First Utterings
by
Michelle D. Hudson
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PUBLISHED BY:
Michelle D. Hudson on Smashwords
First Utterings
Copyright © 2010 by Michelle D. Hudson
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work. All material is the original work of Michelle D. Hudson.
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Dedication
First Utterings is dedicated to my parents, Marion and Alvin. In their own ways, my parents encouraged me to live beyond the measure of other people’s expectations. Even in death, their love and support comfort me.
This ebook is also dedicated to the people who visit my blog and motivate me to write when I lack confidence and cannot find the precise words. It is through their comments, critiques, and advice that I take the first step to sharing my work with a broader audience. I am eternally grateful for their correspondences via Twitter. Therefore, I extend heartfelt and sincere thanks to: Florence Iyinnbo, Liz Mnari, Khakjaan Wessington, Emmett Wheatfall, Steven M. Grant, Nevone Blount, Theron Kennedy, Evelyn N. Alfred, and Kerryanne Layne. Never underestimate the depth of your kind words.
I thank each of you but, above all, I thank God for every blessing and every adversary.
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First Utterings
A Ballad for My Students
It
may seem corny or even creepy
But I have loved you since I first
saw your name
Printed on white paper.
Permanently etched in my
mind:
Henrietta Jones, Erin Plasiance, Maya Jones,
Christopher
Holloway, Justin Jack, Kierra Hart --
The list is infinite.
Even
when your names escape my tongue,
Your prepubescent faces
remain.
Stained upon my heart. Unchanged by time.
There is just
something about a teacher's students.
Once assigned to a specific
class,
The teacher in me quickly searches for your
potential,
Which I am confident exists.
Offering an earnest,
clean slate
I beseech you,
Whoever you were last year -- for
better or for worse --
Is no more.
The door is open.
And
open to more than learning.
Take advantage of this opportunity to
be whom you envision.
To be the person you desire. To
simply
Be
Yourself.
And when you are ready,
Ready to be
more than your mind can comprehend,
Ready to allow God to work in
your lives,
I will be there as your teacher.
In the sacred
space of the classroom,
Where I am entrusted with your futures.
I
invite you to reach for greatness, for
There is just something
about a teacher's students.
Letter of Comfort
Dear
Youth,
Thought I'd drop a line
to let you know you've got
time.
So many cares cast upon lack.
Never fulfilled, you worry
that you're fat
or unattractive or dumb.
Persecuted by every
thought, your life becomes humdrum --
the same old routine.
Doubt.
Want. Envy. Where's your self-esteem?
Your will to live rather
than sit still?
Don't tell me you're going to permit this
kill!
Don't you know you're all you need
to succeed
and soar
beyond your wildest dreams?
You've lost your way or so it
seems.
Luckily, you can change your fate in an instant.
Start
by relying on the One that the Father sent --
Jesus the Redeemer.
He only asks that you believe
for the things of this world you
shall one day leave.
As temporary as the flesh,
this life is
but a test.
So, right now I challenge you
to be bold,
self-assured, and among the few
to scoff at mediocrity and sloth.
Baby, you're a boss!
More than that,
As you are, you're all
that.
Love always,
Your Conscious
The Task
Twenty-four
here.
Seventeen three times a day.
Thirteen there.
Highest
in rank; least in number: a mighty eight they say.
In
sum, I am charged with sixty-three souls.
Responsible for
educating them,
But it always goes beyond books to setting
goals.
Teaching them to stand on God’s word. To trust Him.
A
daunting task indeed.
Each child a blank slate.
Oh, but so
great is the need!
How does one fill a hollow vessel? Find the
precise bait?
Soon-to-be doctors, lawyers, athletes, and
actors are among the brood.
Potential sparkles in their eyes,
Yet
resolve and drive are limited and crude.
Deficient in desire but
wroth in attitude.
Yes, children are the future,
But they
are ignorant of their past.
Brawny in faith, I know nurture can
overcome nature.
Though the forecast is bleak, I am up for the
task.
The callous child wants freedom to accept love.
The
seemingly dull-witted student blossoms with independence:
A chance
to do-it-by-myself rather than be handled with kid gloves;
An
opportunity to develop worth; to know one’s substance.
However,
it is not easy; that is, the path to success.
I’ve raised my
voice in anger and diminished in esteem.
Feeling desperate when
sincerity becomes cheesy.
Heightening my frustration and lowering
their self-esteem.
Luckily, it is never too late to start
anew.
The rising sun blots out despair,
Giving us another
chance to win. To be true
Sirens of Christ’s love ... to clear
the air.
