Do Not F*ck with My Wife

Do Not F*ck with My Wife

Do Not Fuck with My Wife by Ty Brack

Do Not Fuck with My Wife

I mean, not in that seedy-dive-bar-dude-in-flannel-leers-at-my-wife-
but-I-have-a-bigger-truck-with-heavier-duty-suspension-
and-a-louder-engine-so-I’m-gonna-spit-my-chew-on-dude’s-Romeo’s
kind of way.
No, no, no, I mean: Do Not Fuck With My Wife.

For instance,
standing in the security line at the Chris Rock show, dude and his wife are clearly agitated by the fact Chris Rock is having everyone place their cell phones in a secured, locked pouch because, Lord have mercy, an artist wants to protect their intellectual property. So dude says to the security person, “This is fucking retarded.” And I’m shaking my head like, “Uh-oh, dude, you just fucked with my wife.” My wife says to dude, “You know, I work with incredible students and young adults with disabilities, and they certainly do not deserve to be reduced to your selfish pain.” Now dude is really trying to save his masculinity, “Whatever, you’re in the wrong place, going to a Chris Rock show and getting offended by the word retarded.” My wife looks at her ticket and says, “Hmm, my ticket doesn’t say I’m here to see Unnecessarily Angry White Man perform.” People in line laugh. His wife is trying to hide. I’m standing with pride because it’s obvious now to this dude that you do not fuck with my wife.

I mean, not in that
trendy-bar-SoCal-meathead-who-thinks-he’s-a-MMA-fighter-
bumps-into-my-wife-and-spills-her-Vodka-soda-
but-I’m-also-on-steroids-so-I-turn-the-bar-into-the-Octagon
kind of way.
No, no, no, I mean: Do Not Fuck With My Wife.

For instance,
walking down Bourbon Street, Old Testament white lady is bringing down the wrath on a young Planned Parenthood street canvasser, “God has promised to strike you down with all those baby-killing whores.” I’m like, “Jeez, lady, you just fucked with my wife.” I turn to see my wife using PBIS restraint strategies to move Old Testament white lady up the street while saying, “Yeah, yeah, lady, why don’t you take God’s promise and lock it up with all his other broken ones? Your time’s up!” Old Testament white lady turns and disappears up the street, still shouting to the sky. My wife walks back, signs the petition, donates $10, and says, “Honey, we should get some po’ boys.” I look at the Planned Parenthood canvasser, he looks at me, and we shrug like, Do not fuck with my wife.

I mean, not in that
I-own-her-so-I-call-her- “my wife” -to-prove-that-she’s-mine
kind of way.
No, no, no, I really mean: DO. NOT. FUCK. WITH. MY. WIFE.

For instance,
her bosses target strong-willed women who present threats to their authority. A hostile work environment is created. Her co-workers quit or transfer. My wife blows the whistle. She’s attacked, harassed, slandered, “Aggressive.” She keeps blowing the whistle. She’s threatened, accused, libeled, “Insubordinate.” She’s still blowing the whistle. She’s investigated, violated, defamed, “Bitch.” Finally, someone hears her whistle. Her bosses’ time is up. DO. NOT. FUCK. WITH. MY. WIFE.

For instance,
she’s recovering from that trauma. Her new boss forces his frail masculinity onto her. She survives. She reports. She’s doubted. She’s coerced. She survives. She’s minimalized. She attacks his pocket. She survives. His time’s up too. DO. NOT. FUCK. WITH. MY. WIFE.

And I mean this in that
I’m-just-a-husband-smirking-proudly-in-the-background-at-the-fact-that-I-am-in-love-with-
this-powerful-woman-who-does-what’s-right-when-it-needs-to-be-done-while-I-just-write-
poems-about-it-so-actually-go-ahead-and-fuck-with-my-wife-at-your-own-risk
kind of way.

Ty Brack
Ty Brack

Ty Brack is a poet, Hip hop artist, teacher, and youth organizer from the outskirts of Portland, OR. His poetry has been published in Northwest Passage and is set to be published in Writers Resist. 

He can be seen performing his poetry from time-to-time at the wonderful Portland poetry events, Slamlandia, Portland Poetry Slam, and WordLights, and his music is available on all major digital streaming platforms. 

