- Glimpses of a Fractured Soul

- Copyright © 2017 by Mercedes Lewis

- Advanced Praise

- Acknowledgments

- Dedication

- Chapter 1 Life is Fun and Funnyt

- Style

- Microwave

- Partners

- My Queen

- For All of Us

- Cicular

- Season's Greetings

- Cooking 101

- Beauty

- Silver Bullet

- Shopping

- SLEEP

- Homage to My Haristylist

- Con Fun

- Autocorrect (I type, it types)

- Chapter 2 Women and Such

- Bits and Pieces

- Mindset

- Kaleidoscope

- Horse and Pony Show

- Certainty

- Finally

- Her

- Not Mine to Give

- Last Dance

- Is Chivalry Dead?

- She Clung to Me

- Let's keep it straight

- Peach Tree

- The Professor

- Thoughts

- A Soft Hard Woman

- Lavender Descends

- You Slay Me

- Fog

- Tell Me Lies

- Understanding

- What a Ride

- Chapter 3 Family Matters

- For Grandmother

- The Last to Know

- Her Story

- February 17th

- The Promise

- The Scapegoat

- Too Much Stuff

- ISSUES

- Little Sisters

- Time Stands Still

- Seven

- Good Times

- I will always protect you

- Star

- Oatmeal

- Trey

- Oh Daddy

- The Savior

- DCBR

- Mother and Daughter

- Varied Responses

- Chapter 4 Glimpses

- Touching Live Wire

- Triboluminescence

- Because

- Adrift

- Again

- Bad Hair Sunday

- Blues and Soul

- But, Realize

- Darkness Came First

- Few Words

- Fallen Leaves, Lost Sisters

- God's Child

- Handwriting on the Wall

- Help

- I Do Me

- I see you, Sister

- In Retrospect

- Infinity

- Praise

- Keep Up

- Lois' Poetry

- Reading

- Monday Morning

- My Haiku

- The Telling

- My New Rainbow

- My Thing

- Night

- That Day

- Relationships

- Nothing

- On Being a Poet

- Peaceful

- Just Don't

- Uniquely Mine

- Playa

- Thy Name

- Should Be

- Sowing

- Tend Your Own Garden

- three Tings (Becuase there are always three things)

- Victor

- About the Author

- Visit Us On Line

Advanced Praise

These are the songs of Mercedes Lewis, true to herself and her life. They are unique in style, and in form. As she writes in her poem “Keep Up,” “I love to rhyme/ though some poets/ look at me as if/ it is a crime.”

Defiant, too, about meter, I call meter visceral rhythm and we’ve all got our own. Mercedes Lewis will not have anyone imposing their rhythm on her. “Reading,” is one of my favorites: “Are you reading/ what I think I wrote,/ or/ are you reading/ what you need to believe/ My world, colored/ by your crayons.” The poems are Lewis’ unique voice—very personal, inspirational, courageous, sometimes deep, sometimes funny—her voice is strong and Im grateful to hear it.

~ Lee Lynch, Author

From the tearjerker of a “dedication” holding a plethora of names and a collection of emotions, to the comedic porcelain Queen, I began my journey through the poems of a friend. Onward I travel. Through the erotic innuendo-decorated alleyways inhabited by a woman who can slay without killing, holding the gift of a little death in her hands. As I meander, I glance in the windows built by words. I inhale scents, savour tastes and catch the occasional glimpse of a soul once fractured that lives in the memory of this extraordinary poet. I even recognised someone I met once.

Mercedes Lewis runs the gamut of emotion in this, her debut book. The poet hopes to take us, the readers on a journey. She does ... but it is one urged, compelled and inspired by her own journeys. This is what makes a poet worthy of being read. I’m so glad I took the time to take a trip with Mercedes.

~ Chris Parsons, Author

Glimpses of a Fractured Soul is a polished, yet raw collection of poems that linger. In “Touching Live Wire” and “Blues and Soul,” Mercedes Lewis finds the beauty and strength in confronting pain. In “Keep Up,” she engages and challenges the reader to look beyond the rhymes to the soul-wrenching imagery. This celebration of language and living transforms suffering into joy and the prosaic into the imaginative.

~ Elizabeth Andersen, host of the Sandra Moran Radio Book Club

Glimpses of a Fractured Soul

by

Mercedes Lewis

Troubadour Books

by Regal Crest

Tennessee

Copyright © 2017 by Mercedes Lewis

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The characters, incidents and dialogue herein are fictional and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Print ISBN 978-1-61929-326-7

eBook ISBN 978-1-61929-327-4

First Printing 2017

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover design by Acorn Graphics

Published by:

Regal Crest Enterprises

1042 Mount Lebanon Rd

Maryville, TN 37804

Find us on the World Wide Web at http://www.regalcrest.biz

Published in the United States of America

Acknowledgments

It takes a lifetime to live a life. I am not finished yet, but thank you to all the people who have influenced my life thus far along the way.

My publisher and my editor have infinite patience. Cathy had years of persistence and patience in encouraging me. I finished much of the writing ages ago; it was the fear that held me back. For me, writing poetry is a solitary, cathartic and personal endeavor, and the level of emotional exposure almost paralyzed me. Nevertheless, I have decided; those that see me see me anyway.

Thank you, Cindy, for your encouragement, and your editorial eye.

I hope every reader who picks up this book, even if only for a moment, glimpses themselves somewhere within.

Dedication

To Floretta, “little flower” who bloomed fully and lived a large life in a small space of time. Thank you, Mama. I miss you so much.

To Joseph, “he will add”, gracious enough to be pained when he learned that all he meant for good did not turn out so. Nonetheless, in the end, ALL IS WELL. Thank you, Daddy.

To Stella, “my star”, you were my angel, my savior, my advocate. Thank you for saving my life, for saving me.

To the Culps, for prayer, for not giving up on me, and for delivering me to the “work it out” hospital. How old am I again? LOL

To Andrea, “beautiful lady, little warrior”, my saving grace. Thank you for choosing me as your mama, thereby helping to bring calm from chaos, beauty from ashes, and restoration and redemption to a bruised and fractured soul.

I love you all.

Chapter One

Life Is Fun and Funny

Style

Row upon row,

aisle upon aisle,

looking for that perfect fit,

looking for my style.

A little bit of this,

a little bit of that,

odds and ends to make a whole,

throw on a fancy hat.

Jewels that sparkle,

boots that gleam, put on a tiara,

and step out like a queen.

A tie, a fedora

some slats, or stacks,

some thought femme yesterday,

today, taken aback.

Now THAT is style!

