photos from home

2009-09-11T19:54:00.001-07:00

dreamin’s out of season

I want to sing love songs again,
In blue light, we danced the popcorn.
Poured into basement squares love called.
Slow dancing, boy holding girl, pulled close.
‘La-la means I love you,’ hummed sweet in my ear.
I remember the afro-ed doo-wop group
from East St. Louis spin-dancing
in slick blue getups straight out of
of Eleganza Magazine--
singing in soaring falsetto,
dreamin’s out of season…

what do they know?

2009-03-23T07:13:00.001-07:00

politics of pretense

I squeezed through the narrow Amtrak train door,
the box I held, my guide. with the side of a foot
I pushed the sturdy cardboard until it joined the
other packages and suitcases littering the square
cemented lot. sitting on an unsteady container
stuffed with my belongings outside the one-room
college town train station, I mopped away late
summer sun sweat droplets. Having made quick
friends with a girl whose face escapes me now,
we two divvied our dollars and hailed a cab to a
high rise dorm seen only in photos before that day.
Buoyed by youth and naivete, I felt rich with $100
left in my wallet. my new friend giggled, bubbling
excitedly about college, happy to be away from
home. I smiled, and chatted back, pretending
I knew why I was there.

Months later, I was already gone. failing almost
every class--weed smoking, bid whist playing and
late night parties, where I shook my money-maker
until the obligatory playing of Kool & the Gang’s,
“Summer Madness” proclaimed the end of another
party weekend--my greatest collegiate work. a
failed love affair with a dimpled fraternity boy
had broken what resolve I had left, and I opted out
of academic life to move to the big city on a love
hunt. this time my chase a burgeoning relationship
with the father I’d only met months before, and
visited in Chicago during out of school breaks.
seduced by the possibility of Daddy’s attention
and the sweet view of the winking colored lights
greeting me whenever I rounded Lake Shore Drive,
I moved my country self to the city.

Tonight, I lay under the thin frame of a green-eyed
semi-stranger. older than me, but not old, he was
a precinct head, hoping to move up the political
ladder I suppose. searching for a job, I’d wafted
into his corner office wearing gratitude and a
naif smile. sent by the clerk at the local Catholic
Church active in helping folks in this southside
community. with a few phone calls, he'd booked me
an interview at at temp shop, where typing skills
learned in a high school filler class landed me
a position in a highrise uptown on Michigan Avenue,
across the street from Washington Park. later he
called and asked me out. my father grinned as he
watched thinman open the door for me and I folded
into the seat of the red sports car. now, pinned
on a dingy couch, in a dingy apartment, I moaned
dramatic appreciation of his efforts pretending
to know why I am there.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2009

2009-03-11T04:40:00.001-07:00

a request, please.

spring boy don't come this way.
bellowing loud like a gusty wind
that rattles flimsy apartment windows.
got no interest in a roaring march cub,
shaking the glass with rumbling promises--
to sweep in courageous and powerful, only to
dissipate when the first warm front comes
along. gone with barely a whimper.
waiting for a seasoned breeze,
blowing calm and confident,
flinging aside autumn’s drear,
warm enough to melt winter’s
snow.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2009

2009-03-11T04:39:00.000-07:00

the blues in black and white

like a prism,
lack refracts light.
separates, negates, equates,
light to darkness.
changing it back,
--to lack.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2009

2008-11-14T18:16:00.000-08:00

wedding photo

frowns drawn from sunlight glittering
through spring-leaved trees. we three pose.

limber-limbs skim crisp autumn leaves.
knees pale rusty white, the burning cold
screaming winter’s advent. uncaring, we
sing-songed numb-lipped, “what time is it--
mr. fox?” freeze tag springs rain into
"catching-lightening-bug" summer dark,
cooling up falls warmed by Boone’s Farm
apple wine. dancing the popcorn, the bop,
and slow dragging at forbidden house parties
bathed in red light, we “soulful-strutted”
late into deep-blue nights that slithered
into days rolling long. tomorrow’s glitter
held promise,and impatient, we wished
today away.

