yo white cheddar grits.
Much more and all these things,
This is what my king is to me. 

She smelled just just like peanut butter and jelly. 

Had a blonde Jheri curl and hosted the after school program from 3:00 to 6:00. Her skin was  colored and she let them watch the Lion King. On Friday, her surrogate children did the Electric Slide because she would bring her silver boom box.
Mrs. Aderly.

memory #326

poetry.

For 2011’s college graduate: The “Ketchup” 

poetry.
  
deadlines stay catching us unprepared
when we said another new season wouldn’t catch us here
gotta stare fear in its face 
for the ambrosial tastes of destined glories.
best way to deal wit situations is to change situations
eyes desire new vegetation 
feelings surge from the muladhara 
pounded blood beats as never before 
journeying broadens cooper rivers 
got me swimming in tributaries 
upstream from society’s traps n cemeteries 
with mo talents than a tree has cherries 
in the spirit of revolutionaries
fight n Art in my capillaries.
Ppl will ask why u here? like u handicap
Mumble n answer wherein in dis life  I managed to be at
Washin hands–in the mirror,  the lion is there 
Memories of The fiercest u grin n glare
Then the realization that every second of hesitation is damnation
Cuz onze ans (11 year old) cousin book inspired so
That the bloodline higher must go.
And it’s funny that’s it jus takes time
Coddled babies spoiled not refined
George called the other day of his denying
Teachin his three of motivation hard work 
Nickel spoons not quite silver
Middle class it’s own place to deliver
Boys n girls starry-eyed n feet a foot too high
See many presents spoil the child
Gold hoops lost before a month styled n strutted.
2009 Beemer, paid and insured
When you ain’t never earned it.
This is “the Ketchup”.
Tomatoes are for marinara, pizza, and salad.
Multi-purposed, like you and I.

Her name is Magenta

She makes life feel like a fable,
Running on train platforms to catch unicorns flying to the Brooklyn Art Museum and Abyssinian restaurants.
She paints with a mixture of crushed ochre, wet lilacs, and oil:
Her paintbrushes are enchanted.
She practices with each picture, until for painting she is paid.
Offertory grins offering the World through her eyes.

Offhand politeness, a pretty bird from down South.
Doing slightly better on her Odyssey than Odysseus:
Her only offense, singing octagonal octaves with tremble fit only for October.
It’s that frighteningly authentic.
Official oddity, settling into her weirdness
That psychology officiates.
Her head cocked in analyzation,
An amendment to her peers’ playfully shallow scope,
And a nod to her ancestors.

She is analogous to a princess,
Petals envelope her lavender body as she drops them every now and again
Like the globe’s flower girl decorating dirty streets.

by: Yours Truly (Lauren Akins)

Fashion, My Happenings, poetry.

Melting & Melting: The Remix Pt. II

poetry.

July the twenty-third, two thousand and twelve. afternoon
Playing: Tweet “Always Will”

Melting
-Lauren Akins

She was always so sweet, tooth-breaking sweet.
Watery, and soft.
A feeler who felt.
Flowing and increasing,
increasing heartbeats,
increasing tears, increasing scars.
She fought the ugly of the scars with a wide-mouthed smile, sweeping dust from her tomb.
Looking around, she was alone.
Standing, centerstage,
luring eyes towards her.
Hmmph.
A sigh escapes her lips.
It tastes rough.
Yeah, a rough-tasting sigh, where too many words linger to be said, a sigh that turns you into a zombie
Eyes-locked cuz you are trying not to feel.
But, that’s what you do, Feeler!

And you know it best, the backs of your hands have wiped many tears.
So what?
She need some sort of conclusion?
A person has limits, you know,
Points when enough is more than enough
Points of flagrant anger, fiery anger
Cuz you took sugar and added salt,
Added salt til sugar was salt
And now, no one can tell the difference.
Yeah, she was tooth-breaking sweet………….
before you.

I knew she wasn’t finna answer, after that last ring
The way it rang told me that.
But I love her from the midnight black of her hair to the shine of her eyes.