Microwave

It’s a simple thing really

and it shouldn’t drive me crazy

and I’m sure she doesn’t do it

because she’s mean or cuz she’s lazy

After all of this time

and the things that we’ve been through

you would think that by now

she would know just what to do

Please RESET the fucking microwave

Partners

In sickness and in health,

is what the words say.

So, even in illness,

we’ll stay together anyway.

When we are older,

and our backs won’t bend,

our knees won’t raise,

or our hips won’t mend.

When our arms are too short,

and our legs are too long,

we’ll need someone’s help

To get our socks on.

I’m glad you will be there.

My Queen

When I stumble in after a night of debauchery,

she is there, waiting

for me.

No judgment.

I subjugate myself,

to her,

resting my head on her.

She is cool to the touch.

So refreshing,

so welcoming.

I hug her closely,

and give her my deepest offering.

She willingly accepts.

My porcelain queen.

For All of Us

As we grow older,

one thing we must have,

is someone with whom to grow older

and laugh.

Laugh at each other,

laugh at ourself,

but no matter what,

don’t climb up on a shelf.

When drivers think your car

is the kind that you bump,

and one of you is sporting

a shiner or lump,

when your body aches,

and your teeth fall out,

it’s really good to have someone about,

to remind you of when

you could catch a ball,

or sport 5-inch heels

without taking a fall.

It may be a brother,

or lover, or friend,

but with this one person

there’ll be no pretend.

No matter what else you forget,

make a deal,

to laugh right out loud

now and then,

til you squeal.

Circular

Sit here, grasshopper,

I’ll teach you a thing or two,

add some wisdom to your living,

to live better than I do.

I will teach you many lessons,

some you’ll grasp, some you won’t.

You will get your bumps and bruises

learning those things that you don’t.

Sit here, grasshopper, now,

and let me learn from you.

Yes, the teacher is the student,

and the student teaches, too.

Season's Greetings

Happy winter, spring, summer or fall.

I feel that there are reasons we should celebrate them all.

Each has its own charm, each one, its own reason.

There is cause to celebrate, and find joy in each new season.

Winter brings us holidays, for giving thanks, and to receive.

Goodwill, gifts and family are all reasons to believe.

Starry night and warm showers, hoping new life to bring,

are but two special happenings which alert us that it’s spring.

Heat, beaches, pests and sand all herald in sweet summer.

If no water is nearby, it could really be a bummer.

Cooling breezes of autumn, as the leaves begin to fall,

reminds us of the sweetness, and the beauty of it all.

So, welcome in each season, with its happy, and its sad.

Just remember there’s no season that can truly be all bad.

Celebrate each new season, its course in life to chart.

Make special memories every day, and keep them in your heart.

Cooking 101

Everything you cook

doesn’t have to be on high.

Everything you cook

doesn’t need to boil or fry.

Back that heat up,

slow it down.

Some things should be

a little brown.

Some things simmer, braise, or steam,

some things should still be brightly green.

Pan sear, sauté, muddle, reduce

all are ways to cook.

You can cook by trial and error,

or, you can use a book.

If you cannot relax,

and enjoy the cooking craze,

save the pots and pans,

and just use the microwave.

Beauty

Beauty is a strange thing,

to which it doesn’t matter,

what ugly place it finds itself,

what chaos, or what clatter.

Beauty is found in peace,

beauty is found in war,

it’s deep beneath the sea and,

on eagle’s wings it’ll soar.

Beauty is found in girls,

and yes, beauty is found in boys.

Beauty’s found in quiet, still,

and beauty’s found in noise.

Beauty is found in others,

who have yet to decide,

how much of self is beauty,

and how much self to hide.

Beauty is in the mind,

and, beauty’s in the body.

Beauty is in the things we do,

some nice, and some, seem naughty.

Beauty is a strange thing

no one can find for you.

Beauty is what you make it,

so, unto thine self, be true.

Blue

I want to write a happy song,

I really, really do.

But, each time I put pen to paper,

words just come out...blue.

It’s not the type of happy song

you might be used to hearing.

Minor chords of pain

make this song oh so endearing.

Born of a fresh new love,

dropped from the nest too soon,

no other song to build upon,

I made my own strange tune.

See, I know why the caged bird sang,

and though she was set free,

those things still buried deep within

will never cease to be.

So, hear in this,

my happy song.

It’s different,

but it is not wrong.

And, if your happy song seems sad,

or just a little blue,

forget what others say, or think,

and sing your blue song, too.

Silver Bullet

No, my dear,

not the one you’re thinking of

though I love that silver bullet

most especially with my love.

No, not that one either

although you could win a bet

after that silver bullet

I might need a cigarette.

Not that silver bullet either,

but I hear it is a blast

when you’re really in a hurry

and you need to get there fast.

Yes, that one, darling

and it’s true what they say

that to end a werewolf fantasy

it is the only way.

Ouch.

Shopping

Got what I needed,

did the self checkout line,

now I’m sitting here waiting

as you lag along behind.

In and out, in and out,

is the way we said we’d be,

not a stroll up and down each aisle

to see what we could see!

Don’t try to persuade me,

don’t try to change my mood,

I’m done with this, I tell you,

now I really want some food.

You can just go ahead,

let me sit here and rest.

For the sake of peace and harmony,

that truly would be best.

SLEEP

Sweet

Languishing

Elusive

Energizing

Powerful

Sleep. I wish I could.

Homage to my Hairstylist

While combing my hair

I found a split end,

which made me wonder,

when I would see you again.

My roots are screaming

bloody murder, they cry

Because I’m in need

of a fresh hair dye.

Now those holidays are over,

and the fun is all done,

I find myself wondering

if I will be the one.

Dye, wash, condition, massage,

has me singing this little homage.

Hair stylist, hair stylist, my talented dear,

please make me lovely, I say with a tear.

Con Fun

Another Con,

another year,

with happy Brits,

and room-temp beer.

More Coffee Chats,

and authors to pursue,

I get all of this,

and lesbians too.

Old and new friends,

skits and a dance.

One might even find

that elusive romance.

Awards,

readings,

membership pins,

keynote speakers who bring us grins.

I’m so glad I found this salvation.

Auto Correct (I type, it types)

Worrier

Warrior

Dies

Does

Love

Live

Worrier dies, love.

Warrior, does live.

Chapter Two

Women and Such

Bits and Pieces

If what they say is true,

then I am bits and pieces...

bits of my first love,

pieces of another,

I guess, in reflection,

I am the sum of all my lovers.

Does it have to hurt

so much,

when they leave,

and I am

in bits

and

pieces?

Mindset

Forgive me

forgive me she said

eyes glistening with

unshed tears chin quivering

How could I have known

it was not the first time

How could I accept

that it would not be the last

Marry me she said

but, I said, as far

as I am concerned

we were already married

Years ago she showed up

on my doorstep her marriage over

she left her husband for you a

dear friend said

No, she did not

I would never allow that

I would never cause that

I would never accept that

But in her mind...

