Cut Out Nail Tutorial

Cut Out Nails Tutorial

Wicked Wednesday

 

Wicked Wednesdays

This week’s Wicked Wednesday will feature poets with natural hair in honor of National Poetry Month! By far, one of my favorite months of the year thanks to 30/30. Hope you enjoy this installation of Wicked Wednesday!

Gil Scott-Heron

ANGEL DUST

He was groovin'
and that was when he coulda sworn
the room was movin'
But that was only in his mind
He was sailin'
he never really seemed to notice
vision failin'
'cause that was all part of the high
Sweat was pourin' --
he couldn't take it
The room was exploding --
he might not make it.
Angel Dust/Please, children would you listen.
Angel Dust/Just ain't where it's at.
Angel Dust/You won't remember what you're
missin', but down some dead end streets
there ain't no turnin' back.

They were standin'
ev'rybody in a circle;
the whole family
listening to the preacher's words
Sis was cryin'
She alone held all the secrets
'bout his dyin'
tears fallin' to earth
Maybe her fault
He was so trusting
God only knew why
they was dustin'!
Angel Dust/Please children would you listen.
Angel Dust/Just ain't where it's at.
Angel Dust/You won't remember what you're
missin', but down some dead end streets
there ain't no turnin' back.

Carl Phillips

Custom

There is a difference it used to make,
seeing three swans in this versus four in that
quadrant of sky. I am not imagining. It was very large, as its
effects were. Declarations of war, the timing fixed upon for a sea-departure; or,
about love, a sudden decision not to, to pretend instead to a kind
of choice. It was dramatic, as it should be. Without drama,
what is ritual? I look for omens everywhere, because they are everywhere
to be found. They come to me like strays, like the damaged,
something that could know better, and should, therefore-but does not:
a form of faith, you've said. I call it sacrifice-an instinct for it, or a habit at first, that
becomes required, the way art can become, eventually, all we have
of what was true. You shouldn't look at me like that. Like one of those saints
on whom the birds once settled freely.

Carolyn M. Rodgers

From Space to Time

on a day when
we were dark
and not so full of
light
we met
    what did we find?
nothing.
everything, when we closed
our eyes
which anyway
had never been open.

once, we thought we
loved each other
       who can reverse
    time?
we tried.
we stepped out
of space
into some new
step of distance
and fell-
and not in love.

 Ai

Conversation

We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.
Don't tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.
Did you ever, you start,
wear a certain kind of dress
and just by accident,
so inconsequential you barely notice it,
your fingers graze that dress
and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,
you see it too
and you realize how that image
is simply the extension of another image,
that your own life
is a chain of words
that one day will snap.
Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,
and beginning to rise heavenward
in their confirmation dresses,
like white helium balloons,
the wreathes of flowers on their heads spinning,
and above all that,
that's where I'm floating,
and that's what it's like
only ten times clearer,
ten times more horrible.
Could anyone alive survive it?

Mari Evans

The Rebel

When I
die
I'm sure
I will have a
Big Funeral ...

Curiosity
seekers ...
coming to see
if I
am really
Dead ...
or just
trying to make
Trouble ...

Cornelius Eady

Grief Bird

After those buildings fell,
And New York City stank from bad intent,
And the wind twirled with human pigment,
And the sky darkened in one spot and howled,

There we walked, newborn, holding flashlights and shovels,
Dusty with shock, the streets painted mad,
Ears still smarting from the evil crumble.

Now the combing, the sifting,
Now the hauling, the uncovering.
The astonished song.

Would you like to be featured in Wicked Wednesday? Submit your picture to spokenheart_mf@aol.com!

Wicked Wednesday

Wicked Wednesdays

This week’s Wicked Wednesday will feature poets with natural hair in honor of National Poetry Month! By far, one of my favorite months of the year thanks to 30/30. Hope you enjoy this installation of Wicked Wednesday!

 

Lucille Clifton

"poem to my uterus"

you uterus
you have been patient
as a sock
while i have slippered into you
my dead and living children
now
they want to cut you out
stocking i will not need
where i am going
where am i going
old girl
without you
uterus
my bloody print
my estrogen kitchen
my black bag of desire
where can i go
barefoot
without you
where can you go
without me

Quincy Troupe

"Snow & Ice"

ice sheets sweep this slick mirrored dark place
space as keys that turn in tight, trigger
pain of situations
where we move ever so slowly
              so gently into time - traced agony
the bright turning of imagination
so slowly
grooved through revolving doors, opening up to enter
mountains where spirits walk voices, ever so slowly
swept by cold, breathing fire
                        as these elliptical moments of illusion
link fragile loves sunk deep in snows as footprints
the voice prints cold black gesticulations
bone bare voices
              chewed skeletal choices
in fangs of piranha gales
spewing out slivers of raucous laughter
glinting bright as hard polished silver nails

 

Alice Walker

"THEY WHO FEEL DEATH"

(FOR MARTYRS)

They who feel death close as a breath
Speak loudly in unlighted rooms
Lounge upright in articulate gesture
Before the herd of jealous Gods

Fate finds them receiving
At home.

Grim the warrior forest who present
Casual silence with casual battle cries
Or stand unflinchingly lodged

In common sand
Crucified.

 

Robert Hayden

"Those Winter Sundays"

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
   

Would you like to be featured in Wicked Wednesday? Submit your picture to spokenheart_mf@aol.com!