Ty Brack also organizes youth poetry jams in his community, providing young poets the opportunity to increase their social-emotional health through creative expression. You can follow @ty.brack.poetry on Instagram

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Shadows of My Past

Shadows of My Past

Shadows of My Past by Marie Anaïs Tessa L’Etang

It kept on following me
No matter how long or how fast I ran
Pinched myself a thousand times
In hope of waking up from this nightmare
They were out to get me
I could feel the darkness caving in
Soon it was cold, I was out of breath
It caught me, it wanted to kill me
I have been running from the shadows of my past for years
I was finally realising my dream
but the light made the shadows reappear
I was made to remain in the dark,left hopeless and walked upon
That was the message my shadows told me
While stripping myself of all dreams, hopes and life
<strong>Marie Anaïs Tessa L'Etang </strong>
Marie Anaïs Tessa L’Etang

I am from Mauritius.  I’m still in high school, so school and tuitions and studying leave little time for a job or for many hobbies but I write and read every day. Since I was small, writing fascinated me.  It has only been an everyday hobby but I hope one day I can publish a book with poems. Instagram: anais.tessa

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Watercolor for the Soul

Watercolor for the Soul

Watercolor for the Soul by Victoria Oliver

Can I just write
About something beautiful
Not educational or earth-shattering
Just a smattering
Of word paint
Watercolor for the soul
Like a sunset or fruit bowl
The sound of nothingness
While looking at the stars
Or the deafening roar of a waterfall
Drowning out the dark

How the soothing sound of crickets chirping
Brings me back to being ten
Sleeping in the basement of my grandparents’ again
I just floated away from my complicated life
And was someone else for a while
Loved and valued just for being a child

I used to walk forever under the almond trees
Make my way to the edge of the Tuolumne
I’d walk out to the bridge
And watch the clear water swirl by
And then row in the aluminum boat
And feel strong and light

My grandparents’ stories of the past
Mingled with my dreams for the future
And now I wish I could go there
For one last great adventure

I’m so glad I got to go there with you
Before time buried the memories from view
Reflection sometimes makes rose-colored glasses
And even more, as time passes
But that’s ok with me
Give me the almond tree

Come away with me
To the whisper of the river
The echo of the cliffs
The stillness of the blue towering sky
Hot, fragrant grass fields slowly sun-dried
To the old bungalow and it’s storage tower
Beckoning us to rummage hour after hour
To the dredge camp and all its history
Stories shaded in the overgrown trails
Weathered remains of cabins speak veiled
And now that you’ve shared this with me
We’ll keep it alive in our memories
<strong>Victoria Oliver</strong>
Victoria Oliver

I was born near Santa Cruz, California, and grew up in Spokane, Washington. Many of my childhood summers were spent exploring California’s Central Valley (especially Yosemite) with my grandparents. I made my way to beautiful Portland, Oregon sixteen years ago and soon met my wonderful husband. We have two amazing, creative tween daughters together. There’s never a dull moment at our house!

When I’m not writing or spending time with my family, I enjoy playing around on the piano, singing, photography, walking, knitting, and reading.

I’ve been writing poems and songs since I was nine years old as a way to process my thoughts and emotions. I’ve always loved rap, the sound of spoken word rhymes, and learning other languages. I take poetry seriously, but if I try too hard, nothing flows.

I’ve just started sharing my writing on Instagram at @word_awakening. I’d love to someday do poetry readings and compile a book of poetry to share.

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The Gift of Presence

The Gift of Presence

The Gift of Presence by Terra Vagus

My anxieties are always chasing the future.

Frustration grows as I know
I will never leave the present.

I’ll seclude myself from you
to include myself with me.

Nothing exists when I am alone.

I stop time.
contemplate existence.

Nothing exists when I am alone.

But my skin still falls ever so slightly with each thought passing me by.

A cruel reminder that I am wrong.

Even when my clock stops
the world clock tick-tocks.

As I relentlessly obsess over what comes next
I abandon the present.

I abandon the future.

I am stuck in a construct of my own lifeline.

I’m unsure how to see outside this frame of mind.

My ego is my enemy.
My only security.

The present comes packaged with a ribbon
that I don’t have the guts to undo.
Terra Vagus
Terra Vagus


Terra Vagus is an introverted 20-something who resides in the Pacific Northwest. When they aren’t writing, they either have their nose in a book or they are out scouring abandoned and creepy places for anything paranormal.

Terra Vagus is a lover of animals, literature, ghosts and the Earth. 

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In Another Life

In another life

By Nikki C Mercer

In another life 
we walk the streets in daylight 
side by side holding hands

In another life
we celebrate our love
every waking moment we can

In another life
I am your woman
you are my man 

In another life
<strong>Nikki C Mercer</strong>
Nikki C Mercer

Nikki C Mercer is a wordsmith residing in Adelaide Australia. She manages a family, a financial career and a passion for creative writing.

Nikki’s pursuits include endurance running, eating way too much sugar and experiencing the depth of life.  Nikki is co-author of The Thing Between Us and is published in a number of anthologies worldwide.
 Connect with Nikki on Instagram by searching for handle: ImagineExploreCreate

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She was Manifesting.