And so like grandmother said

the way you get them

is the same way you lose them

Kaleidoscope

The warm yellow glow of friendship,

shy smiles, talking, laughter, laughter,

and more laughter.

The pink blush of budding romance,

subtle glances, gentle touches, shy smiles,

and the first kiss.

Love bursts forth, vibrating orange,

verdant green, a growing, living thing, this love.

Quenching blue, as I drink of you,

red, hot passionate nights.

Red, puffy eyes, orange flames leaping,

burning off the chaff.

A confusion of colors, going round and round,

sometimes fading to black.

And then,

The warm yellow glow, of new friendship...

Horse and Pony Show

You’ll love riding the horse

she said, as she harnessed

up the pony.

She was right.

We rode hard,

well into the night,

and sometimes even into morning.

She would not let me ride

the pony, no matter how I pleaded.

And then she left,

taking her horse and pony with her.

I got my own horse and pony,

and a new rider.

Now, I ride whichever, I choose.

Certainty

Well,

this is not the first

mistake I’ve ever made.

And, I can say,

with absolute certainty,

it will not be the last.

I only ask that you

walk with me,

talk with me,

bear with me,

care with me,

as I continue this journey of life,

learning as I go.

Finally

Finally.

I cried for you.

It was the deep, sorrowful,

soul-wrenching sound

only the heartbroken can make.

Now, I can move on.

Finally.

Her

She sent me flowers,

beautiful flowers,

with just a blush of color.

They look like her.

She sent me flowers,

with just a hint of scent,

that climbed my nose,

and permeated my senses.

They smell like her.

She sent me flowers,

they are tall and beautiful,

strong and tough, yet soft to the touch.

They feel like her.

She sent me flowers

that are unbreakable and hardy,

born out of adversity.

They are like her.

She sent me flowers

that reach across the room,

assault my heart, and soften it.

I did not taste them.

I wonder,

if they taste like her.

I would rather have her.

Not Mine to Give

The situation is pretty grim,

makes me think I should retire,

since she broke my heart in pieces,

and she stole all of my fire.

I wish I had something,

just a little piece to give,

a small piece you could nurture,

’til it gained the will to live.

I wish I could say,

take it, take another

little piece of my heart,

But alas, woe is me, it is not mine to give.

Last Dance

Last dance,

what last dance?

I never even had a chance,

to know it was the last dance.

I would have held you closer,

and savored every word,

had I known they were the last words

from your lips I would have heard.

You could have used your thumb,

to wipe away my tears.

We could have reminisced of all the

good times through the years.

Like, remember the first time you used your thumb?

Bliss

I would have cherished those last moments,

that's all I would have asked.

But you didn't truly know me,

thought me not up to the task.

I know what love is darling.

I know the ebb and flow.

I know you can't hold on to it,

when love chooses to go.

I am a phoenix, my love.

ALWAYS rising up from the ashes.

Is Chivalry Dead?

I must live in a fantasy.

Is chivalry dead?

Please someone tell me.

She didn’t open the door.

She didn’t hold my chair.

She didn’t help me up

or down the stair.

No flowers, no chocolate,

Not one single daisy.

Am I tripping?

Am I crazy?

What’s wrong with this butch?

I mean, well damn.

Doesn’t she know the caliber

of femme that I am?

As we walked,

she stayed on the inside,

I said nothing,

in order to save her pride.

Is it just me?

Is it all in my head?

Are the days of chivalry long gone?

Dead?

She Clung to Me

Headed out for a stroll

along the familiar streets of P'Town

I walk the cobbled streets

perusing the familiar shops

I spy a friend across the way

and cross over for a hug

She clung to me

a wonderful full body hug

I tried to release

She clung to me still

encasing cocooning

and healing me

She took me in

I held until she released

I’m okay

Is she okay

I don’t know

I should have asked

Let’s Keep it Straight

Now it’s time for you to go,

and I haven’t said goodbye.

So I hide in the corner,

trying so hard not to cry.

Life is funny,

You are my best friend

. How could I love a woman

who is only into men!

My heart is foolish,

these thoughts I have aren’t cool.

These tears will keep on flowing,

but I will not break my rule.

Look at you,

looking at me,

like a trapped animal

that wants to be set free.

I refuse to lose you, friend,

to the thing you think is sin.

There would so much to treasure,

but just one way it could end.

I won’t go there,

won’t be used as a whim.

so if you want me darling,

then you must be free of him.

Peach Tree

I love the peach fruit,

but I want the whole damn tree.

The tree is life, strength, cover,

and protection for me.

The tree guarantees

fruit for more than just a season.

The fruit calls you out,

But it’s only for one reason.

Eat me, it demands.

The fruit is sweet, succulent,

as it drips upon my tongue,

but in just a little while,

all its essence will be gone.

The tree puts down roots,

to hold fast, and it blooms,

dancing with color,

offering fruit for many moons.

I want the peach tree.

The Professor

Snug, lightly faded, neatly frayed jeans,

that surely must have their own doctorate.

Checkered, long sleeve, button down shirt,

red bow tie,

and a fedora.

Please, oh please.

Teach me.

Thoughts

I thought she was plastic when first we met.

Not the soft, pliable plastic, but the hard, brittle,

unyielding plastic, the kind that breaks if you bend it.

What is she hiding? What is she running from?

Better than being paper, I thought,

easily soiled, easily bruised,

easily molded, easily ruined,

unable to withstand anything.

But, my mistake.

I’ve found that she is wood.

Strong wood, with rings of age, and experience,

warmed by the sun, shapeable, but, almost unbreakable.

Able to stand through

the storm alone, but willing to

hold, protect, and support others.

There are scars, cut, etched into her soul.

They add to her beauty, they do not weaken her.

She does not flinch when you touch them.

But, one does not get in easily.

Like the warmth of the sun, like water,

she will soak you up slowly, absorb you,

absorb you, allow you to penetrate deeply

.

I thought she was plastic, or paper.

I was so wrong.

All of her running and hiding is done.

She is petrified wood, softening around the edges.

I should apologize to her.

But, she doesn’t know my thoughts.

A Soft Hard Woman

She is a soft, hard woman.

One with strength, and muscles,

but does not get into tussles.

She has the kindest heart you’ve ever known,

but is able to stand up on her own.

She is firm, yet gentle.

When you touch her just right, she melts.

She is a soft, hard woman.

Lavender Descends

Breathing deeply

lavender descends

floating down, a butterfly

strong as the wind

restless as the tide

light as a feather

delicate as a flower

sharp as a thorn.