Melting: The Remix Pt. II
Voluptuous….I really couldn’t even imagine eating all the food it takes to be
voluptuous but he say he don’t want nobody other than…..size extra small n he
love her, man cuz her soul so tall Victoria catalogue 95 Volvo she be ridin
y’all, don’t serve her no meat naw not at all more like strawberries n
cherries tale of a fairy say his seed she can carry smile indeed legendary don’t
u leave it’d be scary Like Candyman meets Friday the 13th oh n did I tell u she
was tooth breaking sweet? Just like lions eat good off of Christians in dens She
got enemies that pretend to be friends ones like the Romans that threw em in but
her character remain erect like Ausar and Aset High she step peace em up say
Hotep

Getting by with a Nail Clipper

poetry., Spirit and In-Spirit-ation

thCAE15TD2

So imma explain this title a lil bit: basically the default all-purpose tool is a Swiss Army knife, but what if where u at, all to be found is a nail clipper? getting by with a nail clipper is conquering odds, in the face of opponents having machetes and advantages, feel me? Using all your god-given talents and finding a security in your own person-only one gon be with u from beginning to end beside The Almighty…Aight.

Getting By with a Nail Clipper

cant get caught up on personal hangups
like hangnails on pantyhose
making runs cant ruin God’s Master plan
sweep aside my emotion to stand
even though i love that man
hard to swallow cod liver oil a similar test
each heave that i breathe breath
i must fight on this journey
younger cousins lookin at me
so i better hurry
towards the path less travelled
and traverse the rugged road of knowing self
beating away small minded tradition
stepping, bringing dreams into fruition
cuz my elders have watered well
the roots of this branch of the family tree
okra, corn, and purple hull peas have feed my body
and love fed my soul
and i till the soil back into a ground of pure gold
vitamin-rich, seeds got plenty chance to grow
sunshine, wind, and rain Lord protect it from the snow
i keep the weed from my lips and liquors from my liver
may the Divine smile on me, raise me above the nigger
nigger, nigger template not my lane
erect my temple on a rock away from the whipping waves
so by the second that my heartbeat stops, the impact that i’ve made will not be forgot.

file around the nail til its smooth,
keep it pushin
so i can make it do what it do.
R. Charles would be proud, been raised a little in Georgia,
so i understand the country euphoria
of shrimp grits, double dutch, and a Cadillac on D’s.
Light poles and pine trees.
Skint knees, church fans, and butter pecan ice cream
sweet iced tea, birthday money, quilts and thunderstorms
Travel I may but the South is where my head lay
in gentle comfort of the lap of my mother
the Mason-Dixon line her waist
Cotton buds her hair and sunshine her face.
It’s nothing sweeter still
than knowing I lived life trill.

Vraie Belle

poetry.

The piebald skin trait is its own decoration. The exercise of daily ceremony. Everyday is a special occasion that your beautiful skin is already dressed for and what’s more is you are exceptionally unique 1 in 14,000. Reason your confidence should be louder than the ignorant ones trying to cloud n dim, condemn-ation upon the misunderstanders: the planet would be better if all considered manners, shone love from their heart, enjoyed the Creator in every living work of art, journey each day, studying: learning antiquity in Joaquin Manuel Rocha portrait por le Portuguese.

20130823-190620.jpg

The Vent: All Fans Switched ON

poetry., The Vent

Cowardice is often a sister of repression. Swallowed sentences and full hearts—what when tension is stretched like tightropes and the actors KNOW what they’re doing is affecting you; still they slink with phrases such as “do you need me to come with you to the store?” Or “it’s a hot one today, isn’t it?” When you have to remind yourself to breathe deeply, when it would have otherwise been unconscious and autonomic. Faces like these deserve a slap, and frames, a shake. Have you ever known a breaking point in the midst of an armistice? Just when you thought the white flag of peace waved and doves were freed.
From where I’m standing, it screams of an ambush and loved ones stray into strangers. Hmm, pinpointing the exact moment of strain would be as daunting as counting every strawberry seed on the plant.

People paint and portray themselves as the Las Meninas, 1656 by Diego Velazquez but secretly they are more like seahags.

