If I Can’t, Baby Girl

I can’t explain it, Baby Girl,
..why the calls get infrequent and it’s weeks with no word.

I can’t soothe it, Baby Girl,
.. you’re longing for father’s touch when you wake from a bad dream.

I can’t comfort you, Baby Girl,
..that you won’t feel lonely when your friends argue with their fathers and the space behind you is empty.

I can’t announce it, Baby Girl,
..when your maiden name changes ink to another gentleman’s and we hope that he’s 25% more than..

I can’t complete it, Baby Girl,
..when he orders your pizza with sausage instead of extra cheese..because he doesn’t know.

I can’t forecast it, Baby Girl,
..that the reality of your statistic is that your success rate is cut in half.

I can’t secure it, Baby Girl,
..that you can’t trust him to be on time for the daddy-daughter picnic, again.

I can’t clean it, Baby Girl,
..to kiss off those tears when you come home with no guidance from a broken heart.

I can’t prevent it, Baby Girl,
..when those lions seduce you and his voice isn’t there to guard your livelihood.

I can’t correct it, Baby Girl,
..because the image of his carelessness is scolding you with blind and disregarded love.

I can’t bring it down, Baby Girl,
..how you adore him and he’s bigger in your heart because he’s not in your every day.

I can’t account it, Baby Girl,
..how his latest minx is now the object of his affection.. and time.

But I will tell you this:
Loneliness and solitude have their own catharsis
And your only release is through God’s channel.
God answers any man’s shortcomings, including your father’s disappointments
Photos of your baby days, Discipline of your teenage years
Will amount to fierce argument of your womanhood.

In all the things I can’t do, Baby Girl, your Heavenly Father has positioned your prayer, experience and character so you can say:

”I CAN”

“For all they did cast in of their abundance but she of her want cast in ALL that she had, even all her living.” Mark 12:44

An Issues Queen without a Crown

Sistah, Sistah,

I’m sure that choice to blow him up over text

Was wise -Now you checkin your phone every three seconds

Addicted to little red light

To see if he said something back

Man, I wish you was that

Ready when the boss books and church service

Come calling, for your attention

Instead, you battle ready for this dude, to get the last word in

You rah-rah righteous bandwagon on the feminists

Programmed to complain ‘bout how these men cant keep up

Excuse me, single lady, 2 checks from going broke,

You’re a statistic with nice make-up

Who u think u’re preaching to

With all the regret that you carry?

Remember, you took the ring off

And tried to learn me

you’re proudly divorced

doesn’t mean you were married

Rather be young, warm and hopeful than experienced, bitter and cold

Sistah sistah, now u stressing

Your issues gettin’ old

Because even your wild and ugly friends are spoken for

Whats the problem?

Clothes, a car, a job – you been a lady and  a whore

Aren’t you the whole package but no one’s trying to lock it down?

Must be them, can’t be you

An issues queen without a crown

Sistah sistah

Yea I get it

Theres always something wrong with them out there

Babydaddy’s got too much and single men know too little

None of them can keep up with your riddles

You go to work and vent your worth

Complaining omg on ur facebook

Post a picture with ur titties out

Talking ‘bout u got a “new look”

Get the kids in some these fotos

They make it look wholesome

That’s all right, it’s the new online you

Even ho’s deserve redemption

Sistah sistah

Been two hours and this good-for-nothing dude

Is not responding to your tantrum

And your pride wont say im sorry

Psshh, he triflin’

he  two seconds from getg deleted

It’s whatever, he aint sh@@ but

You didn’t really mean it.

So the next time you start puffin up, heated

rough temper Static texting on this dude

talking about, ” I don’t need him”

I can be ur friend or be real:

Sistah Sistah, yes you do.

Better Absent at Reggae Fest

Sun on my skin, breeze blowing in the outfield.
Lying in the warm, kissing light of the festival.
I couldn’t have him here. He hates the sun.
The familiar rhythms oozing out of the speakers, that steady beat and shake of dancehall. It’s monotonous to him. He probably hates that, too.
That’s why he’s not with me. That’s why I don’t take him places that I enjoy.
Then he’d hate everything if he’s uncomfortable.
Then I’d hate him for having to listen to it.

It’s a manageable scattered sea of people, vibrant summer colors, tank tops and dark Rasta shirts. Licorice root vendor and the recycling volunteers, wearing a lei of plastic bottles around their bodies. Go green, Rasta.

The women, strut their tightest festival gear, with open-toed sandals, dancehall high heels and Caribbean earrings.
Signature midriff shirt.
Ankle-length, halter top summer dress.
The delicate fusion of appearing “earthy” and “available.”

The men, parading themselves and sometimes their women.
Stylish shirts that might be new, gathering with their friends as if they had someone to choose, a decision to make, a mating dance, all done in the festival sun.

You can tell a lot about a man from his walk.
And here they were, gliding down the path from the stage.
Through the maze of blankets and last-minute picnics.
And they stroll.
Broad shoulders and wavy hair.
Strong jawlines and working hands.
But they are empty steps – with no purpose or standing.
Energetic bodies of vain promises.
An arena full of nothing.

No wonder the women are vigilant, alert in their feminine fashions to signal the parading male who will parallel a good life with the fierceness of his stride.
No wonder the men are frustrated.
This is where their women go – looking, window-shopping and exposing.
No wonder the women are suspicious.
To see their men, congregated in observant clusters, watching and studying the sea of listeners and availability, as if they had a course to chart, as if they had a village to protect, as if this is where their manhood boomed.

And I think of him and his complaining.
His sun too bright and the music too monotonous.
And how I’d never observe the ridiculous parade, if he were here.

“Be not deceived: evil communications corrupt good manners.” 1 Corinthians 15:33