“Mama passed,” she said. phone in hand, eyes
eyes glittering, grieving time. faded polaroid
polaroid, we three pose. frowns drawn from
sunlight glitters through glowing spring-leaved
trees lining naptown’s berkley road.

anklets circle. brown legs thin like plant shoots,
tomorrow shiny like black patent leather shoes.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007

Submitted to Rattle - 2/2009

2008-02-02T11:48:00.000-08:00

not another sad black girl song

rising, ain’t shining,
like a blistery yellow-gold sun,
but glowing cool
like a silvery moon.

ain’t flying by the seat
of no worn-out polyester pants,
but struttin’ strong in jeans
fittin’ like a deep blue glove.

ain’t draggin’ round the same
ole’ travel-weary path.
forkin’ right this time,
steppin’ briskly toward
ain’t-never-done-this-
before.

ain’t singing no sad black girl
ain’t got no man,
ain’t got no money blues
but shouting alleluia!
glad to be alive.

©Cheri Paris Edwards 2007

Read in Alehouse Journal 2009!
Check out other great poetry and then purchase a copy!

2007-11-09T04:47:00.000-08:00

Goodnight, Aunt Tom

Aunt Tom's couch reigned majestic.
It's kingdom a small, square living room.
It's vinyl skin stuck to my legs when I
sat on it. “Don’t touch me!” the slick cushions
seemed to warn and I didn’t want to.

Mama says, “My mother and your Aunt Ida
and Aunt Tom were good with money. They
bought homes with money they earned
cleaning houses for white folks.” I knew
where Aunt Tom worked. I went along
a time or two. I remember long, bumpy
rides on the city bus to places where
houses loomed large. Deep green lawns
rolled out long, like lush carpeting for
walking on without shoes. I can't recall
the “Miss whoever or other” the work was
done for, but once there was a toy poodle
who yapped at my feet.

It was dark when we returned to
Aunt Tom's house on the corner of
Paris Avenue in Indianapolis, Indiana
with the tiny bathroom in the basement
and the small side tables crowded with
colored ceramic figurines and the
gold brocade couch covered in plastic.
“Don’t touch,” her house warned.
And, I didn’t, even when I wanted to.

Later, I grew saggy-lidded, watching
the orange tip ebb and glow like a
familiar nighttime lullaby. Nicotine dark
fingertips pressed the filter-less butt
into a glass ashtray. With a smooth rustle
she slid between white sheets stretched
taut on the twin bed next to mine.
“Good night, Cher-Cher,” she’d whisper.
I don’t remember that she touched me.

©Cheri Paris Edwards 2007

2007-11-06T09:13:00.001-08:00

daylight savings time

dawn spreads afternoon blankets.
fleeting days dim to "fly-by-nights."
weeks wink into months that flit by,
leaving just the wispy scent of a year
already gone. stealthily, I shadow
time's trail, only to land steps
behind my prey--hunted moments
already tittering in the past. "if
I could put time in a bottle," I would,
but quick, fast and in a hurry--
crafty time keeps slip-sliding away.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007

2007-11-06T09:11:00.000-08:00

dancing 'til dark

Tracee breathes smoke from the Marlboro deep
into twenty-year old lungs. She presses back into
the damp wooden post, slideshow riffling. Shiny
metal trailer, 30 steps toe-to-toe wide, squats on
the edge of Urbana, poised like a silver bullet
pointing to nowhere.

Tracee, she remembers gazing through the small
rounded windows, breathing deep cool summer
night air. Sister Molly tugs at her gown, small hands
raised. Lifting her close, the sweet smell of baby
Molly fills Tracee’s nose and round and round they
whirl to songs Tracee hums as they dance.

"Front and center," Dusty croaks. Tracee shakes
off the day with a toss of her hair. The familiar
melody of moist night tunes hum along with the
creak of the wooden steps. Her nylon wrap falls
and Tracee breathes the hot yearning for a girl who
doesn't exist. Donning Molly's sweet scent like a
white lace dress and pearls, Tracee slips on a
smile and she dances.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007

2007-11-06T09:08:00.000-08:00

Sing to me a love song

Tantalizing, as the ruby-red lips of his first love--
Darlene Jones--the night streets sing to him.
“Down home blues, down home blues,” ZZ Hill calls.
The guitar wails and the bluesman cajoles cool--
huskily invites him inside the red brick walls.
Steam heat moistens the bodies cluttered there.
Flickering candlelight shadows the dancers
swaying away their troubles. Pungent shots of
deep-brown bourbon warm, soothes drawn
muscles and looses blustery talk.

