Toe/Foot: toes 2 the feet

i dreamed about your toes last night
                              tootsie roll toes
                              cocoa beans with toenails
                              precursors to African soles
                              presto pedal digitation —
black magic

woman
when you put your foot in it
in N’awlins
they speak of mojo an’ such…

but this ain’t ’bout Jo
or                        his toes

see, this is about a little woman i know —
                       a kola nut candy treat
she has feet like musical instruments —
a subtle brush
or firm caress
kneading arches
rolling the ball of her foot…

..and the sounds i get —
the breathless music —
     sighs and moans
     cries and groans
     a capella artistry the Muses never dreamed
     bipedal ecstacy like you’ve never seen…

to fondle
to taste
to nibble her sweet fudge feet
the savoring of her precious chocolate foot fingers
this is her fervent plea
add honey, champagne, soft sherbet, whipped cream —
any or all would answer the call of her feasting fantasy

…words were the way into her heart
but the route to her libido
runs by way of her toes…..

i knew feet were a form of transportation
but it seems my experience was far too pedestrian
to explain such sensation
              such passion
i suppose
from the talented tender blending of fingers, oil & toes…

her rapture is gospel —
                   head shakin’
                   tambourine quakin’
                   slammin’ her hand on the bed

you’d have thought she was somewhere in church
                                     testifying true,
but she was writhing in the sheets
instead of bouncing on the pew

rubbing her feet,
i know now how Aladdin must have felt
when he first saw his genie appear
from a few casual strokes of his hand

and, my beloved is no less compliant
                         lying limp
sheathed in a fine film of passionate perspiration
&             the sheen of afterglow

any question
every suggestion
is met with swift mumbling consent —

  “..yeah..uh-hunh…mmmm, right…sure…anything…”

lips & cheek in unconscious twitch —
endless echoes in musical body language
like the way the big gong vibrates
long after the sound is gone…

i approached her barely breathing form
her cloth moist and warm in my hand
i chuckled to myself,
as i began my tender task,
at the song starting on the stereo —
Michael Franks’ tune “Popsicle Toes”
which is just what she would have asked…

  “..yeah..uh-hunh…mmmm, right…sure…anything…”

by

jamal
ali

© 19 november 1992

Ulterior Romance

he saw
he loved
she saw possibilities
           flaws, naturally
but those could be fixed
                        tidied up

clothed in his emotional combat fatigues,
the pursuit began
assaults on fortress walls of demure denial
promising picnics filled with anticipation
wish sandwiches spread with maybe’s
alluring invitations evaporating into the future

without his combat fatigues,
he was defenseless in his underwear
          comic
          sympathetic
          moldable
          a horse who needed no saddle
                    who turned on request without a bridle

with reins in hand
she had the horsepower to build a nest,
                                           the nest of her dreams
she walked ahead
dangling carrots
directing the force of her former fear

complacency,
adding spurs to her tongue,
doubled the load of tasks each day —
building their world in her image

when at last he balked,
                 spurs flashed
                 reins were snatched
                 carrots withdrawn

he snarled
    grew fangs
& was damned for not fulfilling the masquerade

she having forgotten
lions don’t wear saddles

by

jamal
ali

© 1989

maybe it’s just a dream…

pain
hurting
fear
sorrow
loads we’ve carried too long
so wrapped up in the shroud
we’ve come to believe it’s part of our identity
                                             our essence
                                             the nature of life
and any who would know us
must walk this gauntlet
to reach us

then the gauntlet —
       what must be passed —
                                         is not us
but our shield
     our persona
     our shroud
we clutch with death-like desperation
                     hands frozen in emotional arthritis
                     arms locked, clinging to what we don’t want

after all,
what would we be without our pain?
who would we be without our anger
                                   our outrage?

if, right now, today
you could start life fresh
                          without racism
                          without the rape
                                           abuse
                                           fear
or                                        pain,
if you could wake up tomorrow
and it was all behind you,
                no longer connected to you
who would you be?
what would you look like?
what would you feel like?

Hey, no one’s saying it’s easy
or                even saying now is your time to do it
but maybe
it’s time to dream it
            to imagine it
            to prepare for it
’cause it’s just something else to be slave to

think about it —
do you carry the pain of your burned fingers with you
to remind you to use a potholder?
no, ’cause you’ve learned the lesson
do you drag your textbooks with you
                                     every day
                                     for the rest of your life
or just the lessons,
    just the knowledge
as tools to conquer the next challenge?

what’s been done to us
the past
we cannot change,
but we can choose to lose it’s misery
for this is the actual victory
over the memories which hold us back

the guilty may never admit,
may never be caught
you may never even be believed

Does this mean we must forget
or                               give up the fight?