In teaching, the teacher is a student
always.
Discovering that learning is not about reading, ‘riting,
and ‘rithmetic alone.
It’s about valuing a person, not parting
ways.
Assuring him or her that the classroom is everyone’s home.
Our Fear
There is something
perversely unjust about sending
children into the world. Away
from the
loving gaze of our watchful eyes. Estranged
from
our protective embrace. For we know,
that no one can love our
babies as
unconditionally as we do. We
fear that even at
school – the one place that
should be a second home – our kids
will be
neglected. Abused, devalued, dismissed.
We expect
our precious children to
learn the ABC’s and 123’s. To
use
“arboreous” in a sentence and
quote extensively from The
Bill of Rights.
We want this – all of this – even
if we
know that our children speak too loudly.
Repeat
themselves until acknowledged. Write
letters backwards while
looking directly
at them. We want more for our children.
Though
they pronounce the silent “k” in "knife"
or learn
better by tapping or standing.
Unable to sit quietly with feet
on
the floor and eyes facing straight-ahead.
We want ... No, we
demand nothing less than
the very best from our children’s
schools.
Second to parents and sometimes in place
of us,
children seek the love and safety
believed to be the foundation of
schools.
Willingly, children hug teachers. Laugh at
jokes
they do not grasp. Ignore remarks that
weaken the spirit and rob
the soul. Yes,
there is something perversely unjust about
sending
children into the world. Compromising
their humanity
and their dignity.
Freshmen Year
Richard
– the College Student
descendant of an African tribe
whose
name i cannot pronounce
and whose culture i am unfamiliar
black
but not as the night
more akin to a tinge
of creamy caramel
latte
american through and through
breathing life into
every patriotic syllable
of francis scott key’s battle hymn
yet
i am seen as something
so very foreign to me
labeled the
degenerate, the robber, the nigger
standing on the outside of
your judgment
scholastic prowess ignored
potential and worth
underestimated
accordingly, you do not understand why
a
grade of “b” is not good enough for me
whom you regard as the
dark one
for your sake, one day you may see,
that the black
man – even in diversity –
is merely a man and as
worthy as any man
Soul Food
My
mother wore patches of white flour
as badges of honor.
From her
ruby cheeks
to her sweat-stained blouse,
the light dusting
promised
a feast
of fried chicken, collard greens,
and pecan
pie.
A simple dinner in our home
served with fanfare of the
heart.
Lapping the juices
from my shiny fingers,
I saw
love mirrored in Mama's eyes –
chestnut orbs that hid
the
pain encased in her heart.
Always sitting the table for
three.
Hoping that might be the night
dad returned
to us
…
to her.
Before Dawn
Slumber
dissipates as dawn approaches.
Quiet sails along the cool
breeze
Pouring from the window ajar.
Dew dampens the room
You
lie content and unaffected.
Tangled locks – dark and soft –
Repose upon the pillow.
I kiss your tiny forehead
And pray
to the remaining stars above.
My inadequacies aside,
Let me be
a decent mother
To my only son. My only priority.
The heart
captures this moment.
Keeping worry at bay. My love,
Enjoy your
dreams before daybreak
Wrangles your bliss and it is time
For
us to brave the world.
The Annabel Lee Conspiracy
Who knew Poe's
beautiful Annabel Lee?
Through and through, the ideal mortal
lover.
Unfortunately, she died by the sea.
Body gone from this
world, her soul hovered.
Distraught and wounded, part
of Poe died, too.
He lived for the love of that girl -- so
fair.
Shattered by her death, Poe knew what to do.
By god, he'd
drag those angels by their hair!
But, did the winged seraphs
kill Annabel
Or did she fall prey to Poe's psychosis?
Whether
by pen or strife, it was Poe's hell
That took Annabel's
life without notice.
Ah, Poor Mr. Poe. An ill-fated
chap
With the grave stain of guilt upon his lap.
Football Sundays
Rise
before the pelican to give God his due.
In the heart of the
Crescent City beyond the bayou,
We peel off club rags and reach
for church attire.
Praise the Lord and watch the Saints
baptize foes in pigskin fire.
From heaven, “Who Dat!” alights
the sky in a black and gold hue.
Pregnant with Pride
pregnant
with pride
you shrink
from responsibility
of your
reckless and callous
words
Latrine Epiphany
Regurgitation
spews forth.
A wasted life
Expelled.
Clearing the path
For
unfettered renewal.
The Plea
You
say you’ll give me the world.
Really? The world? Can you do
that?
Start smaller. May be a wide-brim hat
For a beach side
walk to watch the water pool and swirl.
