After-Light Open Mic

Tonight a few folks from the Clifon Community are getting together to share a little spoken word, a song and maybe a dance, Who knows. I am really excited to see who will show up. I have been planning events for the last couple of years for students and I have found.. the less you plan the better turn -out. I go into this venture without much expectation. Our saying for this open mic is "Intimacy with people, intimacy with art.." If two people show up we have a host and attender. We invited the gypsies, the senic and the romantic, the writer, the poser and all that is in between,. The thought of an open mic and a spotlight even got me to pull out a poem to share. The following is untitled because i am never good at naming anything. The poem is about family and dads. Some of it is about my family and other parts about families I know. Enjoy..

Untitled

I know I am an illegitimate child,

I know, but don't tell anyone. I have no home, I used to, but not anymore.

I will sing you no la, la's or force you to cry and give me pity. I just wanted to tell someone, anyone, I am a bastard child.

I grew up everywhere , in apartments houses, couches and on the streets.

But I was a child. It didn't bother me.

My dad (or so I thought) used to get me up in the morning and do my hair., Those damn barrettes, he put them on backwards. I was still so proud. What man would attempt such a feat?

On off days and sad times still I put barrettes in my hair and smile.

Anyways, my dad and I would walk down to the candy store and he would give me a dime. Oh, how it shined.. I would buy reeses pieces.

I went down the other day to find that little shop. It sells lingerie, well that's the world -it forgets the good things and all the sweet things in it.

I am a nameless face in a crowd with no land to claim, no longer with tribe, I know, tell everyone. Me, I have no place just space and a pack of cigarettes

Every so often when I have a man, I look desperately into his eyes to find security, but, alas, I only find a blank stare and a caress here and there. But no homestead.

Where is my family, where is my dad, where is my mom with her bright blond hair?

They are distant, they come in cards and voice messages. They run away from anything that needs them, yet they want me to care, to care, to give a care, to frickin' care, for them.

My mom's name is Debbie, My dad's name was Mark, now it is Missy. Just about killed my grandpa. It did, then it didn't.

I know I am a woman; but baby always crying over spilled milk, old wine and a little cheese. I know but don't tell anyone. I have a home, it's just a little empty sometimes.