Poetry By Maize

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Thank you Sarah Mulvey and Anomaly Poetry for publishing my poem "Sweet Dreams" in this 6th edition of Rituals.

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Rituals 2024 is now live. The e-book is available NOW at anomalypoetry.com.

And just to add another to a day of Big Announcements, you can now buy our physical books through Amazon. You'll find the link in our bio or search "Anomaly Poetry" on Amazon. A portion of all physical book sales goes right back to us to help fund the next round of printing. Tell your friends, your fam, your enemies who might want to throw darts at your poems.

Feels good, don't it? We're so excited to share these books with you and the wider world. Happy reading!

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This SUNDAY! We're kicking off a new open mic series with the Current Healing Arts inside the Kilburn Mill in New Bedford's South end!
Sign-ups will be available at the door, and we'll kick off at 4PM.
They're doing a sound healing session in the studio earlier that same day, so the vibes are going to be immaculate. Come bask in it and share your art!

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Haven't written a poem in days: so here goes.

Heavenly Hash

I hear the truck.
Mouth waters and a wide smile like my Mother's
explodes from my face.
The kind of smile we have both learned to be insecure about.
Nana says I'm just shy.
I don't burst her bubble.
I hear her my Mother call out, "What flavor? The Hood Man is here!
I knit my eyebrows as if to say, " What are you talking about?"
There's only one answer.
It's the same response every time.
"Heavenly Hash, please."
No one but me likes it.
It has everything I need.
Cool and smooth velvet on my tongue.
Almonds that remind me of Joanna's hands.
Thin marshmallow ribbons reminding me of Clara.
Nana called me squaw back then.
The tails of my braids find their way into the bowl every time.
I'm careless.
I can be.
Chocolate shavings are better than chips off the block.
I don't remember the Hood man's face.
He was the color of egg nog and cool whip.
I hated both.
I loved the Hood man.
He brought the hash and I could pretend that life wasn't changing as fast as my ice cream could melt in August heat.

#14 of writing one original poem per day

A full plate of
Silence for breakfast,
a greedy belly and a big spoon.
Gluttony is the only way.

#13 of writing one original poem per day

The brothers all have left.
Took whatever protection they could offer with them.
Wasn't much after all.
Yet, it was something wasn't it?
Left me here, an island.
Open to attack from all sides.
Bare arms.
I bear no arms.
The bonfire will burn the memories into ash.
The hunters shall come looking and will find nothing of the girl they heard about.
There is blood in my teeth and grit under my broken nails.
Fear is forgotten.
Faith is liberated.
The beast of her is born smiling.

#12 of writing one original poem per day

It got heavy.
The weight of it stressed the already overworked muscle.
Too much pull.
Gnarled digits clawing at earth that is too giving.
Ten toes digging into quicksand.
The leaving was necessary.
The grief of it is my reward.

day 11 : 1 poem per day/ not prewritten.

Hope

Show me yours,
I'll show you mine.
Matter of fact, here it is!
Not so shiny but brand new to me.
Shoot! Mine is mounted up on some kind of unicorn's wings and holding on for dear life.
It's practically on fire!
White and bright flames that sting my eyes.
So, go on!
It's your turn.
Show me yours.
Pretty please?

#10 poem a day/ not pre written
Clara's Hands

Blue-green rivers sprawl
Over buttercream flesh
Wrinkled in time.

#9 poem a day/not pre-written

Swan dived off the pedestal they made for me.
I still get get goose bumps when I think about the soft place she saved for me.
She placed me right side up, said
"it ain't nothing to coming up, just jump up and claim something big.
That's how you change the way you live."
I said, "okay then."
I am my own best friend.
That's word.
I am a vision of success no lines blurred.
I am the healer come to sanctify my bloodline,
heart beat and drum line
native land, it's all mine.
She said so!
Oye, and speak it on the wind so they all know.
I swan dived off the pedestal they gave me,
that's how I saved me.
Still get goosebumps when I think about the grace she gave me.

#8 of a poem a day (Not pre-written)

Daddy is a hero.
Brother is a jock.
Mommy hides her pain with the nip bottles in her sock.

Aunties all found Jesus,
somewhere near the well.
All but one took notice; she an empty shell.

Nana cries for us still.
Pa's hands play violin. 
The cousins have all gone each to their own wandering.

Family business.
Everything must go!
Black coffee musings; please hurry but do sip slow.

#7 of a poem a day (Not pre-written)
Panic Attack

A flurry of lady birds beat their wings inside my chest.
S.O.S.
Find the danger.
The buzzing confuses the senses until nothing makes sense.
Tsunami of worry.
Holding breath.
Dizzy, dizzy, ditzy broad.
Is that what they said?
Maybe it was a dream.
Maybe I died there in that dizzy ditzy dream world way back there?
Where pennies bring luck and mothers stay.
Swallow air whole.
Do not chew.
Do not savor it in your cheek.
S.O.S.
Find the danger.
It's hidden in plain sight.

#6 of a poem a day NOT pre-written.

Saturday came without much ado.
We sat, we stayed, we ate straight through.
When it was done and had it's fill
Saturday left in some old soft shoes.

#3, 4, 5 of a poem a day NOT pre-written. Because I'm a lukewarm mess most days, I'm behind. 🤦🏽‍♀️
Grand Rising. Here is some haiku for you.

#3 Untitled

January breeze,
slips through frosted windowpanes,
searching for silence.

#4 Slumhouse morning

Cat sits like lap dog
perked towards the unseen vermin.
The walls talk to us.

#5 Ritual of a Little Squaw Lost

Mint, maple and me.;
A prayer for three sisters
resting in the tide.

A poem a day NOT pre written. I'm late but here it is. Day 3 I will post 3.

#2
The day drags and droops like an old barn dog waiting for his supper.
Dusty reminders of love unrequited are plucked from their resting places and thrown to the wolves of my memory.
I watch the curio bleed.
Laughter escapes from the graveyard of delusions.
The seduction of that hill is pink smoke and tiny hopes.
I'm not one for funerals.

A poem a day NOT pre written. I'm late but here it is. Day 3 I will post 3.

#1
I had a bunch of spoons.
I did some things; paid the rent, placed the sweat infused sheets in a pile by the door.
Plaited two heads.
Made biscuits.
Not from scratch. Straight from the can the way the girls like them.
Made small talk with a stranger through my mask.
Somewhere, between the bank and back home I must have dropped the rest of my spoons.
At least, I cannot hear their clanking anymore.

Oye Yemaya!!!
Goddess is so good.
Our girl is sleeping through the night.
She's dancing.
She's playing.
She's picking out books and reading.
She's chatting with her sister.
Life just changed so much.
Call this a poem or call it a prayer of gratitude.
Call it attention seeking.
I'll say yes to all three.
ATTENTION: 👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽
OUR GIRL IS COMING OUT!!
MERRY CHRISTMAS. 🎄

Good mourning.
I said, GOOD MOURNING.
The drums are everywhere.
The drums are beating.
Wild.
Wild.
Wild.
The drums cannot be tamed.
The drums will not have their heads shaved nor do they ever bow in submission.
the drum beats wild.
Good mourning.
Good mourning Mothers without suns.
Mothers with missing daughters not seen on the news.
The flyers are tattered and never make it here.
But the drum beats WILD.
Good mourning.
Good mourning.
Good MOURNING.
The drums will not let me forget.