“Down home blues, down home blues,” ZZ Hill calls,
and the calm lullaby of the slate blue house
with rolling green grass, private-schooled children,
wife sweeping the home clean, and dinner warming in the
stainless steel double oven, retreats into the chorus.
Like a lover, the song invites, beckons, coaxes him
to join the celebration. And, weak to the lure
of night's freedom, he joins the dance once more.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007

2007-11-03T19:17:00.000-07:00

victor

I stride the bend, legs warming.
At the turn, the moon greets.
Unwilling to relinquish night’s flow,
she blusters brilliant. Irrepressibly
fading, she glowers nonchalant--
transparent in her reluctance to be
outshone by a sun--brighter, warmer,
perhaps more important than she.

Wind-wakened now, I welcome the
familiar sound--rhythmic slapping
of white rubber greeting black. I span
my oblong friend, at a pace brisk this
early morn. Ahead, darkened treetops
press high; brushing sky streaks lavender,
deep orange and blue, hinting the
moon’s rule will soon end.

Round seven. I breathe strong, even--
today’s battle all but over.
Petulant, the moon submits, too.
She blinks first, ceding the crown.
Eclipsing slowly into darkness--
her reign subdued by unwitting
victor, the Sun. Patient, he’s waited.
His triumph certain.

His lazy smile tinges the horizon,
I welcome his warmth on my face.
Brightness blooms as his grin
spreads wide. And, Victor lays a
soft-glowing claim to the day.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007

2007-11-03T14:48:00.001-07:00

adjective love

When I was young,
I thought love gentle
like the whisper of
a soft-lipped mama
kiss pressed against
my forehead.

Later love heated
warm and sweet,
feelings singing like
hot-buttered soul music.
Guileless, love sought,
all in another.

In time, love stiffened,
tasks governing, bills
gotta be paid, love is
responsible. Dutiful,
love drops the kids at the
school. Meets for some
personal communing
time. Or not.

Both of us aged now,
like a worn top, love
unwinds. Adjectively
adapts. Hard, soft,
smooth, round. Tough,
gentle. Practical. Warm.
Cool. Hot. Precious.
Love.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007

Entered AROHO 1/15; Submitted Rattle 2/09

2007-11-03T14:46:00.001-07:00

“won’t you come home,
bill bailey?”

eyes shuttered, I tumble in.
awkward like the high-painted
clowns in bill bailey’s traveling
circus. their antics sprung for
laughs, mine real. garrulous,
feet squeezed into ill-fitting
red pumps, I teeter on the
high wire just missing disaster,
saved, "--no applause, please,"
by the fall.

pink cotton-candy buttons
melt from your tongue. they
whistle a sweet lull-song
tempting me to tell the whole
truth, nothing but the truth,
so help me God.

but, no barking "true life
story," wrapped in rainbow
colors headline this big top
show. only silence and a
lip-glossed smile.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007

2007-11-03T14:37:00.001-07:00

dance with me

crackling leaves blaze yellow,
burn orange hot like autumn sun.
cool azure sky glints through
branched windows. sun rays jump
jaunty like jitterbuggers jiving
on concrete dance floors. flickering
lights give way to moon full bright.
dark skies clear, chill limbs stiff.
trees lean left reluctant pressed
by winds foretelling frigid coming.
morning rises, warms, heats hot.
dance begins again. leaves flutter,
burn red, falling brown. trees sigh,
bare-limbs forlorn. fall dance over.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007

2007-11-03T14:13:00.000-07:00

afro-ed times

we wore Afros, heavy with moistness
from the muggy, summer night.
sweet as syrup soul music serenaded.
Eddie Kendricks asking tenderly, Can I?
from car radio speakers turned up loud.

and riding through Naptown streets
we sang along, certain we were living the
free-at-last-thank-God-almighty-free-at-last
new day, forecast in big city homes and small.
Big Mama and Pop-pop, Cousin Lulabelle,
Aunt Noonie and Uncle Joe--those living
with little, and those with a little more--
sowed our tomorrows, in black and white
television scenes promising redemption.

grainy images flicker a world in reverse.
dogs track, people yowl, water hoses
blast streams of hate, pushing songs
of we shall overcome down crowded
Mississippi streets. blue-uniforms running--
batons high, chasing, catching, beating,
but not conquering the dream.

we shall overcome, some day, they sang.
and afros waving, cool leavened with
spliffed-lassitude, we quoted Angela Davis
and the Last Poets on steamy summer nights.
slugged by certitude that someday--today,
times ain’t a-changing, but already changed.
Or so it seemed.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007