I want much but need
very little:
Your kiss, your touch, your attention, your
love.
Yes, it’s that simple! As simple as a hug.
Love can be
complex but it’s no riddle.
Shall we start with truth? With
the real?
Save the, “Roses are red / Violets are blue.”
I’d
rather get to know you.
Be brave. Show me how you
feel.
Fragrances, flowers, and fanfare are nice
But
honesty, sincerity, and subtlety are better.
Do anything but
please ... let communication tether
Our union, allowing a genuine
connection to take flight.
So what will it be?
Will you
risk giving of yourself instead of the world?
It is all that’s
needed for this girl.
In the glint of the sunrise, I await you by
the sea.
Seductive Sadie
Everyman’s
mistress, they pine over Seductive Sadie.
Her studded cotton
bloomers are a far cry from her heyday
Of silk pantie girdles
adorning luminous, feathered costumes.
Now, a toothless strumpet –
contemplating her beckoning tomb –
Hoping the inscription reads,
“Good Ole Sadie was such a fine lady.”
ain’t easy
From
my perspective,
I'd say being black
ain't easy.
Neither
is being female,
but the truth is life
ain't easy.
Struggle
precedes categorization.
It is universally human and it
ain't
easy.
Frail and penetrable,
the flesh buckles and cries,
"It
ain't easy."
Heed sage biblical advice.
Be
of the Spirit though knowing being a Christian
ain't
easy
either.
The Things We Do
The
things we do
for men
to love us.
We transform ourselves
–
repeatedly and unsuccessfully.
Transparent incarnations
of men’s desires.
The whole while praying
that our
devotion satiates their
insatiable fantasies and realities.
The
things we do
for men
to love us.
From inception, we are
taught
to forsake and to sacrifice.
For men.
Indoctrination
that boasts
feeding men’s appetites for food and sex
guarantees
their love.
For that love!
Oh, the things we do
for
men!
We neglect
ourselves. Our God.
Our children.
We
make men the priority.
Worship their beings and relinquish
our
babies.
Regrettably, the things we do
for men
to love
us.
We open our legs. Wide. Give what’s inside:
our
femininity, our soul, our peace of mind.
Savagely, we thrust and
grind.
But, there is no crime, no sinuous fault
in
carnivorous pleasing. Unless
it devours one’s soul.
My
God, the things we do
for men
to love us ...
We, we
women, are taught invisibility.
Unaware that we should be
acknowledged.
That we – within ourselves – are
worthy.
Ignorantly seeking love in the darkest recesses
of
insanity.
Finding neither love nor ourselves.
The things we
do
for men.
To love. Us.
In March
In
March, I was born –
barely escaped being April’s fool.
In
March, I celebrated womanhood
in honor of National Women’s
Month.
In March, I found love
in my eighteenth year.
In
March, I found love again
in my thirtieth year.
In March, my
father
died.
In March, I wore Dunbar’s mask
to smile
through the pain.
In March, I transformed
from a child into a
woman. All ...
In March.
I Love You
During
childhood years of playing
Jacks, UNO, hopscotch and Connect
4,
The thought of boys turned us girls into blaring
sirens:
“Ewwwww!” We proclaimed with great disdain.
For
everyone knew that boys had cooties.
Yet, something about you
illuminated. Before I could comprehend it,
my heart sang –
I
love you.
I still remember the date and the place:
March
twelfth. Two blocks from Carrollton and Canal Streets.
Beneath the
cool shade of aging maple trees,
You kissed me – a teen
apprehensive about her first kiss.
Warmed by your embrace and the
silk of your tongue,
my body murmured,
I love you.
My
quivering chin betrayed me.
Tears streamed forward, I could not
believe you deceived me.
Your love was mine alone until I learned
that it was not.
From shock to rage to anger to hate, you
disappointed me.
We changed. Life changed. You returned ... love
returned with you.
Forgiveness – I learned its meaning for all
that we have been through,
I love you.
Ducks sailed along
the pond as sunlight weaved moss-laced trees
To find us standing
before family and friends but, most importantly,
Before God. We
vowed to love each other as Christ so loves the Church.
Mistrust
behind us, we emerged pure and unscathed.
Reminiscent of that
first kiss but stronger, more assured.
On this day and forever
more,
I love you.
We envisioned it together.
Along a
jubilant parade route, within the pulse of the Crescent City,
We
would raise our beautiful children. Just you, me, and the
babies.
Anna, the first child, who lived and died in the womb.
The
lucky one, Charles, wailed – announcing his arrival to the
world.
