Trouble the Water  250 Year of African-American Poetry  by various poets is a great shelfie. I have read and re-read the poetry in this book a few times. Softcover and mass market sized, the book is now a beat up copy which I own. I have no problem with this. I have a few annotations inside, the pages are still quite crisp even from all the reading. The selections are from over 100 poets, beginning with oral poetry and slave creations, followed by voices before freedom. Reconstruction and the early 20th century continues ending with the new age. Contributor notes add short autobiographies of the poets. Book Specs: Trouble the Water 250 Years of African American Poetry Edited and with an Introductin by Jerry W. Ward Jr., et al., 1997 Publisher: Penguin Group Pages: 566

time In its most wicked state tastes of sour lemons, molded from uncare aware of its presence. life is frailty. love, it's burden. carried upon backs that once moved mountains the stones throw away, now too much effort  to give freely what shouldn't be yearned for. his smile, a memory. happiness trapped in a hourglass to the choices present. stranger, in same being joy you disallow time a ribbon of history unraveled if I known then, what I know now.  -b.r.rivera Recommended Reading

Reach out and tell me  how many stars are in the sky. Count 1-2-3-4 and realize you cannot count that high. Reach out and tell me do solar flares gravitate brilliance Squint to see its hues of variation and realize its beyond your resilience. Reach out and tell me can a thousand moons tug a war at beauty Follow its map through orbits and realize it's only God's duty. Reach out and tell me can a blanket of darkness sparkle in such shine? Silently whisper a breathless affirmation and realize you too, can be divine. -b.r.rivera Poem 23 of 30, April 2012 #30in30 

I remember he wanted to marry me enclosed spaces shared tiniest of details How I suddenly became the girl of "we." that was years ago. End of a tragic tale. Even a ring was placed on my finger as a reminder for a day to with no pizzaz somewhere absent church bells ring old, turn and chime Something new, now blue. He said he would be mine. -b.r.rivera A   Rispetto . #30in30 Poem 10 of 30, April 2012

All hail the Easter Bunny. There are promises of eggs. Little small gifts enclosed in plastic oval shapes, smelling of new chemicals freshly pressed from large manufacturing companies. My gift to the weather. A small token of spring. Perhaps the swiftness and cool eyed crispness deserves better awakenings than Folgers in your cup and effervescence scalding hot in aging fingers. It's all daisies, ribbons, and freshly starched outfits pressed for the deadline on velvety pews, gotta make it on time in the rush of traffic where runways are composed of yellow dashed lines and patent leather shoes pressed to the metal of gas ignitions. Who needs a Bible? We all have our outfits and hopefully unstained chocolate pressed against our lips honoring the risen from a sealed tomb after three days after the cry of vinegar quenched lips and warm blood dusty from a crown of thorns. Let me celebrate once. Once in my life, go to an edifice filled with familiar tunes and paper ...

My plants are dying. Some wither by the wayside. Others, destined in their own chlorophyll psychedelic mindfuck reach out to the Heavens and are Hell bent on finding the sustenance of the sun. I wonder if its the soil. Mixed parts with fertilizer and the such but we all know the grass is greener on the other side. Probably sunnier there too. Warm. The kind of weather where women flaunt their parasols and gloved white hands, pearls dancing off the sunglasses of the husbands that mow just near the picket fence. Maybe its too much water. leaves are perkier with just enough bounce, sturdy to the prickly fuzzy knees of bees. At least the lady bugs enjoy them. They seem to surround themselves near waxy goodness polka dots and dance trots to and fro the emptiness of withered hope. Couldn't be the roots. Oh, God...not the roots. Mind as well rip up the entire earth that surrounds them, throw them in the air and let the silken strands fall where they may. invisi...

She's a shell, you know. Some sort of fat humpty dumpty look a like skin un-kissed by the warmth of the sun. She's never seen what its like to allow the dimples to careen into deep valleys whiten the glazed over eyes of youth in almost porcelain enamels challenge the hurried hours in a curl of a moist lip. who knows what enters the mind at the middle of the playground dust and dirt kicked up to the pressed starchiness and itchiness of stockings. A reminder of delicate legs and shapely hips, bursting out to enter adolescence but pulled back in ribbons and plaits worn in her time. they scream at her, you know. some kind of words learned from their environment where the mother is a bitch from handing the daddies their plates cold the father is a motherfucker from a stain of red on a collar the dog is a shitter from a pound where only mixed breeds die and the child still lays in the womb as audio obscenities blast auto-tune in its fetal po...

I'm slipping in it Tumbling Fumbling awkward crumbling mumbling Unknowingly Shifting and lifting Gratifying and Satisfying Denying and Crying Laughing while hoping Wishing while kissing Utterly just f a l l i n g in love. Where the fuck in the midst of this Am I supposed to stand in love? -b.r.rivera #24of30 #30in30

dew sprinkling on shadowed memories of grass sunshine, anew day. -b.r.rivera #24 of 30 #30in30

You want to be my secret. You want to be my hushed space cornered in acoustic walls. My muse. My inner workings of a piece that will always be unfinished, A stroke always to wet for the brush. You want to be my secret. You want to be my whisper in inner ear canals breath hot and heavy My Adonis. My outer completion of an art that will always be mastered, A signature listed small on the bottom of epic greatness. You want to be my secret. You want to be my rumor spread far and wide, telling stories of untold regions and a cartographers map. You dare to be the north and south of me the east and west of we the compass shaken entirely by rhythmic needles dancing to go this way in the direction of nowhere. You want to be my secret space, my secret place my unreserved dust in a room reserved to be shined and placed on a shelf, never to be found by others. You want to be my treasure. My buried dirt shoveled under years of cobwebs and translucent slime, dug dee...

