Free write this morning…

If the lord’s prayer
is not a farce
and heaven’s gates are not spray painted
I don’t know
what to say
about this
living on
my tongue

in the
time we have to ourselves
we argue
about the bitterness
of sedimentary pain
how it effects the eye sockets
when it settles down deep
and what kind of company
the stench of sorrow attracts.

but in remaining hours
my breath
is dank with mundane language
and fresh air freedom is a hungry dog
rabid with blinding joy
a secret tickles the roof of my mouth
with urgency and faith
truth and fallacy complement
my palate like reminders seeping through my taste buds
I loves yous to loved ones
that no longer breathe
whispered away to restore
flesh to bone and smiles to
shimmer in their full capacity.

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today (tuesday, dec. 23, 2015)

today is foreign

its coordinates are prime

its possibility,


tangled tongues

cushion my steps

away from this tortured silence.

a prisoner of my own

free will.

(c) 2014 Elizabeth R. Straight-Wilt

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Today: Sunday, September 28, 2014 :Free Write

Good Morning,

I haven’t been to my blog in a while and I’m forcing myself to just type words right now. For those of you who don’t know, NaNoWriMo is coming up soon and October will blow by quickly. I’ll most likely be posting my novel nuggets here as well as on because I want to receive feedback from those I know and love and from those who only know my writing and couldn’t give less of shit about me as a person. Both sets of opinions matter tremendously I believe. So, as of today, I have duly noted that I must begin to practice writing with distractions, aggravations, inconveniences, etc. if I’m going to write at all. Apparently, there is NEVER a convenient time to write once you have a child and a family life, etc. so  this is my first effort in attempting to carve writing time out of all the shit I would prefer not to be doing – like coaching my child’s tball team for example. Man, that experience is another blog unto itself. And since I’m listening to #flyinglotus trying to stimulate my creative voice, it’s not the time nor mindset for me to go there. But man, whew, you talk about typical Lizz Straight shit…

Anyhow, as my child snuggles next to me asking me

“what are you doing?”

“writing a blog.”

“what are you writing again?”

“a blog.”

“why are you writing a bog?”

“a BLOG. because I feel inclined to.”

Then, with turkey bacon in hand, she proceeds to randomly tap keys on my number key pad and put her foot on my laptop’s keyboard and demand another episode of My Little Pony to be turned on.

“Stop, or you gon have to move.”


“somewhere other than right by me.”

So then she stopped and I’m still here typing trying to figure out how in the world this is my life. Happy Football Sunday people. Enjoy it. (Who else will be novel writing this November?)


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i wrote this in like april or may and i played with it a little today

I saw you this morning

bright light in my eyes

like you was tryin to find out why i was doin

what i was doin right then instead

of keeping it movin

you was never that kind in the fire

but i guess you was cause you was always smilin

your brandish stopped smelling of brandy

and gained a garnished of burnt blunt smoke

what i miss most

watching your yellowed teeth touch amid

avid conversations that caulked the corners of my ignorance of

everything from soul music to political movements

bid wiz and chess

while smokey robinson sweet singing sweltered

in to mississippi backyard humid

each note lingering beautifully above like a blue jay in a sycamore tree

while your laughter was  train whistle bursting through fo day in the mornin peace and quiet

a beacon of wit

a talker of shit

a reminder of this world ramming my innocence in to

another time zone

i continue to receive your messages as they come

sunset sunrise

sun gone behind thunder blazen skies and

the gray credance of my clearwater revival

my eyes grow tired trying to find you

but keep them coming

so i can rest

trust i will accept your signs as you draw them

not as what I wish to see in the mirror steam

in the lonely pools under my eyes

i will only hear your wise musings

in my diction in these forward moving days

the past pulses from my fingertips

resonnates in random radio moments

when i ask my daughter who is this a picture of

and she says uncle bookie and his laugh

she is right and she is wrong

and if she were older than two i woulda told her

no, this is a picture of a sculptor

conductor of dissonant harmonies

the first homogeny of Turner and June’s genes

possessor of hands with more mettle than a ship yard full of

blue collar man pride

nothing sugar sweet about you

you was black berry juice on fresh pressed school pants

after grandma told you don’t go up to the tracks to pick em

you was the tart spoil in peaches and cream that she was too drunk to remember making

so it sat there until the new day’s reminder

you was my coach teacher leader oldest uncle patriarchy without the

heavy hand you was mine and all of ours

spit shined pride

the tool shed of spirit’s home

you was the everything in my chest that is now gone

and there are no blinders for that

no libations that can wash away the

swiftly disintegrating attack

cancer unleashed in your body

the last time we broke bread

you had hummus for the first time

and the last

you told me you loved me

you sang rhyming songs to my daughter

and made her laugh

each words moved through me

a blade sharp and slick

and all that be left

is this

holy spirit

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July 23, 2014 · 6:29 pm


The food was awesome and I got to take a nap two days in a row. I wished I had the courage to venture out in to the shopping nightmare so many stumble and grunt through with the whites of their eyes cracked with red veins, and their bank accounts thumping against the glass ceiling of living beyond their means.

I had a marvelous time with my mom, sister, nieces and Malcolm, my sister’s boyfriend, along with my husband, his momma the birthday girl, his pops, and the great Jackie Wilson!

Tell a friend+Prove it = Get a CD

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Free write

Nothing I buy is ever that expensive.  I am a bargain shopper so when I lose it or break it I don’t feel the sting. Everything
around me
is purposely
Cheap items are expected to break quick
I wait on it like fridays
Can’t wait to go and hunt down
The next cute worthless knock off of the real thing and that’s part of the pleasure
The hunt for the perfect plastic
Partition from commitment…

Eh. I will work on this.


Tell a friend+Prove it = Get a CD

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Cristine Craig – Crow Poem

I had to share this. I am reading “Jamaica Woman” an anthology of poems. And you as well should find it and read it. I am sure you will discover yourself in its pages as I did. Enjoy.


Crow Poem by Christine Craig

I want so much to put
My arms around you but
Extended they are feathered
Vanes, snapped, tatty things
No longer curving.

My voice wants to say things
About blue skies, blond sand,
Yet a rasping, carrion croak
Jets from my beak
Sharp edged.

Condemned to live a life for which
I am ill suited, improperly
Dressed. Perhaps there is out there
One crow, wheeling over the city dump
Convinced she is a woman.

Tell a friend+Prove it = Get a CD

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