We rejoiced. Rejoiced all three months of his life.
The
others bear no names. Repeated loss. Our spirits could not
sustain.
Even in those darkest days, through my tearful silence, I
maintained:
I love you.
"Cancer," they said. I
prayed.
“Why me?” you cried. Nevertheless I tried,
For it
was as much your life as mine.
I caressed your cold hands and lay
next to your frail body.
In your concave eyes, I saw the youthful
boy and my mature groom.
The man that I loved, my love. So I
prayed.
You recovered. My womb breathed life. This time
My
husband and my baby survived. Surely,
I love you.
Kneeling
upon the cold earth, I still feel you.
Do you see our Anthony, our
beloved boy?
Tall like you, he is his father’s son.
We visit
your grave not to grieve but to celebrate.
Life had not always
been kind but blessed we were.
Separated only by space and time, I
cherish every moment of our lives.
My dear husband, my friend, my
lover, my life, please know
I love you.
Despair
I
live because I am a coward,
afraid of the alternative.
For
what does it matter anyway?
With or without me, the sun
rises
and sets. So I live.
Choosing happiness
except when the weight
of emptiness
is too great.
Given to tears and admitting
my
reality is a mirage.
Death took life moons ago
and left me
behind.
So life continues. I merely exist
in this
world. Living yet not living.
Praying
for the Angel’s call.
Eleventh Hour Prayer
Familiar.
I've been here before.
Encased by light and sound,
I am alone and
Desperate.
I cry because it is part of the routine --
The all too familiar
Routine.
This time, however, I fear that
I may cut deeper.
Apply enough pressure to the blade
To
relieve my anguish,
Free myself of this sorrowful existence.
They
say,
"It is always darkest before the dawn."
Ha! How
dishonest!
What the hell do they
know?
Light never shines my way.
I've tried to appease the
gods to no avail.
Worshipping the money and the men of this
world
For a fix.
Sinking to inconceivable depths
To fulfill
men's carnivorous lust,
To feed the lure and the call
Of
Drugs.
Never stone enough to remove
The putrid taste from
my mouth
Nor halt the embarrassing reel in my head --
Images
of who I used to be,
Who I've become,
And who I shall
never be.
Free me
From the trappings of my mind.
Yes,
I've worshipped the gods!
But now I turn to you Lord!
Evoking
your name,
Wanting to get near the Father by way of the Son.
Help
me see myself through your eyes --
With your unconditional,
enduring love.
The prodigal child has returned.
A shell
of my former self,
The slightest feint from eternal
damnation
Though I've been damned for years.
Deliver me,
Lord!
Hold me in your bosom.
Cradle your child.
Please
Heed
my abiding cry.
Let America Be America to Me
Let
America be America again.
Let it be the reality promised in the
social studies books,
Where Francis Scott Key set my heart alight
in a patriotic blaze:
"The rockets' red glare, the bombs
bursting in air,
Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was
still there."
(In my spirit, America has always been
America to me.)
Let America be the illiterate mother
encouraging her daughter to read.
Stocking the bookcase with tales
of Harriet the Spy and Nancy Drew,
Memorizing the 23rd Psalm. Then
teaching it to her baby girl.
Freeing her only child from the
bondage of ignorance
To create opportunities for each succeeding
generation.
(In my learning, America has always been America
to me.)
Let America be the dream I used to dream of –
The
alpha and the omega of existence.
Where God spreads his love so
liberally
That the only color seen is that of the piercing
eye:
The gateway to the soul.
(In my naivety, America has
always been America to me.)
Let America be a forum of
consciousness.
Embracing freedom of speech for it is our
hallmark;
Yet, recognizing the err of tea baggerish rants.
For
it is propaganda gone astray.
Freedom of speech. Not freedom
from decency.
(In my humanity, America is almost foreign
to me.)
Let America be Dr. King’s dream truly
manifested.
“Separate but Equal” – disbanded. But,
We are
more separate and even further from equal.
Taking our civil
liberties for granted, we are to blame.
Racial inequality is passé
compared to economic disparity.
(In my politics, America
leaves much to be desired.)
Let America be the place that
values home.
Men and women become allies, loving one
another.
Children honor their parents.
Home is not just where
the heart it is;
It is where our foundation lies.
(In my
home, America respects its own.)
Let America be what so many
have sacrificed for:
Where intelligence and hard work trump
sloth.
Where we disagree without being disagreeable.
Where we
the people fully participate in government.
Where every man –
even the gay man – is free.
(In my heart, America can
fulfill its potential.)
For my America differs from Hughes’s
reality.