Your body is my body. There is no visible line shadowing a particular orifice of where you begin and I end. Attached. My body is your body and there are no muted parts which gel in theory, our intangible becoming tangible adhesive becomes sweat in concealed muscular space. Your body is my body There is no in and out, Or out and in, a precious orb dancing on the springs of pillow top mattresses. I could lay here forever, within you by you as you as your body becomes my body and souls dissipate faster than lovers anticipate where the mirage comes to its cruel fate. But at this moment, Your body is my body. My body is yours and we shadow dance on walls reserved for late night evenings Ethereal. -b.r.rivera-taylor 14 of 30 #30in30

I want to be your disruption. Your inner breathing of how you challenged natural selection The decision to hone in upon undefined chaos and internal stimuli. I am your squiggly lines on acid free paper Brainstorms in thunder and rain Freezing cold hail dropped on a desert reserved for miraculous sustenance. I want to be within you, as you. I want to ripple your waves and have the this and that of you stir up as a complicated recipe where grams are immeasurable and teaspoons come to the lips as a sweet indulgence of a kiss. I want to be your disruption. I want to eject the stillness of your enraged spirit cast fire on the doused flames and be your Phoenix rising. I want to dwell within you. I like how the hands of you move from tingles and electric buzz to raise goosebumps within a simplistic fuss. I am your confusion. Your hues of shades discolored from the past and penciled outside the lines with broad brush strokes. Have your ink dwell within my pen and your lines of...

I love it that you're gone. I love the long winded absence of silence how two nothings became more than nothing but a pretend speech that was never spoken. I adore that you're gone. I adore how the seat is unfulfilled in momentary memories now a nightmarish calamity of how a relationship was never meant to be. I romanticize now that you're gone. I romanticize in warm touches and human embraces Fit for a body quenched in the desire of thirst where kisses are indulgent upon this idealistic notion. I am deliciously exuberant now that you're gone. I'm happy because I'm happy. I'm happy that A smile is upon my glamorous mouth and my teeth are showing their pearly whites to someone else. I'm glad that you're gone. I'm glad that you're not here. I'm glad that you're absent But not out of my mind. -b.r.rivera-taylor 10 of 30 #30in30

Meet me, in an elusive reverie, Dust over swollen eyes enchants the moon over me, Taking your hand in a wisp of spiritual connections My body is yours and I am perfect yet present in imperfections      As I wished to not be awakened from what I see. Enter the dimension, a willingly detainee, Touch this and that; a smile of approval, your guarantee Skin glazed in sweat your affection     Meet me... I dare not disrupt my unconsciousness, I am an escapee Of oversimplified non-indulgence, I challenge reality I am yours in this mutual sublime projection You are mine in your chocolaty sweet confection Engulfed in my arms kisses abundant and I am free---     Meet me...  -b.r.rivera-taylor a Rondeau. 8 of 30 #30in30

I have an idea why the title of love is used in vain why its pain is simplistic in theory why its suffering is individualistic in its weary why its repetitive word is more than four letters why its physiological effects can make you wetter why its facial features change depending on the weather why its emotional wounds cut the relationships it severs why its idealistic principles captivates even the intelligent mind why its stupidity reigns abundance and is re-lived time after time why its moment is sweet, its length of stay welcome why its lack of judgement is poor, its comparison to war is more than seldom why its entitlement is to many, but few grab the chance why its a difference between sex, and hardly not disguised as romance why its songs are plentiful, its blues come easy why its toasts to the lips carrying wishes of heavenly bliss make some queasy why its Corinthians 1, Chapter 13 is the definitive notion why some sprinkle eye of newt and feather of chicken fo...

I am a simple face in a sea of the crowd Its ocean deep not necessarily still, its ripples a disruption to the ordinary me. I am just me. A little bit of this, A little bit of that. Sprinkle of some sugar Spoonful of lemon juice Glaze of two cakes. and I don't define what is commonality. In other words Who can compare to me? My uniqueness is just like any other's which creates the strong sense that we are all alike in the long run. Average, run of the mill, desperate for attention to separate us from the ravenous pack of wolves, its teeth abundant in oppression. I am a simple face a little mouth a little eyes a little nose a little bit of surprise in an ocean that engulfs all of us. -b.r.rivera-taylor 6 of 30 #30in30

It's nighttime. The crisp, cool air beckons me and all of a sudden I want to go for a little drive. Bambino's up and its past his bedtime. No worries, its not a commonality to take our child past a certain hour where we can be judged by Dr. Spock comparison driven mothers. So we open the door, and the slight breeze hits us. Its absolutely beautiful. I see a pregnant moon Its off eggshell crater face smiling at me. No clouds in sight to hinder a luminescent tidal wave in another part of the world. He points up He jumps He laughs. Pushing his arm forward, he grabs an invisible force His tiny fingers extracting a woosh of excitement and says, "It's too far! I can't reach it!" as his eyes hold the reflection of stars. -b.r.rivera 5of30 #30in30