Lavender descends,

drifting down

clouding my mind

My eyes are misty

thinking

of you

You Slay Me

Cascading

falling

spiraling

floating

tripping

dripping

down

I am tongue-tied

You slay me

Your eyes

Your mouth

Your beautiful curls

Your scent

Your soul

Your hands

Oh god, t

hose beautiful strong hands

I am spent

You slay me

Fog

Like a heavy fog

memories of her

roll over me

trapping me

in a sweet

savor

that

will not

be

forgotten

Paralyzed

I cannot move forward

to a now

that bears

no comparison

And yet

a light misting fog

and still

I hope

for new reign

Tell me Lies

Tell me lies.

Fiction is hope.

I want hope.

I need hope.

So,

tell me lies.

Understanding

I vacillate,

between pain, anger,

and understanding.

I hope understanding

reigns supreme.

What a Ride

From chat room

to instant message,

to private chat,

have you ever met a woman like that?

Daytona Beach,

toes in the sand.

sex on the first date,

man oh man!

Coast to coast,

foreign places too,

life was so exciting

as my love for her grew.

Space, time, distance,

could not compete,

her hugs and kisses

were oh so sweet.

Wait, she wants to end it now?

But we had just begun.

Was I the only one

who was really having fun?

Like every ride

at the fair,

you just got on,

and then, you’re there.

But what a ride!

Chapter Three

Family Matters

For Grandmother

I send you cards and flowers,

while you can see and smell.

I tell you that I love you,

while you can hear, as well.

I touch your face, caress your brow,

while you can smile and feel,

absorb your wisdom, cherish your words,

each moment is so real.

Our treasure is this life

is the souls we come to know.

We are sad and broken-hearted

when our precious ones must go.

We must not lose faith

when the Great One calls one home,

it is a fate we each must keep,

and each will keep alone.

So, there’s no need to fuss,

when it is time to leave, we must.

It is His timing, and His will,

and so we should just trust.

I love you Gramma, this know,

not cuz the bible tells me so.

I love because you were and ARE,

and though you leave, you won’t be far.

You are always in my heart,

as you have been, from the start.

So as we pass this way in life,

it seems through turmoil, joy and strife;

we smell, touch, feel, and show,

love is life’s blessing for all to know.

The Last to Know

It’s okay darling, said grandma,

patting me on my knee.

It’s okay baby,

There’s one in every family.

I thought she meant my cousin.

Fey, fey, so gay Lee,

The gayest baby

you ever did see.

My world fell apart,

my girl and I were through,

I wasn’t quite sure

What I was gonna do.

Grandma looked at me boldly,

stared me straight in the eye.

You know, that kind of look she gives

when daring you to lie?

That’s okay love,

there’s one in every family.

All those years ago,

She was talking about me.

I didn’t know she knew.

Smiling I realized

that I was the last to know, that everyone knew.

Her Story

Too black to be white

too white to be black

no zipper to get out

of this skin she’s in

Nope, neither side has been easy

Where does she stand?

She can tell you about the black child

feeling motherless

She can tell you about the black girl

feeling lost

She can tell you about the black woman

finding a way to make it work

She can tell you about the black female soldier

hiding in plain sight

She can tell you about the black mother

full of wonder pride and fear

Oh God, the fear

She can tell you, looking into a

mirror darkly, that there is peril

on both sides

On one side

she has a drug addiction problem

They said, I never expected this from you.

She said, do you really think it was a part

of my five year plan

One the other side, she is a crackhead

They never expected it either

Too black to be white

too white to be black

no zipper to get out

of this skin she’s in

Nope, neither side has been easy

Where does she stand?

On either side

she is timid yet strong

On either side,

there is love and loss,

laughter and tears,

fear and hope

Too black to be white

too white to be black

no zipper to get out

of this skin she’s in

Nope, neither side has been easy

Where does she stand?

Why must she choose a side

Why must anyone

Why must we wrestle

with ourselves and others

Too black to be white

too white to be black

no zipper to get out

of this skin she’s in

Nope, neither side has been easy

Where does she stand?

when

can

we

just

BE

February 17th

Such a momentous occasion

yet no different than yesterday

or the day before

no different yet

as different as

the sun and the moon

as different as

night and day

as different as

wet and dry

as different as

hard and soft

how can it be so different

in all its sameness

blessed with fifteen more years

than Mama and yet

it feels no different

The Promise

He peered across the table at me

after a masterfully executed

hand of pinochle

We were knocking them down

Promise me, he said, promise me

Promise you what, I asked puzzled

wondering if I had made a mistake

in our hand

Promise me you will never use heroin

Don’t even touch it

Don’t even smell it

Promise me

You think too much like me

You think too much, like me

Promise me

He died many years ago

I have kept that promise

The Scapegoat

The straw that broke

the camel’s back.

The one too many.

The reason her love would never return,

or so she chose to believe.

The reason her life was ruined.

The reason she could not

stand to look at him.

The reason he bore the brunt

of all her anger, hate and fear.

The reason he rarely felt her love.

The reason, no matter what,

no matter how hard we try,

he will never feel secure

that he is enough,

prayed for,

cared for,

loved,

or worthy.

He is.

Too Much Stuff

She had been visiting two weeks,

and signs pointed to time being up.

You’ve got too much stuff, he said,

struggling to get past suitcases and gain access to a closet.

Her heart was immediately pierced.

He did not realize how he had just wounded her,

how he opened up a very old hurt,

painfully pulling the scab off of very old sores.

She began to get small right away,

placing all her belongings in the suitcases,

lining them up symmetrically, by size, large to small,

near the bed, not touching any walls,

prayerfully not in any path.

She had felt this way all her life.

As if she had nowhere to belong,

as though she were always an outsider,

as though she were not a part OF.

She closed herself in the room,

sitting on the bed quietly,

making as little noise as possible,

barely daring to breathe.

She had two weeks remaining.

She hoped they would pass peacefully.

She would make no demands.

He would hardly know she was still there.

ISSUES

Issues,

yes, I have them.

I told my brother to “Kiss my BLACK ass.”

Is there EVER a reason to say such a thing to your

brother?

Perhaps not, but let me explain.

He used four little trigger words in one message.

ALWAYS, NEVER, US and YOU.

With those four little words, he reached in

and awakened the sleeping two year old deep within,

the two year old who may never fully heal.

Most often, she lies dormant,

in the fetal position,

sucking her thumb,

watching the world go by.

He reached in and snatched the scab off a very old

wound.

He stirred memories of separation, and police, and

aloneness, and searching.

He drove a wedge in a chasm that has been under repair

a lifetime.

He made her realize the world of difference between

them.

STILL.

So, yes, I said it for her.

I apologized. I even tried to explain for her.