No, just take the bat out of your hand
             take the bullets out of the gun —
the bat you beat yourself with
the gun you shoot yourself with,
over the past

Biko said
“The most powerful weapon in the hands of the oppressor
                                       is the mind of the oppressed”

imagine for a minute,
you were still Black
but you came from a place
                          where racism wasn’t even an idea
                          where oppression wasn’t part of your reality
                          where you’d never heard of these things,
then you came to America
and were faced with all we’re faced with
today

you’d still have to deal,
you’d have to face the reality,
but you
      your mind
      your heart
would not be burdened
like ours

how different would your tactics be?
how different would your experiences be?
like being a New Yorker in apartheid South Africa,
it would be vastly different

we complain of stress,
                     the pressure of bills
                     racism, drugs, crime
but what is that to slavery?
did our ancestors have stress?
can you even begin to compare it,
much less share it?

then, if we have a choice,
do we choose to be slaves to our past?
do we drag the chains of childhood
                the scars of mistake and failure
                the ache of injustice
with us every step of our lives?

it’s volunteered slavery —
even the blind can see

we cannot begin to heal our hands
’til we release the fire which burns us
we cannot heal our hearts
’til we stop the pain where it starts,
in the now

sure, it’s just a dream
                   a possibility
                   a spark,
and that’s how the magic starts

within

by

jamal
ali

© 11 december 2001

Queens

in this world of women
the spectrum is vast
yet discernment must peer beyond the packaging
                                    beyond the bedroom
                                    beyond the physical

allure has value
but consciousness supersedes
beauty is compelling
yet wanes with wear
and culture is far more telling

when seeking a companion,
a wife to partner through the strife,
the context of your commitment
is a function of the content of her character,
                     the essence of her being

even greater than integrity,
surpassing the need for truth,
there is the question of fortitude
                               tenacity
                               strength
                               endurance
                               the capacity to resolve problems
                                                    face challenges
                                                    overcome failures and flaws,
                                                to persevere
without folding
without breaking
without companion eruptions of resentment & complaint

these are the characteristics we think of
when we speak of pioneers,
when we contemplate frontiers —
                                               past or present
                                               out in the world
or                                            deep within ourselves

for those of us walking paths unmapped
whose journeys are untracked,
we need companions who can improvise
                                         adapt
                                         persevere,
for whom the exhilaration of self-conquest
surpasses all others

such is the stuff which makes mothers
out of women who simply give birth,
for mothers share this resiliency with the Earth

these women,
these masters of spirit and flesh
        mistresses of magic and mind
these walking miracles are goddesses of a kind —
                                    a rare and special fire
                                    seldom recognized
                                    seldom even desired
for those men
seeking the god within themselves
nothing less is sufficient,
and the blessing of such a companion
is the prize their eyes have always sought
and a catalyst of their own evolution

by

jamal
ali

© 17 november 1999

mango calypso serenade

He say dis be de mango mess,

                   signs o’ de mango madness —

                   sublime devourin’ of self an’ fruit

He say surrender chile!

Surrender to de mango!

Surrender to de sweet seduction,

                 de frenzied suction o’ de mango seed,

                 de jealous clutch o’ de mango need

King mango, de tropical treat,

folks justa gobblin’ de mango meat!!

Dis ain’t no fiction

Dis be a ’fliction —

he say it be de mango fevah,

                lustin’ fo’ de mango flesh,

                mango breasts make de vision hazy

                de mad passion make ya mango crazy!!

And it be spreadin’ — 

                                 lips

                                 hips

                                 bellies

&                              smiles,

alla da peoples

           growns

&       chiles

Look! Look!

It be on dey face

it be on dey chest

it be on dey hands

it be on dey feet

da sweet sweet mango mess

folks slurpin’ fingers

                  arms

&               elbows —

mango juice stains in dey eyebrows

— and dey ain’t shamed!

Dey be proud!

Dey no apologize

Look at de crowd!

Dey rhumba,

dey sing,

dey samba,

dey sigh,

an’ no one whisper —

dey all be loud!

Lissen to de slurpers,

dere be no usurpers —

          no encroachin’ on me mango, please!

Lissen to de squealers,

lissen to de chorus —

dey all be hummin’,

smiles on dey faces,

tongues just a-dancin’,

sweet cheeks blessed by de mango’s kiss,

baskin’ in de ecstacy o’ mango bliss

Can you see dem?

See, see?

Wit eyes closed,

an’ belly full,

bodies movin’ calypso sweet,

moanin’ de mango melody

by

jamal

ali

© 13 june 2004

in the kitchen with Dinah

sassafras and cinnamon
freshly grated
she had skin like that
     always smelled like something fresh out the oven
     was biscuits you dip and eat
yet never consume
she never met a hunger she couldn’t lick
and he kept busy coming up with new ones

in the kitchen of her embrace
he was the apple in her dumpling
          the chocolate in her eclair
she was a spice chest of comfortable aromas
her wet kisses tropical fruit teas
companion to her honey wheat pastry flesh
seemingly always on the rise

her whispers were yeast in his ears
savory frenzy of cookie dough fingers
leaving tribal stripes she nibbled neatly away

in naked anticipation,
his hand cupped her cheek
like a sweet corner of fresh cobbler,
gnawed her shoulder with tender teeth
found her breast willing dough
yielding to the juice-producing gentle ferocity of his eager hand

utensils hanging by open porch windows
rang in culinary mobile
stirred by an internal breeze —
something about seeing her on the table
                                flour dusting her face
                        feeling her legs locked behind his butt
sucked the sigh right out of him

treating her belly as plate
he slid a slice of pie over her navel
to catch errant juices
and ate all the way to her chin

in rising kitchen heat
they mixed exquisitely slow
churning butter
from tangible desire
blending raw need
with fresh chocolate blossoms
in romantic recipes of mango pudding passions
&                           sweet sauce confections
laced with brandied carnal syrups
brewed in slack-jawed abandon

resting on edge
they were an intricate goblet
of whipped pearl jam parfait
’til a timer stumbled their slumber
and she shut down the oven
as he carried her from the kitchen
satisfied to let this dessert
cool from the inside

by

jamal
ali

© 9 december 2002