Bread Pudding Love

Bread pudding has arrived in high-style

it’s the latest vogue fashion food.

Dressed in a coconut shell

covered with amaretto and white chocolate.

Six years into the new millennium

they line up in Atlanta for a taste.

Nobody had to tell my mama

how to make gourmet bread pudding.

She’s baked memories for over thirty years.

Stale bread with almost spoiled milk

dump in the last of the sugar tin.

Add some raisins and on fancy days

put in a peach or pieces of pineapple.

Open the door to my mama’s kitchen

to the smell of love coming from the oven.

Can’t wait to cut into the dense treat.

Almost burn my tongue sneaking a piece.

I have arrived into happiness.

Joyce M. Rose-Harris

10/25/2006

Her name is. . .

She strides with a regal pose

Dreadlocks trail down her backside.

Highlights of copper and gold

woven throughout her crown.

Her physique taunt and limber

like that of a dancer.

She bathes in Frankincense and Myrrh.

The glow of olive oil illuminates her ebony skin.

No catcalls follow her along her journeys

for men are breathless by her aura.

Young and old love her the same

the young see the child within

the old garner strength from love she sends.

Cypress trees bow to touch her lips.

Weeping willows encircle her in tender limbs.

She leaves every place better than before her presence.

Her name, you ask. . .

Her name is, her name is, her name is

Beauty. . .

Joyce M. Rose-Harris

10/6/2006

 Pressing Comb

Saturday morning get my hair washed.

Mama puts it in braids.

So hot the sun dries it while I play.

Soon as the streetlights come on inside I go.

Look on the stove, what do I see?

It sits there with its black handle

and metal teeth grinning at me.

Can of grease with the silver top.

It’s time.

Sitting on the floor between mama’s knees.

Combing, combing my thick head of hair.

Still so hot, grease runs down my face.

Holding my ears.

Here it comes that searing hot pressing comb

to sizzle my hair.

Joyce M. Rose-Harris

Original 1990

Revision 2005