August 25-31, 1997: Rosa Clement and Ameedah Pollard

Week of August 25-31, 1997

Rosa Clement and Ameedah Pollard

Rosa Clement


I am a Brazilian and I write poems in both Portuguese and English My poems have been published by Poetic Eloquence, The Lyric, Lynx, Green’s Magazine, Mobius, etc Four of my poems were accepted by Guild’s Press for inclusion in their 1997 anthology “Just Remember ” I enjoy watching movies, reading, playing cards, basketball, and of course, writing poems I have two poetry pages at Amazonian Mists A Moment for Poetry

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Rosa Clement and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Well

Our backyard sprouted a spring, 
uncovered when a tall tree fell,
and from that stream of rivulets
my father built a well

Into it our hands let slip
a bar of soap, a spoon, a dish,
and even things we never see,
a thought, a hope, a wish
There, mothers filled the pots,
and stayed to wash their souls with friends, 
while children sang a fountain song
in circles, holding hands

My mind is like that well,
when time decides to stir and rake
those tales of life that bloom and float
like lilies in a lake.


I’m like the seasons,
I also change my nature with time There are days when
I’m a canvas painted with melancholy,
the silence in the room,
the traveler
who only wants to find her home

Others days, 
I’m the rolling skate on the street, 
music tipping my feet,
the shadow falling from the tree,
the deer raising its ears
to sounds of insects’ wings, 
the grass bending for festivities
Other days, I’m the white moon
floating on red horizons, 
the fountain’s water filling my palm,
merry sounds from a fanfare, 
the wood for bonfires, a temple of passion,
and like the seasons’ weather
I also break all forecasts.

A Little Sin

The village chapel shaped my childhood days,
but sometimes I preferred to leave my prayer
to stare at saints and candlelight displays Because that little boy was always there
and liked to glance at me, I loved to wear
my yellow Sunday dress with satin lace, 
to feel his eyes on mine in sacred space
If I should weed my heart of little lies
to taste the Host and show an angel’s face,
my sin was to admire those loving eyes.

A Magic Poem

All of an afternoon
the pen became a spoon,
the paper, a pan,
and the poem sauteed itself
to kill my poet’s hunger
As minutes stirred my thoughts,
the sweet smell
of cinnamon and clove
came from the desk,
gaining body and flavor,
inebriating like
a full chalice of champagne
This magic scent
lured my love to share
this poem with me,
feeding him, letting him
be completely served,
totally satisfied

Ameedah Pollard


Ameedah Pollard is a 29 year old poet from NYC Largely influenced by black experience novels, Shakespeare, Science fiction and Horror fiction she writes a combination of Short stories and poetry She is in the process of writing a poetic biographic novel about herself and her father (who was also a poet) She is inspired by the works of Octavia Butler and Maya Angelou as well as M Warren a little known Canadian writer featured on her webpage She is interested in writing a poetry filled biography/autobiography featuring her father and herself

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Ameedah Pollard and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

Mom’s Kitchen

Mom’s kitchen is empty
No bacon fryin’
No children cryin’
No sweet smell,
No game of guess and tell,
No laughter within,
And there will never be again Mom’s kitchen is empty.


One dark corner,
The wrong time of day,
One hundred hands groping my body,
A man,
A thief
Too many strikes, 
Drops of blood,
My thighs no blockade My prize broken And the thief Even if caught Got away with me.

Promise Not

Promises aren’t needed Swear not your love Confessions of the heart are wasted We are the moment For us tomorrows don’t exist.

Urban Rose

A tended rose still has thorns A wild rose still has beauty Should you tend a wild rose?
It will still grow towards it’s will It will still have thorns.


Love poem to love poem,
My words to yours,
My prose caress and intertwine Your reason wrapped in the whimsy of rhyme,
Our joy expressed a laureates melody,
Your words a retort unto me.


My sweetest My heart is pounding with wanting you My eyes Aching with the anticipation of you again For when we are together,
I am all beauty And weightless in your arms.


I am into him as he walks across the room I am into him as he tells me of my beauty I am into his dreams, I see them clearly I am into all that he loves all that he enjoys But in all that I am into When do I have time To be Into me?

Is He

The heat of melted wax upon my skin,
Burning then cooling,
Painful then soothing, 
This is your touch
The invigoration of warm water on my breast,
Relaxing then tingling ,
Calming then arousing,
This is the feel of you tongue
The intensity of a dream all too real, 
Frightening then exciting,
twisting then turning this is the motion of you inside me
Moaning then sighing,
screaming then silence,
This is the pleasure you give me.


Should my beauty fade away year by year,
Falling away like the petals of a spent flower My temperament sharp like thorns My soul green with envy of the other blossoms Who shall tend to me then?

Tennyson’s Face

The sun shines brightly,
Bouncing off his walnut skin Playing in his eyes His lips part to unveil his white teeth,
The sun,
Hides behind the clouds.


One works with his hands
His smooth hands The other works with his mind,
His strong able mind One directs and guides me,
Pushing me towards the stars The other cushions me,
Gently wraps my troubles and kisses them away Both hold my hand and tell me I am beautiful Either of them could own my heart,
Neither of them want me to choose One is married to his wife The other is married to himself I am alone.

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