He said, you are too old to be hanging on to that shit.

Get over it. Move on.

He tells me these things, but has he?

I am sure he will keep that message a long time.

However, not for as long, I am also certain,

as that little girl inside.

No matter how much I work on making it otherwise,

the hurt, and wonder, and search, and ache remain.

Especially when triggered by four little words.

That little girl, I fear, is with me for life.

Issues?

Yes, I have them.

Don’t you?

Little sisters

Two came to stay

I have to be me

I told them I am gay

Later, I heard them whispering

what does that mean,

the little one asked

I don’t know,

the other responded

I think that means

she’s funny

Funny

what a strange term

but yes, yes, I am.

Time Stands Still

Time stands still

until you walk before a cursed mirror, or

you look at a beloved child.

Then.

Suddenly.

Tempest fugit, is too slow.

Too slow to describe

how quickly time is moving.

Too slow to describe

the rush of emotion like moving ice.

It is difficult to reconcile this disparate

perception of time.

In a flash you wonder;

what happened to the time?

When did it move so silently, so quickly, so

stealthily by?

Where did the time go,

and why does it take life with it?

How did this happen?!

Then you remember a moment.

A frown.

A smile.

A tear.

A person you hold dear.

And, suddenly.

Time stands still.

Seven

Is seven too young?

Too young to know you want to die,

that life is worthless and unfair.

But, old enough.

Old enough to realize that if you die,

that means they win. Old enough to decide

THEY DO NOT DESERVE TO WIN.

Good Times

Remember when Mama took us to the Bahamas?

It was something, flying in that little airplane.

It didn’t take us long to realize we were driving

on the wrong side of the road either! I think we lost

some hotdogs and food, swerving to the right side.

We laughed so hard. Mama sure sounds funny when

she cusses.

It was the summer of Sadie, by the Spinners,

the summer of shorts and swimsuits, and conch

fritters. Mama made good conch fritters.

Playing in the pure white sand, amazed at how

the water was blue in the morning and green

in the evening. Remember how clear it was?

You could see all the way to the bottom, but

we found out how deep it was when Stevie

tried to get the money thrown from the ships.

Boy, was it deep. Boy, did we laugh.

Remember we took the boat, headed out to

one of the smaller islands, and didn’t know

that Billie built the boat with her own hands?

It started to sink and we had to bail, bail, bail.

I thought we would sink. We didn’t. We never do.

But, boy did we laugh.

I will always protect you

It was magnificent.

It was glorious.

The animals were amazing.

I remember Sun City.

The door to our lodging was open.

The monkey made a break for it.

Signs were posted everywhere,

“Don’t feed the animals.”

Nobody listens. That creates problems.

You yelled and turned to shoo it away.

The monkey turned to you,

chattering and advancing.

You backed up in shock, and fell.

The monkey kept coming.

“Hey”, I yelled,

“You get away from my brother,

you son of a bitch!”

I advanced.

The monkey paused and looked at me.

He looked into my eyes

and saw crazy.

The monkey took off

in the opposite direction.

I will always protect you.

All of you.

Star

The warrior woman

entered the room

wading through palpable

despair and doom

The creature child watched warily

as the woman carefully sat on the bed

and gazed into the deep soulless

eyes of the wounded thing

Only she could see

the tiny spark of life that remained

Only she believed

Only she had hope

of saving the beast

before it became a

full-fledged monster

Stella, so aptly named,

you are my star

who brings beautiful light

everywhere you are

Oatmeal

She is being nice

I can look out of the window

I can come out of my room

I can go outside and play

some of these kids are new

Why am I eating so much oatmeal

giant bowls of oatmeal

salad bowls, mixing bowls

lots and lots of oatmeal

oatmeal with butter and sugar

oatmeal with milk and cinnamon

oatmeal with raisins

oatmeal with fruit cocktail

oatmeal

oatmeal

oatmeal

Why am I eating so much oatmeal

Oh, Daddy’s coming home

I hate oatmeal

Trey

I call him Trey,

the baby that got away.

We did not meet

until he was in his thirties.

It is very difficult

building bridges,

after the cement

has already hardened.

We try anyway.

Oh Daddy

I

really

thought

you

were going

to do something

with those gymnastics

he said

Oh Daddy

if

I had known

that you noticed

I

would have

won Olympic gold

The Savior

the

one

who

made

it

all

okay

again

until,

it wasn’t.

and now,

it will

never

be

okay

again.

DCBR

I am DCBR.

I am damaged.

I am cracked.

I am broken.

I am revived.

This is a tale of triumph,

of overcoming,

of being a victor.

Don’t cry for me.

Or, the child that was me,

the child that may have been you.

Damaged

As a child, damaged,

a crack full of fear and angst but,

that’s not the crack I speak of.

Cracked

The crack that shows you something beautiful

the first time,

then, has you chasing ghosts and falling off cliffs,

until you realize that, no matter what it promises,

it will never take you there again. For long.

Broken

Not because life or crack broke me.

But, because one day I looked up from the pit of hell,

after chasing one lie, one ghost too many,

after almost hurting someone over almost nothing.

Really, literally, almost nothing,

because the runner’s need was greater than her fear of

consequences.

I frightened us both that night.

Later, I cried out,

Lord, I’ve gone as low as I care to go!

Revived

That’s when He saved me.

When I asked.

Not a moment too soon.

Mother and Daughter

An eighteen year old child bride

she cried alone

faced with a mother-in-law who would not look at her

she cried alone

A seventeen year old husband and father off to war

we cried together

moved from the white house to the male boarding house

we cried together succumbing to the loneliness of the unwanted and alone

we cried together

surrendering to the police who came to take the child back to the white house

we cried together

reunited after twelve years

we cried together (they always come back to their mother)

unable to express so much love and so much pain

we cried together

unable to repair the damage

we cried together

unable to make it work

we cried together

sick and tired at forty-five

we cried together

gone

far too soon

I cried alone

Varied Responses

If you’re going to spend all your money on a woman,

spend it on me.

Does that mean she’s funny?

Is there a man in your life?

No.

Is there a woman in your life?

No, but thank you for asking.

We don’t care about that, just come home.

Come home to your family.

Love the sinner, hate the sin.

But Auntie, we all fall short of the glory of God.

Do you say that to everyone,

or is it reserved for just the gays?

It has never come up as a topic of discussion.

All is well, as long as it is

the thing that shall never be spoken of.

Chapter Four

Glimpses

One day I looked into a mirror; just some random mirror that I must have passed over a thousand times. But this time I saw someone I never saw before; myself. And it wasn’t a carbon copy reflection, no. It was deeper. This time I saw my true self. All of me—the good, the bad, and the ugly. I saw the effects of what the world can do to a person, and what a person can do to himself. One day I looked into a mirror and I saw my soul, battle scars and all. I saw my arms, my hair, my skin; my beautiful chocolate skin.

