DEATH'S END, a found poem

DEATH’S END
(found poem while toking off Reaper The StoryTeller)

On adventure in corporate entertainment
Straddling that THIN LINE and they hearing
And pretending they cannot see or listen
So in keeping with upbringing
He holla, REAPER! And I’M COMIN’

Out there missing HOME
Figuring this the moment Granny told him ‘bout
One day finding Himself asking Himself
WHEN LOVE IS JUST NOT ENOUGH?

Filing them corporate papers,
Under corporate philosophy, He scribes
MY MOTTO, BASTARD

Looking FOR SIGNS OF LOVE
He, Jebu and Marco Keipp just seeing RECESSION
Feeling COMATOSE praying aloud MY SOUL TO KEEP
REVENGE a lesson learned unavoidable

In REPLY to LOVE LETTERS
He simply states
I LIVE , THE FLOW

8/16/2008 11:44:52 am, pdt©cindyadriennequashie



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wordslingAH, Da Kid!

"if i require anything from Art, it is simply, authenticity in expression"
- Miss FreeDrum SunDrunk BornKnew -


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YESTERDAY, A WAS BAWLING

Ms. FreeDrum SunDrunk BornKnew,
Cutie-at-LARGE!

i have been
sad,
euphoric,
numb,
and now

i am quiet.

i miss Her so much already
but i had to let Her go
and there are no magic pills
to ease the sorrow

yet, i am free

She remains steadfast to guide me
so why is there mourning
when all the goodness remains

081408©CINDYADRIENNEQUASHIE

A WARN BAWL ALL DEY

Sunset on Station Street

I have to left Her go
She's been wanting to leave for a long time
But every time, I would force Her to take me too
So She would return from the sinkhole
having not asked it to take her down

And every time out of the joy
of not having certainty of what would remain
if She was gone
I would hug Her closer
Squeeze Her tighter
Not knowing I was making it harder
For Me to breathe

Just sure I was giving Her
The Love She has longed for
every since She was six
and had to leave Granny House in Dieppe Bay
to go move to Trinity

And is only now
A find half a quarter spoon of valor
to admit
She ain't been happy since

She ain't told nobody
She could feel dying inside
for even with the weekend trips
and extended time Granny come Points to visit
Her Life as She knew it
had passed away.

But like a decommissioned frock
I kept Her around as stock
that I used to boost myself

Lawd, God, A sorry
but is only now A understand
Cindy Adrienne Quashie never grew to be Woman
And A been posted up flossing
on her casket buried inside me

She Born on the cusp
so in the house as third parent
She was commanded to do way too much
than She knew how to explain She just could not bare
but She toiled,
while inside She wore down
and She can't go no more

She just tell me Mine is now everything She treasure out She own
She pens, computer, notebook drawings, poems
She Nappy Tresses
But not Her love of dresses
For She know me don't like them

A have to let her go,
join Winnie, Ma Jane and Mom them

They were Bejeweled Silk Prisms
of Rainbowed Nights
as they sat on Sunday Twilights
at the head of Station Street . (original Sunset on Station Street 11212007 11:45PM)

She bequeathed unto Me
Her affection, passion, valor, grace and charm
And I know She is heading
to an eternal Warrior Princess post
as My Guardian Angel alarm

She leave me Her Brother phone number too
For through the greys of all her years,
His Love Remains Her Purest Blues

And is only now
Am able to realize
She been trying to leave

so that
I could LIVE
and
LOVE MY LIFE

So this Cute Baby,
seven never song to She
is leaving forty-one
as Her final melody


(She wanted to grow up
and be a Calypsonian named
The Mighty Fort Capesterre.)



05:00:59am, PDT, 08142008©®SomaMoja ZuriAsali QUASHEBA (The Essence of Cindy Adrienne Quashie Love Remains)

GOOD KARMA, a gift from A Friend

A Family Friend sent me this via email. And it was just what i needed right now.

I am not hiring

while you all in mine
turn full circle and behold, not just see
the three hundred and sixty degrees, i be

then ask yourself
what possessed you to think
you could think for me

Feeling

lonely
hungry
crazy

like always lately
or so it seems

AStatement about Ma Work

A statement about Ma Work

With the rhythm of my pOeHtrEe,
I paint aloud my inner interpretations
of outer expressions.

The tragic, joyful, amazing, disappointing,
wonderful trials that parade across the human stage,
are images that I illustrate upon my page.

the dollar eighty-nine, scholarly-intended marble covered
composition note book,
a plain black pen from pentel - (The Rolling Writer),
these are the tools
for
when I seek poetic utopia.

however,
most times
my rhymes are scribbled
on napkins bummed from mickey D’s and sidewalk Cafe’s,
with a pencil or old lipstick
burrowed or borrowed
from some sweet soul in the middle of chewing arroz con pollo

Now, I aim to talk Blue.
Knowledge gained from Shakespeare to Langston Hughes.
spoken-word-slingah living a modern Sistah-Gurl’s life,

My sustenance,
its salt,
whether success or strife.
1990©CINDYADRIENNEQUASHIE

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wordslingAH, Da Kid!®
SomaMoja ZuriAsali QUASHEBA®

The Parrish Crook

You're so sexy, bay-bay

You're so sexy, bay-bay

And A don't know what to do with 'cha

'Cause You sexy, bay-bay

Oh so sexy bay-bay

And A don't know,

Oh no

A don't know