She was Manifesting.

Poetry by Shantae Gray

She walked right passed him.
He who was a King.
It hadn’t been intentional.
And as he straightened his crown; flexing his pectorals.
Hoping that the sun’s rays would hit his kingly.
That this woman would see him.
That she would fall to his feet.
For he needed her to be his Queen.
She might have been if he had come months sooner.
 
For in her a sea of intensity had raged.
A hurricane of hunger surged through her.
Its lightning and thunder awakened her.
She could only see the very being she was striving to be.
She was manifesting.
 
Dimensions she hadn’t seen.
Dreams she hadn’t dreamt.
She was inspired.
She was ready to defy.
She was ready to fly.
She was manifesting.
Her being had been rebooted.
Schooled by knowledge that had been so empowering.
She was manifesting.
 
She didn’t dress like a queen.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail; sweat running down her face.
In her denim jeans were patches of dirt.
That represented the business she was building.
The degree she was completing
The integrity she held on to.
The book she was writing.
She was manifesting.
 
There, etched into her black skin were jewels of her hard work.
All the things her sweat, blood and tears had achieved.
She was manifesting.
The king went in search of her.
Resting his crown.
Putting on his boots.
Running towards her
Trying to catch traces of the beauty that lingered in the wind; gracing time and changing lives.
She was manifesting
<strong>Shantae Gray</strong>
Shantae Gray

My name is Shantae Gray. A proud Jamaican and a graduate of The Caribbean Maritime University. I enjoy long hours at the beach, reading and singing.

I can’t say that writing is just a hobby. For me, it is far more than that. It has become a way of life.  A God given talent that I appreciate each day.

It’s funny how my emotions and feelings are tied to my writing. If I can feel it, I can write it. I love that about my craft. It is my feelings and emotions on paper.

I am working on my first book of poetry and aspire to be a renowned self-published author.
 
You can follow me on Instagram @taestruth

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Reflection, a poem

reflection a poem

Reflection, a poem by Deanna M Ramirez

Reflecting for days⠀
Frozen in place⠀
A future wide open⠀
too large to embrace ⠀

A mind bound perplexed ⠀
tangles simple ideas⠀
Put mind rest at ease⠀
Enjoy chance⠀
which appears ⠀
Squash ugly lies ⠀
false facts fed by ⠀
faint fears⠀

Swallow all pride⠀
Dig deep from inside ⠀
Then relish rewards reaped ⠀
Whence you reside

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Awakening, a poem

Awakening a poem

Awakening, a poem by Deanna M Ramirez

Sitting patiently at the core⠀
awaits the awakening of ⠀
a meek soul ⠀
Delicate strings ⠀
laced in gold courage ⠀
wrapped in knots of ⠀
protection, surrounding ⠀
Careful pulls in thoughtful direction ⠀
release the deep core spilling ⠀
emboldened beauty till⠀
it bubbles at the surface⠀
Awakening brave brilliance ⠀
Reborn a lioness

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Please pardon the blog hiatus!

Please excuse the blog hiatus
Please pardon the blog hiatus
Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

That’s when I began to hear myself, over and over again, tell my daughters that it is important to follow their dreams. That dreams require passion, persistence, and sometimes sacrifice. This website, and a more serious approach to my Eve Poetry Instagram account, became ways for me to start walking the walk. I want to show my girls a good example of what I believe is so incredibly important.

Taking life in our own hands

Life is so precious. We hear people say this often, but we don’t often see people do something about it. Those that do something about it are out living and experiencing rich, fulfilling lives; or at least trying to.

That’s what I want for myself. That’s what I want for my family. A rich and abundant life. Not financially (although that would be nice too). I’m referring to riches of time and experiences. Fulfillment. To leave this precious time we have on earth without regret. To know we spent the years, hours, minutes and seconds with those we love most, doing activities we enjoy. That we did so unselfishly. We loved others. We helped others. We helped each other. We were there for one another. We lived a life, of life. Not of things. After establishing the What, I knew I needed to begin the How.

My how

Writing is my How. I’m going to do my best to make it the How. The work that allows me more time with my family. More time living. More time.

Which brings me back to the hiatus referenced in the title of this blog. In pursuing my passion, I also realized I have a passion for mentoring and helping others. Thus began the Eve Poetry Writing Group Instagram account, and the Writers and Poets Cafe Facebook group.

While this remains a passion project of mine, and I’ll continue both; the time invested in both required I put this blog on the back burner for a few months. But I’m back! I am shifting the balance back to my own work and endeavor as a writer. There’s more to come. Stay tuned!

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