Chantay Legacy Leonard

I used to be in love

with a Cancer, brilliant

among the constellations.

We water signs often lose

ourselves in undulating

seduction of untamed oceans.

He had a strange name.

Curled on my tongue 

like the glyphs of the Hindi

scriptures he was named for.

He never treated 

his self as sacred.

Broken idols 

cannot fix themselves.

Filled in the fissures

with self-pity and loathing.

A man, who hates

himself will never be free.

Watched his mind

burn with a billion stars.

Speech like the guttural

purr of a panther.

Sleek and black

as that regal predator.

He moved me without speaking.

Across concrete and city air.

Trapped him in my gaze,

stalked in tall shadows of

his stride. He was everything

beautiful and sullen.

Laughing as if life

were always a cruel joke.

Smirking more than smiling.

The sun broke across

his face in rare moments.

Stole each of those smiles

as a memory to tuck in pockets.

Sadness, a deep cloak

upon his eyes.  Smiles

never quite reached

the pupils, the way

I stretched myself as a bridge.

He could never walk 

a straight path. Wolves

prowl the wilderness alone.

There was wildness

in his heart.  Reluctant,

I always let him go. Never

wanting the sun, to disfigure

into a snarl. He was a painful pause,

while all of life reeled forward.

Lost, and I could never

pull him from the lovers

knot of night.

He adored the seduction

of streets and synthetic

highs too much. Dwelled

in lows, and forgot

he knew the science of soar.

Power, a loaded lie,

pointed at his temple.

Convinced himself, it was

better to be the savage

of the Earth, and not its King.

In the tradition of leaving,

we always parted with a kiss,

and no promises of ever after.

A serenade interrupted, and

a complex love song only

we knew the melody to.

His body is a frail bird,

wings withered in

the prison of his

own mind, and locked

behind the bars I pray

might force him to

breathe again.

Have you ever watched

a skyscraper tumble, and

paint the sky crystal with blood?

Its hollow soul hanging upon

weeping skylines like a specter.

Remember its beauty,

and grieve for the majesty

it once possessed.

I used to be in love with a Cancer,

until it ate its own body, and

became nothing but dry bones. 

My locs are a mess

wild and tangled at the roots,

carefree just like me.

Dear Aaliyah,

What should I tell you

of this world?

I want to shove you

back into the safety

of your mother's womb.

Vanish your Earth creaton point,

and leave you safe in Heaven's arms.

The world is cruel, and life indifferent.

It would be safer to run with scissors

than trust another human being

with your holy grail of a heart.

Girl children become victims

of unspeakable atrocities.

Learn blues, before understanding

the beauties that aqua and azure

can offer you in summer skies and ocean depths.

Aaliyah, I do not mean to scare you...

Being born a girl means

you must become a woman.

Must lose something,

to gain everything.

Must cry to reap the

full harvest of your heart.

Must suffer to know joy

lasts longer than struggle.

We are Leonard women.

Our mothers know bitter rows.

To tuck pain in lower cheek,

and bear it across state lines,

bad men, and babies returned

to God or given to the Earth

too quickly.

We smile, because God intended

that our mouths should be sweet.

Our words are weapons, and

balms for the bruises. One day,

you will need this poem

to remind you of this gift.

The ability to heal, own it.

Walking away when it is time,

own it.  Loving yourself

beyond a man, own it.

Telling truth, rebuking lies,

own it. Your heart and tongue,

own it. Your peace of mind,

possess it like the mad woman

they will call you.

We are fighting mad women.

Unfathomable power roars

in our tender veins.

You will be indomitable,

and softer than you desire.

We are silk overlaying steel.

Remember your spine, girl.

You will need it to shift

from danger, to never

sway from purpose.

You are beautiful,

if no one ever tells you.

I am telling you.

Believe me, I know.

I am your sister.

Carved of same bone

and blood. God made

us tougher than most.

Shine harder because of it.

Dear Aaliyah, I cannot afford to be sentimental.

But I will always be truthful.

Count on this constant,

and I will always offer a hand

to guide you back home. 

Fragmented sunlight

invades merciless shadows

engulfing the sobbing Earth.

Scattered beams scuttle

in the abyss of our souls

penetrating seeds of hope.

If life allowed, I would be free

If time allowed, I would be free

to live off the fruit of my creativity.

A bitter chalice I have sipped,

such haplessness I have sipped,

that man cannot always survive on his gifts.

With baneful thoughts and wistful heart,

most painful thoughts and fitful heart,

I have accepted wage, sacrificing art.

I lust for the hours not my own,

Burn for hours I used to own,

discontent in soul, a reality I bemoan.