Some people think we don’t dream. They’re wrong.

Copyright © 2013 Chocolate Covered Ants Steven A. Butler, Jr.

Used with permission

Glimpses of a Fractured Soul: Touching Live Wire

It’s not the words, words are easy

it’s the wondering what to share

it’s the worrying about how much

of my soul I should lay bare

How deep into my fractured psyche

will I let you peek

how much of my hard-earned

truth do I let you seek

Every stroke reveals more

opens up a long closed door

every sentence shows you me

they say the telling sets you free

It’s not the words, words are easy

it’s the wondering what to share

and after laying myself bare

worrying if you’ll still be there

So, I show you little glimpses

small doses at a time

of this bruised but healing soul

of this sane, but troubled mind

Are you the one who’ll keep my secrets

are you the one to understand

are you the one who’ll hold on tightly

never let go of my hand

It’s not the words, words are easy

it’s the feeling of despair

it’s that longing and that hoping

and that praying that you care

It’s not the words, words are easy

And yet, discarding fear

and all the other things that mire

I give myself, but careful

it’s like touching live wire

Triboluminescence

It had to be this dark to see it,

to write it, to believe it.

The light that comes from breaking,

the light that comes from scratching,

the light that comes from being pulled apart.

Broken, crushed, smashed, ripped, fractured.

Multicolored light, bursts forth, from such a place.

Then, just as promised, beauty for ashes. joy for sorrow.

Walk in the beautiful light.

Triboluminescence.

Because

Because,

even with

all that we lack,

we ourselves,

can be all

that we need.

Adrift

Adrift at sea

no land in sight

the sea waits calmly

waiting for a decision

it offers no guidance

how do you know

the way to salvation

Again

When you open yourself up

and you let people in

the thing that’s bound to happen

is that you’ll get hurt

again

But this hurt that pains so deeply

this time is not caused by lies

this deep and sorrowful hurt

is caused when someone you love

dies

Oh this journey of humanity

this thing that we call life

with its puzzles and its pitfalls

and its triumphs and its

strife

She would want me to go on

she would want for me to smile

to take one step, then another

til I’ve gone another

mile

So for her I’ll lift my head

and for her I’ll soldier on

though she’s not with me

in body in my heart she’s never

gone

Bad Hair Sunday

I saw the moon yesterday

in the middle of the day

while the sun was shining

like that was the natural way

There she was

big

bold

bodacious

beautiful

Beautiful

for all to see

as though saying:

Who told you

I cannot be here

at this time

Who told you that it is not

my time to shine

I looked for rainbows

Blues and Soul

The sounds of blues and soul

are buried deep within me.

I have embraced the soul,

but always been ashamed

and maybe a little afraid of the blues.

The blues are so telling.

The bass walks around,

stomping, in the front,

leading the way, yet

seeming to support,

and hold the whole thing together.

The guitar wails and moans,

the runs and progression

tell all the secrets of

an aching heart.

Cry baby, cry, it seems to say.

Cry. We will cry together,

and scream,

and plead.

What purer love

can there be, but pain.

The guitar invites the horns,

they dance and parley,

bringing crescendos,

and depths that force you

to close your eyes and see.

The violin takes your hand

and walks with you

to that place.

That’s it.

It is all defined by blues

and soul.

But, Realize

The singer

put me on blast talking about

dragging all my

bags from the past

The thing is

I wasn’t so

concerned about

the bags

But, what she made me

realize is that carrying

all my bags like that

everyone can see

all my shit

I switched to luggage

I try to leave it home

but, realize,

I have shit

Darkness Came First

I view my life

much like all of creation.

Darkness came first,

and then there was light,

the evening and the morn

were the first day.

Sometimes it has been

darkest before the dawn,

and great sadness has always

preceded great joy.

I have been born into death.

Death of hope.

Death of joy.

Death, of loved ones.

Will I die into life anew?

Few words

I am a woman of few words

and yet

I have so much to say

words swirl

cascade

somersault in my belly

they burn me

they cause me to tremble

wanting their escape

but words betray me

often they do not express what I mean

words are powerful they frighten me

just as they can heal

they can hurt maim and kill

leaving souls and spirits crushed

and bleeding

dying

why does my love sound like anger

why are you angry at me, you ask

I am NOT angry with you

I am afraid

I am afraid that you might be hurt

I’m afraid of losing you

I am angry with myself

for caring enough to BE afraid

I am angry with myself for

not being able not having the words to tell you these things

fear sounds like hate

how can I hate what I do not know

I hate the not knowing

pain is a chameleon

pain hides in plain sight

in words and in silence

that have no way to represent the pain

I am a woman of few words

and yet

I have so much to say

please

look into my eyes

and SEE what I am truly saying

With my few misguided

WORDS

I shall never master words

so please please

look into my heart

And FEEL what I am

TRULY wanting to say

Fallen Leaves, Lost Sisters

Do we hear when each leaf falls,

when each sister is lost?

How can we know? We cannot.

Nor can we count every vein, every triumph

of those we think we know.

We can only do what we can, what we know to do.

We know though,

that every leaf that falls,

every sister that is lost,

leaves behind a legacy, a light,

a space in someone’s heart that can be filled by no

other.

Will those we know not of be upset,

feel left out, abandoned or forgotten?

We pray not!

Whether or not we knew of their light,

now extinguished in this realm,

it shines on.

We know.

It shines on.

God’s Child

God’s Child must be:

a rainbow

a light

a beacon

shining bright

A student

a teacher

a guiding voice

a preacher

The worst

the best

able to lean on Him

and rest

The beginning

the end

the one

who’s will He’ll bend.

I am God’s Child

Handwriting on the Wall

I am afraid to write,

not just the words

but the WAY you write,

reveals so much.

If the line slants up,

you feel happy and light,

but, if it’s headed down,

there’s depression in sight.

Mix cursive with script, unsure,

unable to make a decision,

the same for mixing upper and lower case.

All small capitals? Uh oh,

Insecure with low self-esteem.

Leaning, looping,

these things reveal so many things

I’m afraid to write.

It may tell someone something

I don’t want them to see.

Help

I can’t stay here.

They are romancing the stone

. I want. They make me want.

They make me want more.

No.

I want to get away from the talk.

I must do something different.

Yes.

Yes, my poison was in a different glass.

A rock glass.

That will work.

It works if you work it.

Thank God.

The serenity prayer

helped save my life.

One day at a time.

I Do Me

I do me, better than anyone on earth,

every new morning is like a spring rebirth.

I do me, like the sun in the sky,

nurturing and warming, lifting you high.

