Unscrambled Eggs, Nadia Brown [good summer reads .txt] 📗

truth and meaning

she forms between the lines

tantalizing those that journeys

through her thoughts

each phrase meticulously

garnered

refine and precise

in its demeanor

brilliance shows

its face time and again

through her painted

imagery

Angels

At dawn angels play

softly over the quietness

of a sleeping city

their laughter trickles

through the morning light

while beneath sheer clouds

dreamers dream of un‐ordinary pleasures

and thinkers lie awake

pondering terrestrial thoughts

Before I Knew Better

Before I knew better, I used to think life was a cup of coffee. I had only to drink from it to know the world, every leaf, sapling tree, skyscraper. I suppose everything seems rudimentary when you are only a girl, much younger than birds. A small girl concerns herself with coloring books and fancy ribbons. She doesn’t understand purpose, the gravity of future? I always thought I had destiny caught between my thumb and nail, tucked neatly under my arm like newspaper. And someday, when I was ready, I could gather it from beneath my pouch of arm and began to build my evenings the way I imagined it.

In my dreams, night is an island—feverishly lit by fireflies; hairs on my head fall placidly upon my breast. I am cultured, more than rain allows me to be. Mom said that to her, I would always be a daffodil. That if I were committed, I could be sky if I wanted. But I didn’t realize that winter had other plans for dreamers like me. For it punctured my avenues, cracked open my yellow brick road. And there were no manuals for these kinds of circumstances.

Upon receiving my diploma—college had so much promise. But somehow, I managed to slip like fog from hours, compile four‐ plus years of university; still, I’m here, crouched in a silent room, peeling paint off walls that don’t want to be clean. After high school and years of planting, this was not what I expected.

Black Souls

Freedom was paved

through their strife

we live knowing that rivers

came from the flow of their

sweat and weeping

In unkind elements

they labored till sun subside

their souls supplied the earth

as strength and will were garnered

to keep with chores

courage planted seeds

bruised fingers

sore feet

laid the foundation

of this notable land

Broken Pot

All I have said and thought

are washed away with your hands

as my pleas are gone

out the window like stone

like some shriveled flower

in the grave of her vase

where is jazz when I need her most

the blues tires of this house

and I am well acquainted with the notes

to this timeworn number the lyrics sing of some other love

her name mentioned plainly

in the back seat of your pull‐out jeans

let us not be the broken pot

nor like spoons twisted in reverse

we have begun to wear cracks

in our history

its breathing tempered

by chips and loose splinters

Lifetime

A lifetime knows my wants

to walk the path of Pharaoh

speak fluent the tongue of Spaniards

from scattered lands

Before fire charred its flame

I chose to be a pioneer

to have talents of birds

sing like a burgeoning flower

Prior to the moon beginnings

I implored artful hands

fingers that carve ships

a salient life laded with purpose

June Rains

The hole in the sun

has not yet mended

so the rains continue to pour on my sector

of the earth

I have seen pools of

wailing hair,

pouring wet faces,

the tallness of grass

stretching over fences

to last four winters

I ponder when day

will improve his looks

for a man who speaks on the clouds

assures more pity skies

as sunlight has become like the cat

who waits to reveal herself

at some future time

Refusal

Tears once spilt like

wailing rivers have

no weeping left to

douse the face

of a woman in mourning

a voice parched

and speaks like dust

has run out of sounds

to tender an ear

unwilling to bear blame

somewhere along jagged hills

words I’ve spoken lay perched against patient rocks

waiting to supply you

with thoughts you did not want

and refused to acknowledge

Sea of Poor

Our eyes close like blinds

to their quandary

how we sit on our hands

as we abet their plight

their suffering is bolstered

with the lost of clemency

as we gain more worldly things

they are left poverty

In a country of gold and ledger

lies a sea of poor

living in calamity

and discontentment

Secrets of Humanity

Nature whispers our secrets

underneath its conscious breath

unearthing new discoveries

as subtle as night appears

waves lapping ocean shores

murmur quietly our misgivings

while rains that pour through the doors of sky

informed rivers of what they have heard

even parts of mangled leaves

relay our transgressions

hearing the lies we feed someone else

watching as we live in obscurity

secrets we veiled tour

across the land

lingering amidst earth

until discovered

The Lesson Learned

The dagger which bore my chest

leaves a scar of doubt

smashes my hope into crumbs of despair

it was arrogant of me

to think more that I am

but foolish of you

to consider me less

falling short of your list

you concluded me below standard

leaving just room

for whomever you feel deserving

I expected much too soon

having learned the lesson

I am not as I conceived

yet I exceed

your scant recognition

Two Poem Hands

It is all in the metaphors

the way you pen words

that come to live

on the breath of each page

a stretch of moon carol your acclaim

and I observe how effortlessly

you temper night

sway the azaleas

to paint the stems of skin

your Hemingway muse

candor of lips

two poem hands

is all I need of you

Fathom

Marlboro’s fumes have

choked all sense from your brain

taste for language

laden with four‐letter curses

sweetens your tongue

like roasted cacao beans.

Apparently sound reasons

cannot permeate thoughts

of a childlike man

prone to dealing tantrums

like moody two‐year‐olds.

No need for sermons

or lectures on your wants

kindly leave those orders

for someone else.

An Ardent Wish

Today I am not a woman,

I am clamshells of silence,

a jellyfish, a stone, the callous between

thumb and forefinger.

Anything other than what I was

the day before.

Blind Eyes Become Open

I have seen more of you of late

to my disliking

are you confined to judging a man

by the hue of his skin

without knowing him

unkind words rankle

as gaping wounds

provoking opponents

of your sworn beliefs

while love of enmity

is used to disguise

the contempt you have for yourself

ignorance is the pillar you grasp a

wall you have built separating you

from them and them from you

aiding false perceptions

and beguiling views

understanding carries a person

to a place where there are not many

blind eyes become open

when they walk in the shoes

of the ones they oppose

Words

I often wonder

if others relate

to my tireless rants,

delight in my pleasures,

or perhaps share my truths.

I weigh carefully

the opinions that some

have of me and ponder

the relevance of my speech.

Taking comfort from those

whom I’ve touched

but sighs bitterly when my

feelings go unnoticed.

Whether my thoughts inform

or lack the will to influence,

silence remains incapable