An African-American and a woman,
I am discriminated
against and even despised by a few.
Unable to write like Mr.
Hughes, I can still write
My thoughts without fear. My America
–
Far less overtly prejudice but not perfect.
In my
America, “perfect” does not exist.
And we know it. Anyone
recall the Bush-Cheney era?
Or the 2006 King Day tributes –
Mayor Ray Nagin’s “Chocolate City” and
Senator Hillary
Clinton’s Republican plantation?
No, no perfect here. Sometimes,
we are hardly civilized.
We must work on civility at home and
aboard.
Youth dying in urban streets as their peers
Die in
Afghanistan and Iraq with no real hope
Of returning home.
Home
to a country that is still growing into its own ideals.
Oh,
Mr. Hughes, there is more than oil spilling in the Gulf.
There are
regrettable bank and auto bailouts,
Frantic fall out over
universal healthcare:
The tendency to put business before
people.
We uphold the separation of Church and state,
But the
fanatics wear business suits and worship the dollar.
Different
times. Different problems.
Your soul rests, however, knowing
that we –
the darker brothers and sisters –
can sit at the
table and no one dare asks us to leave.
With President Obama
at the helm, leading
Without dependence upon his blackness.
But
the Mexicans …
My God, the witch hunt never ends
But finds
new prey.
I pray. And you should, too.
Pray not for the
things of this world
But for the minds, hearts, and souls …
The
souls that roam the Earth in flesh
so cold, so heartless, so
unfeeling.
Pray for America.
My America.
I am
Determined
to help America
Be America again.
Once More
Mom's
framed smile beckons me from the mantle.
Preserved in time, the
poignant image
Of me kneeling alongside my dad.
Smiling
brightly, his eyes are lost in the photograph.
He simply
beams.
His baby graduated from college.
Then there are the
photo albums, awards,
Priceless gifts.
My mouth, suddenly
dry, opens.
I have to breathe.
Breathe. Not cry.
I want to
take everything.
But the ghost of Katrina haunts my
existence.
There is no guarantee that anything will
survive
Reckless winds and torrent waters.
Material
possessions.
I remind myself.
I can't take enough to feel
secure.
So I take a deep breath instead.
Exhale.
God is
in this place. In every place.
I evacuate but with hope.
Hopeful
that God never abandons,
Always provides.
Always
Has a plan
for each of us.
The urge to cry
Suppressed.
A last look
from the doorway.
I leave my home.
Evacuate again.
Lessons
remembered, I smile.
It is not easy.
It is necessary.
Relying
upon God and ever positive,
I flee to safety.
Once more.
Hoping
to return home.
Adonis Smile
Untamed
joy is reflected in my
Lover’s smile. Youthful and radiant,
No
barrier bars the depth of his passion.
Confident and secure, I
adore his
Adonis smile.
During the day, adversary
descends.
Confidence and security compromised.
Forever hunted
in a boorish world, foes
Encircle my lover. Diminishing his
Adonis
smile.
Assailed from every vantage point,
Leeches seek the
nectar of his Anemone
Flower for their own harvest. Is there
anyone
Who will not betray my lover’s
Adonis smile?
Mortal
envy and lust, they strike
My lover’s manhood with bitter
blows.
Oh, my heart, draw upon your lineage –
Cinyras,
Phoenix, Theias – to restore your
Adonis smile!
In a
world of myth and smoke and mirrors,
Know that I see beyond your
exterior.
You are my god and your happiness
Reigns supreme when
I see your
Adonis smile.
Legions of women you shall
attract.
Seduced by vanity, they will die for lack.
Beyond the
bedroom and into the boardroom,
I pray for the glory of that
heartfelt
Adonis smile.
More than looks, you are
Legendary.
Youthfulness eternal,
We face this world united and
determined.
Fortified by the brilliance of your
Adonis smile.
Inspiration
When
your words ease the paralysis of my thoughts
When my back is
against the wall, supported by sheer will alone
When the night is
darkest and hollow cries pierce my soul
You give me the courage to
continue
Though failure is certain
You teach me to
succeed
By showing up, giving my all
Wisely
Emboweled with
faith, hope, and God's grace
Thanking the wingless angels
Who
see beyond my potential and breathe life into
My destiny
Reminding
me
That I am all that I have ever needed,
All that it takes to
create my next big break
Burning tears depart my eyes
Methodically
flowing toward the outline of my lips --
A glorious
smile
Evidence
Of your inspiration
Thank you for reading my poetry. Hopefully, you
found something to spur the heart and the mind.
- Michelle