Lift your face.

Can’t you feel my love radiate?

I do me, like the noonday rain,

I nourish and replenish, and don’t try to tame.

I do me, like the waves hugging the shore,

I rush up to meet you, begging for more.

Like that wave, I sweep you away.

Hold on tight, if you want to stay.

I do me, like snow.

Falling gently to cover,

Landing heavily, wet,

Like an exhausted lover.

I do me, like the stars.

Twinkling and smiling,

and inviting you to play.

I do me, like rumbling thunder.

Sometimes soft, sometimes loud,

always rolling through to chase away a cloud.

I do me, like a volcano.

Erupting, hot, sticky, and yes, totally

unpredictable,

But I, do me.

So, let me do me,

and you do you,

and we will be just fine.

I promise you,

that makes for the very best of times.

I see you, Sister

We are all souls and spirits,

trapped in these decaying bodies.

Some are more trapped than others.

I see you, sister,

staring in despair, into a mirror

that does not reflect back what you see

in your mind’s eye, and in your heart.

Most, even I,

cannot begin to imagine how you feel,

the pain of you and those you love,

trying to reconcile what you see,

with what you know.

Others do not see your beauty,

your sensitivity,

your big beautiful heart.

I see you, sister.

You have a beauty most will never know.

You have a courage most will never envision.

You have a strength most will never need.

You are beautiful.

I am proud to call you Sister.

In Retrospect

I watched a timeline slip by,

not even realizing my place in it.

In retrospect,

those were good years.

I should have leapt and ignored the fears.

Oh, my goodness, that was love?

I squandered a gift that was sent from above.

I could have done that? I had the will?

In time I would have acquired the skill?

I should have said, “I love you” more,

not doing so has made me poor.

I should have done that thing right then,

instead of wondering how, or when.

I should have ridden that timeline,

like a surfer boldly through a pipeline.

In retrospect.

Infinity

Time is a construct

within timelessness

Live life like the things

you do go on forever

They do

whether you see them or not

Be careful

especially with words

Praise

I would be remiss,

to not praise my Creator,

so I’d rather do it now,

than to put if off till later.

When He looks at me,

I see love in His eye.

A love that has lifted me,

to soar beyond the sky.

He did not see a crackhead,

someone whose life was done.

He saw me as His daughter,

for whom He sent His Son.

There was no kick when I was down,

there was no angry shout.

He watched and waited patiently

so He could bring me out.

There is no shame I find in Him,

as He has none in me,

so I will share with anyone

just how He set me free.

Praise, and blessed be.

Keep up

I love to rhyme

although some poets

act as though

it is a crime

Noses turned up

mouths in a smirk

as though I don’t

understand that

my music

my poetry

does not have to have meter

does not have to stand on its foot

does not have to have pace

it can vacillate

take its time

stop and smell the roses

I may be the only one that gets it

But I understand

and I rhyme anyway

keep up

Lois’ Poetry

Silently

I weep

I weep

for raw emotion

poured out

searing

my

very

SOUL

I weep

for love

for love

too strong to hold

for beauty

too

amazing

to

BEHOL

D

THIS is the gift

This

is

BEAUTY

FOR

ASHES

My heart is ful

l I am without speech

Soul behold, beauty for ashes

Reading

Are you reading

what I think I wrote

or

are you reading what you need to believe

My world colored

by your crayons

Monday Morning

As I sat outside

having my morning respite

a flock of five birds flew overhead

two dragonflies playfully chased each other

one butterfly flitted gliding by

a lone peregrine falcon surfed the air channel high above a plane roared past in the distance

the palm trees swayed gently in the breeze

I noticed the leaves had finally turned red on

one huge bush due to the cold snap

everything was peaceful

majestic

beautiful

and serene

not a bad Monday morning at all

My Haiku

Since we are here now,

visiting pain. Here, take mine.

I do not want it.

The telling

Gently,

she said,

as she pulled me in

for a hug.

I wrapped my arms

around her.

She felt slight,

almost empty, this vessel,

exquisitely ethereal

more spirit than substance,

spirit before spirit,

light before light.

I looked into her eyes,

to see if she knew

what I now knew.

Soulful eyes gazed back.

She knew, and,

she knew that I knew,

there was no need to ask,

no need for words,

She also knew, that I

knew she has known

for some time,

no doctor need tell her.

No hopeless hope imparted.

This,

her gift to those she loved,

to go swiftly into the night.

My New Rainbow

I’ve been sad

Mother Nature commiserated

Each day dark and brooding

clouds, no blue sky

no thunder

very little lightning

bucket, upon bucket of tears

On the third day

against the backdrop of

soft white clouds

to the west

a beautiful

brilliant

full

new

rainbow

My neighbor asked

Did you see that rainbow today!

I’ve never seen one like it

I smiled through my tears

Today,

there are still clouds

but beyond that

the bluest sky

all is well

I will look for

my new rainbow

My Thing

As a poet and artist,

it’s my thing,

to step up to the plate,

and take my best swing.

Sometimes I hit the fence,

or I pop up in the air,

I would l never know the score,

if I never took the dare.

Yep, it’s my thing.

Night

It seems better at night

when the sun has set and

is no longer sapping energy

the sun seems to rejuvenate

and drain at the same time

The moon calms, offers

a balm to spirit and soul

as well as body

it feels safe and serene

I am less afraid when the

night is inviting me in

That Day

My eyes are leaking.

My soul is weeping.

I know not why.

And yet, I cry.

It feels of loss.

And yet, of gain.

A deep

and aching,

throbbing pain.

Relationships

I was thinking about circles.

And relationships.

I have a huge outer circle.

But, when did my inner circle

shrink to almost nonexistence?

Was it ever larger than this?

I look at others and their

easy relationships. They send

each other cards, and cookies

without a second thought.

I torture myself over every thought.

When does one get to that carefree place?

I have a feeling getting into my inner circle

is like a sperm looking for that tiny sweet spot

on that one in a million, fortunate egg.

Why is that, I wonder?

Nothing

I have nothing

of consequence

to say today.

It was a day,

and now it is night.

On Being a Poet

I can write a poem sometimes,

quicker than taking a drink.

I can make a new rhyme,

before you can even blink.

You’d think I would be arrogant,

confident, and sure,

but I am rift with feelings

no person should endure.

Is it childish, or too simple,

is it worth the time to read,

I hope it will empower,

planting courage, as a seed.

Will it make the reader laugh,

or rend a heartfelt sigh?

Will it make her leap for joy,

or will it make her cry?

So, when words come to me,

as the first thing in the day,

should I write them down quickly,

or just push the words away?

Words just crop up on their own,

like a random, errant weed,

and to get them down on paper,

seems to be more than a need.