890px-Las_Meninas,_by_Diego_Velázquez,_from_Prado_in_Google_Earth
Faux people, Faux people.

Apathy, really I can’t do nothing but giggle, literally it’s that sitcom.

P.s. Mind you, this stream of thought is highly out-of-character for me, however, I feel better.

20130821-184313.jpg

Direction: Butterflies in My Stomach

poetry.

black-and-yellow-butterfly-on-yellow-flower

I promise I try. I promise I give, and naively use magnifying glasses to look for the good, like Battleship game map searches. I  X  out general flaws because I want to be right.

Pure in spirit, a heart pinker than flamingo feathers—a cotton candy melted by pleasant tones and gestures. Moments that remind

That eyes bear: pregnant with tears.

Caterpillars have camped out a month of Sundays in my stomach as I know my potential,

but i get nervous.

Six-prong fork with me at the center

left,

northwest,

diagonal left,

south, diagonal right, and south east.

But you know, with certainty, I attest the Butterflies will at best carry me towards… where I will be Blessed. 

 

 

Just Outside of Lafayette

poetry.

Masai man

That old man creeping by, grinning a toothless grin could be a warrior from Kenya.
Beaded and handlin a spear, yeah that’s what I see.
And that youngin with da miniskirt probably a princess from Mufaro’s beautiful  daughters.
See, to see beyond the broken package to see the soul is so so solar
Sonar tapping into, to the hidden sound
A breezing of the breathe and beat of beauty
In the most unusual places: I find.
 
Your body is a castle, cuz a king or queen lives there.
 
Bump that beat, blaze those lines, real rhythm in real time.
 
Where color lives broad as an ocean.
Catlike the woman Batman was once holding.
funk-the best slice of the pie.
 
diapers getting changed broad daylight in da backseat.
peep the actuality in reality.
float on, floaters.
roll on, rollers.
and keep Creator in your acknowledgements.
 
Beyond, to Infinity and Beyond.
keep that bond forevermore
ugly ducks turn to swans and eggheads that sit up tall slide off the wall
so know it aint long til you’ll have that  place up

Dry Tribe

poetry.

drybones

It’s so hard when you’re the backbone.
Who can u cry to, if u ain’t got no eyes?
Somehow, tears squeeze their way outta da backbone, proud and fine.
That backbone covered up by a coat, so no one sees him crying.
He been taught tears mean spineless,
And he’d cease to exist. but right now damn all dat.
Drops of salty eye water itching to fall from what he doesn’t have.
Cuz his bones are dry.
And who can make nation out of dry bones?
Somewhere up in the sky,
For heavens sake, a little bone moving inside of a back.
a little bone moving, dancing
And that is his rain dance for eyes.  this backbone would cry!
Cry for his seven grown kids
And his lovely ex-wife
Only if he could relive the year two thousand and five.
He would have bent a little to see life from all sides, not be rigid and unmovable.
His own actions booted him.

Barbecue Blues

poetry.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Barbecue Blues
A ragtag bunch in the choir stand all in differing attire, looking untogether and tired.
Is this what you expect me to get out of bed for?
For a dishwater gathering of brainwashed people in love with the church steeple
Oh my, oh my. Feels like a waste of time. I could be somewhere using my mind.
Writing a line, rhyme, or verse, cooking, cleaning, or dancing the twerk.
But yet I sit on this red pew bench, writing fighting sleep
In need of something more deep
Something to feed me beyond my thoughts of thankfulness,
Still in a journey for righteousness
A building of restraint, rules, and worry
Dull, dull, dull doing things for tradition
Yo WTF is wrong with this pastor?
Seem like a meal for eating is all he’s after
Forever talking of breakfast, dinner, and lunch
When really the gym is what he needs to punch
The way Miss So & So just said Lady Jane Doe was full of shit
Right in the middle of church service
Oh my tail, I’m laughing it off
Cuz these folks crazy
Their rocker is off
Hazy drummer and piano is sho’ll off beat
Dag, this Sunday smells of defeat.