I love you like the smell of rain before it falls

@ Jodie-Ann Geddes, 2012

I don't want to write poems anymore
I want to say some shit that's true
Something that will make people respond with curled lips and a sigh
No snapping fingers
The only melody to my words should be a conversation with you
Please refrain from astonished thank yous'
I am not a poet
I write poetry 
I hurt the way language needs to be studied


It is easy to forget
Who you are
Where you are from
Where you desire to go
@ Jodie-Ann Geddes, 2012 

Memory Association piece

Archaic, dusty, faded
You're nothing but a memory
Glass in the shape of cartridges
I want to ride you like Mario rides Yoshi
Find me a golden star
Open the door to innocence after you rescue the frog

Restart
Press X to select

Ancient or Enlightened
They are each one and the same
Never enough memory to fit your heart into
Always deleting another requiem to build new shapes
Like triangles and squares
Nothing round enough to pump the words to twinkle, twinkle
never reaching (star)
Forgotten how green you shine
I've never beaten you b4
The cheat codes don't work in real life
@Jodie-Ann Geddes, 2010

We can't love love the way it needs to be loved
Like petals falling atop a river basin
Frogs flipping Lily pads

We love like a composite hit and run
A premature arsonist
The crumpled and used napkin under the 2 train bench

The love is evil and bursting like a shooting star
Fearing of no one and is always confident
It does not get nervous but it feels resistant and uncontrollable

I want to love you without the needle trimming the outline of our music box trying to fix itself
@ Jodie-Ann Geddes, 2012

There is love in all that I do

My heart is a trunk submerged in mud

Digging its way through like a baby birds beak

Stuck in a place it doesn’t belong

Sometimes I feel like I’m better than the world

They don’t care enough 

Weak and insensitive beings

There's passion in all that I do

There is love in my anguish

Love in my tears

And love in my trunk

Sinking into the roots of the earth I am waiting for a leaf to fall and lay its falling pieces onto my branches

Friendship bracelt and a letter

Tie me onto your wrist

Take me everywhere you wish to go

I am not afraid of traveling roads with you

I give you permission to sweat, shower, and wipe your tears with my thousand threads

If I unravel in the midst of your confusion lay me in a safe place

The same place you keep objects without wings waiting to be born again

I have a rampant midnight spur of the moment words of confusion for you to decipher

I mean all that I say

I hope you feel what I mean

I won’t lay myself down with you and whisper in your ear at the same time

I want to take all the time I can get with you

I am afraid there will not be enough for us

I choose to give you these gifts separately

What kind of writer are you?
The dark corner with acidic tears
Cracked floorboard ready to collapse
Ghost writer in the booth
What kind of writer are you?

I have been searching for a way out but I haven't changed my route. I am still writing what and feel and the way I know best, through poetry. Although I feel comfortable with this method there is still this part of me reaching to find the perfect line. That line that everyone feels and has said to themselves once upon on a time but it still has a profound effect. A statement that in its simplicity captures a lifetime of wide smiles and heavy frowns. I want to give myself fully to the fruitful world. I don't want to pick from the apple tree but I want to plan coconut trees.
For those of you who are consistent followers of mine, I hope that you continue to follow my work. I am inconsistent and a sporadic busy body but I would like to still stay connected with you. I will try my best to post poems when the shaking of my hand touches the page.
I got  Tumblr and still don't post or keep it up consistently. ha!

I was asked to write a podcast on diversity for my Change, innovation, and Impact course. The issue I choose to write about has recently surfaced through interactions with a close friend. I hope by posting this, a conversation can begin that is truthful and engaging. I will not give you a summary before hand so with that being said, read and comment! 

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When many think of culture they see race and color but for me culture is much more than this. I think that the word diversity expounds upon what it means to exist in union with different forms of people. 

I remember coming to America and there was this preconceived notion about a world called foreign by many Jamaicans. When I arrived I was taken by the sights and lights that blinked in front of my eyes. There were people everywhere and it was so congested. After a few months I began to adjust but I still felt out of place. I can remember the coming of Black history month and I think that the month of February is what always sticks with me when I think about diversity. In Jamaica I have no recollection of Black being a main identifier; upon being present in America I did not see myself as black. I believe that I assumed that being Jamaican encompassed being Black and African- American.

In my later adolescent years I began to realize that there were multiple ways of identifying one’s self. There were Asian-Americans, Native-Americans, and etc. yes, I learned of all this in my schooling but it wasn’t as apparent as the way it was when I arrived in the states. I began to become a form of blackness that I observed in my neighborhood; this was the struggling single parent household and Jordan wearing young women. This way of seeing the world was not one that was allowing me to understand who I was and why I felt so excluded. I was called an Oreo and many assumed that I was assimilating to a white culture. I am in no way putting the blame of my own self expression onto those in my community but highlighting a lack of understanding. My association to Blackness was not based on the immense love I felt for my community but the struggle I examined.  Though this may have not been the right way to identify with those that I looked like, I am now able to look back and see all that different shades of my people. These shades aren’t just limited to race but so many other forms of being. With that being said, all I could see was the assortment of color, not who people were. My mom does not call herself Black, she calls herself Jamaican. It hurts me to know that the men and women who share such a distinct history with me aren’t engaging in storytelling with me. I want to know what it is like to be a Black American and I would like the chance to tell what it is like to be a Jamaican woman in America.

My analysis of self shows a misunderstanding of the world that can keep culture intact but also cause a separation within another. I am in between two hurt cultures trying to find a middle group for love and rehabilitation.

I am a black Jamaican, Maroon, African-American searching for who I am, not based on the color of my skin but my experiences. Please do not judge me, let's speak.

Here to Stay

November has been the last time I have posted something. I have however been finding more truth in my words. I currently attending school in Greensboro, I may or have not have mentioned this before. I have had the chance to hear some amazing poetry. The form of storytelling that slam takes on in the 'Boro, has been very significant in my quest to move from seeing slam as a horrible breakup in one essence. I able to find that middle ground between theatrical and humane. I will soon post some of my new writings and as always, thanks for continuing to read my many tales.