Once the words slow down,

it’s like pulling teeth I think,

trying to find them and to shape them

as they drive me to the brink.

Like trying to rhyme with orange,

everybody knows it’s true,

doesn’t matter how you frame it,

it’s impossible to do.

All the rhyming, all the rhythm,

Maybe too much Dr. Seuss,

all the catchy, rhyme books

once devoured as a youth.

I don’t want to write the words down,

I don’t want others to see,

but the words just soldier round,

taunting, till I set them free.

I will let the words flow out,

I will even write them down,

hoping that when others read them

they won’t see me as a clown.

Peaceful

Morning breaks

full of light

the sky

is one large cloud

no blue is sight

it is calm

so still

and quiet

Beautiful

a lone bird

flitters across the sky

I breathe in and out

to an unheard rhythm

Peaceful

THIS is that moment

Just Don’t

It is not a good thing

to stay up all night then

expect to greet the world

all chipper and bright

I try to act normal and

calm as a rule but

Invariably I run into a fool

Don’t start with me today

about

politics

or religion

or any other

ridiculous thing

Uniquely Mine

My story is

not unique.

But, it is

uniquely, unequivocally,

mine.

I tell it

unapologetically.

Playa

Am I just a player

in other people’s lives

When will things start

happening to me, for me

On the fringe

In the periphery

Amongst the shadows

Around the corner

What I need is for things t

o come back to the middle

I want to play too

Thy Name

Death,

cancer is thy name.

There was a time when

you had many other

names, and, we have

always known you are

inevitable, but, of late,

the only name

you bear is cancer.

You indiscriminately maim

and claim, young and old

alike.

This is not the equality

we have hoped, prayed,

sweat and fought for,

the kind of equality

that we have bled,

and wept, and died for.

cancer, death is thy name.

We want to change it.

NOW.

Should BE

I should write these things down,

these ideas,

these words,

these fully formed visitations,

these things that magically disappear,

the moment I grab paper and pen.

These things should be remembered.

These things should be told,

should be shouted,

should be said,

should be sung,

Should be.

Should Be.

Should BE.

But, like butterflies,

they flit away,

like butter,

they melt,

No.

Like ice,

like ice they melt.

They melt into water,

then disappear,

without a trace.

Wait.

Let me write this down,

before it disappears.

Sowing

Yes, yes

you reap what you sow

but the thing is

did you know that when you sow

it is much more than

planting a seed

Tend Your Own Garden

Don’t go looking ‘round girl, someone’s always got more;

someone’s always had it worse, someone’s always at the door.

Just tend your own garden, get them weeds, use your hand.

After all that it’s done been through, tend it gently as you can.

Others tried to kill your garden, scratch it out by the root,

drown it, starve it, burn it, grind it underneath their filthy boot.

Don’t be like them, it’s your garden, so tend your garden, little girl.

Don’t you let it die by your hand, though it seems a hopeless task,

Like a valley too wide, an ocean too deep, a thing too hard to ask.

You have come this far by faith, you’ve endured the worst storm.

You have hung on tooth and nail, believing for a brighter morn.

Watch it blossom, watch it bloom, watch it break forth and grow.

Hang on through those darkest hours, and you’ll have so much to show.

You will quiet all naysayers, like the one that lives inside.

Let your light shine through that bushel, there won’t be no need to hide.

Tend your garden, little girl.

Three Things (Because there are always three things)

You can make it.

You can take it.

You can own this bitch called life.

Say it with me.

I can make it.

I can take it.

I can OWN this bitch called life.

Now go.

Make your mark.

Victor

Growing from strength to strength,

you are making the journey.

Sometimes baby steps,

sometimes giant steps,

sometimes leaps of faith,

sometimes,

faltering backward steps.

You soldier on,

scarred, damaged.

Tender.

You are an enigma to many.

That’s okay.

Some will never understand you.

Yet,

you grow,

from victim,

to survivor,

to victor.

About the Author

Mercedes retired from military service after 20+ years. She was one of the first female soldiers selected to attend West Point. Mercedes studied Business and Human Relations at the University of Phoenix. Under the pen name Ms. M, Mercedes is currently published in the erotic anthology Women In Uniform: Medics and Soldiers and Cops, oh My! and the poetry anthology Roses Read: Sappho’s Corner Poetry Series, Volume 3.

Check out her author page at: www.regalcrest.biz/author_page.php?author=Lewis_1

She is on Facebook as Mercedes Lewis, Author at: https://www.facebook.com/GlimpsesOfaFracturedSoul/

Her blog is located at: https://mercedeslewisblog.wordpress.com

Mercedes is currently Director of Events for the Golden Crown Literary Society, a 501(c)3 non-profit organization for education, adn the recognition and promotion of lesbian literature (http://www.goldencrown.org.)

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Table of Contents

Advanced Praise

Glimpses of a Fractured Soul

Copyright © 2017 by Mercedes Lewis

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Chapter One

Style

Microwave

Partners

My Queen

For All of Us

Circular

Season's Greetings

Cooking 101

Beauty

Blue

Silver Bullet

Shopping

SLEEP

Homage to my Hairstylist

Con Fun

Auto Correct (I type, it types)

Chapter Two

Bits and Pieces

Mindset

Kaleidoscope

Horse and Pony Show

Certainty

Finally

Her

Not Mine to Give

Last Dance

Is Chivalry Dead?

She Clung to Me

Let’s Keep it Straight

Peach Tree

The Professor

Thoughts

A Soft Hard Woman

Lavender Descends

You Slay Me

Fog

Tell me Lies

Understanding

What a Ride

Chapter Three

For Grandmother

The Last to Know

Her Story

February 17th

The Promise

The Scapegoat

Too Much Stuff

ISSUES

Little sisters

Time Stands Still

Seven

Good Times

I will always protect you

Star

Oatmeal

Trey

Oh Daddy

The Savior

DCBR

Mother and Daughter

Varied Responses

Chapter Four

Glimpses of a Fractured Soul: Touching Live Wire

Triboluminescence

Because

Adrift

Again

Bad Hair Sunday

Blues and Soul

But, Realize

Darkness Came First

Few words

Fallen Leaves, Lost Sisters

God’s Child

Handwriting on the Wall

Help

I Do Me

I see you, Sister

In Retrospect

Infinity

Praise

Keep up

Lois’ Poetry

Reading

Monday Morning

My Haiku

The telling

My New Rainbow

My Thing

Night

That Day

Relationships

Nothing

On Being a Poet

Peaceful

Just Don’t

Uniquely Mine

Playa

Thy Name

Should BE

Sowing

Tend Your Own Garden

Three Things (Because there are always three things)

Victor

About the Author

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