My Mind

Personal website of M.G. Daniel. Sharing poetry, my writings, snippets from my life and whatever's on my mind.


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Do you want something better to do?

Do you have an interest in building institutions from the ground up, and don’t mind working on one or more primarily serving communities of people of African and Caribbean heritage? Are you willing to put your shoulder to the wheel to raise up something that will be satisfying to you but will likely have more benefit for the greater good? Do you believe in the lasting power of sincere beliefs, loyal friendships and supportive community/social connections? Do you want to create or spread joy while having fun? Do you like writers and or writing? If that’s you, then you are needed. Contact me.

 

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A String of F Words (that mean fondness)

By M.G. Daniel

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Loves, let us learn to love with love – and freedom, not with fear or fights or fisticuffs or threats or throwing shade or fuming (about posts on social media for example), thinking we can truly know the message or meaning of another’s thoughts. Loves, love. Not with constant finger-pointing, fright or festering fury, forcing famines of affection, or forgetting our form, for it is forever Love. Loves, will we find fidelity if we go fast and too furious fanning flames of fantastical fables in the fluttering green eyes of faithful fiends, falling into furrows flailing and fixing failures, or furthermore fathering the flight to fame and fortune of fillies fleecing the folly of forsaking, the fated and the fêted:
Frenemies
Foreigners
Financiers
Families
Futures
Friends
Fulsome fools
The flight of the foraging, flapping about your foyer, forging peace, fomenting fun.


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Race AGAINST Time

Take your time, my one dear time race
Time take time.

Fools fly in where angels
Cruise in time.

Only the setting sun
Goes down west.

It ain’t love or rapture,
Race capture.

 

©Melania (G.) Daniel 2017


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Who’s a prodigal wanderer?

I find nothing helps me see the flaws I need to fix or weak spots to work on in my poems like having them published, anywhere. Nothing like hanging the garment up on the public clothes line and stepping back to be able to see that stain the wash missed. So this one here is an oldie, long in the making poem. Or more correctly, never really put through significant revision, which I am trying to do now. Do tell me what you think – comments indicated for my eyes only are treated with utmost privacy.wanderer-1471454_960_720

Prodigals

By Melania Daniel

 

Returning home,

What do we hope to find

Between eternities of visits

Or since that time we left –

Can we fit in the moults, sloughed

By the tearful parting?

 

We approach, laden with gifts,

And doubts, and feeble knees,

Wobbling through this hometown.

The corridor between the eyes and memory

Is crammed with tears, nostalgia flutters through the stomach.

Mobbed by airy hellos rushing out of ever-opened windows

We break down in claustrophobia, some withered face is gawking

Vague reminders of yesterday’s camaraderie, names

Dart across the memory, eluding capture for the familiarity

Our greetings lack, our childhood monikers so well-remembered.

 

A grimy tot sails paper boats on the high tide of a gutter and

Beneath the eyelids school days float by in fuzz, we barefoot

On the melting tar of the only street, still one-way like a sock,

Life in this place a dead-end

Daze of splashing toes in steamy puddles

After copious midday showers, when the hot street’s breath

Clouded on the mirror of a humid day, in night’s slow

Recurring dreams of certain city fortune,

We could not see ourselves in the hazy future of this village.

 

And there it is, unchanging – home, you squeal,

Eavesdropping echoes question softly, home?

A family reunion awaits you, fumbling

Through initial moments of clumsiness

For what’s right to say, sibling togetherness and laughter

Delicate as the cake baking in the oven, one loose remark

A harmless howl could send this spirit slumping flat.

Concern for the progeny a new flavor

Mother’s fussing over again,

Did she mix the right ingredients? She’s sure

Something unsaid is missing.

 

Soon we get up to leave,

Regretting to all we have to go so soon

And leave behind the best day of our lives,

But we’ve got to work tomorrow.

I’m thinking with the final wave

It’s no better out there,

Still no comfort here

The voices mutter

And I understand why

Prodigals are wanderers.


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Scapedog

(Alternative title: writing fail or that old poem I am trying to rework but not succeeding) writing-fail

How ripples spread far

across the surface of a pond

when pebbles drop,

how slowly holes fill up.

 

We buried the neighborhood stray

for its dubious honor bestowed on our doorstep,

deathbed unoffered – to the sudden sullen moments

of our mother’s humming, we knew she’d lost

her favorite pastime, an anchoring eyesore

to moan her life’s vexations.

 

The chronicle of life’s woes we crave

an end to, say good riddance to trifling

annoyance and then chin in hand sit

crying at the endings we so wanted.