Yearning for the sacred dawn,

where I woke as writer, not corporate pawn.

Ill

tidings

breaking heart.

Unimaginable

waves of endless

woe.

I write because

I don't know how to stop.

Words sucker punch

leaving whiskey sours

and sore feelings behind.

I comply to an abusive 

muse, begrudgingly.

Some consider this a "lifestyle."

What does it take to lead this life?

Ink stained fingers clinched around

faulty pens, worn pages, a smoldering

cigarette, a fog of alcohol, and

a deluge of pain and despair?

Do I have to pull a Bukowski?

Go all Cobain?

I never want to sit on the edge of a stage

and cry, even if my poems scream out loud.

I know what's like to despise yourself,

and hide loneliness in liquid lust,

and be hungover from heartbreaks.

Too bitter to admit the thing

that is broken is me.

It's just easier to blame you, baby.

How many I love yous, I have

traded falsely for the promise

of an epic poem.  I know

they will welcome my purgatory,

applaud the exorcism, and moan

sweet and low at the tragic

spectacle I have become

in smoke and candlelight.

I can't take back

the things I have spoken.

The wounds I have opened.

The lovers I have judged.

The stories, all the stories

of bleeding, broken, beautiful

brazen human beings.

I am one of them,

with a wicked gift

of framing it gracefully enough

to make the horror easier to bear.

Dear Me'Shell,

Thank you for giving me

all the evidence I need to prove

that I am my best life partner.

Patronizing penises have no place

in the Democratic Republic of my Yoni.

A sea line woman, with sirens

guiding the damned

to deliciously deceptive shores.

Sleek and rotund, hiding

jagged teeth and snapping reefs.

Beware the heartsong in my panties.

Only a fool would mistake its melody.

I am a jazz Venus, lounging naked

in open windows. Gardenias twined

in serpent locks. My tongue,

a forbidden fruit.  Too many Adams

lost in my garden. Creation points

destroyed in my lethal wake.

My third eye detects all bullshit.

Full of myself. Unapologetic

for being extra and beautiful.

I don't write big girl poems,

because there is no need

to dwell on the pointless.

Brilliance with bountiful

breasts, thick legs,and

a switchblade stroll in stilettos.

Baby, I am something else.

I love myself in ways 

folks consider narcissistic.

Preening without mirrors,

curse like silk against

concrete curves, laugh

at my own self and others.

Indulging in the inappropriate,

because I am fond of the profane. 

The kind of woman, that holy 

women rebuke, and their men

prey for. I'm a different

kind of miracle. God

made no mistake in

my divine design.

I'm built to occupy the Universe.

Stars are pulpits, and my poems

are prophecy to those who can

decode the language of Atlantis.

Too ancient for an identity crisis.

Too timeless for historic fictions.

My throat is a mockingbird,

trilling truth when the bowers

of the world attempt to close about my skull.

I am my own Eden, needing no

rib that can't endure beside my own. 

I open the windows

allowing my apartment to exhale

the day's suffocation.

I am wearing all black,

an appropriate color for mourning.

Deeper still in the night,

with all the pounds of loneliness

and weariness girdled to my waist.

I am wasting time, as if life

will slow its inevitable progress

for my whims.  I have forgotten

the feeling of magic.

My belief in humanity

is fleeing with the blood

of the innocent draping Earth

in crimson sheets.

My ancestors moan in

my aching bones. I am

aging faster than I expected.

More melancholy than I should

be, with the breath and spirit

still in this imperfect body.

What is joy when so many suffer?

Happiness is a mystery

that still illudes me, like

the prospect of smiling faces

baring my eyes.  I am not selfish

enough to swell my womb

with unkept promises.

It's not safe to love.

The world is not ready,

and neither am I. I am

black dresses hiding scars

and flaws etched in worn flesh.

I wear sorrow, as a muted

sari.  There are no celebrations

to be found in this moment.

I am just trying to live.

See my peope do more

than survive. I swallow

the night, letting it rest

in my throat until the sun

slits my eyes, giving birth

to a new day.

Never place your own heart

outside your reach

or you will find it keeping

strange company.

(fiddling

with frayed strings)

Fingering the remains

of a violin that only understands solos.

Too many lows will make

you an unfit partner.

The chords are too high

strung on hopes that we

can improvise the melodies

(fill the echoes with a

mortar of sound)

Avoid detonating

the atomic silence

on your tongue.

(heavy pauses are dramatic)

Remember you are every 

particle of air hovering darkly.

The snare of your breathing,

the wind chime of your slivered

heart, and the xylophone of it

bombarding your ribcage

is God's sweetest orchestra.

The wrong man, will attempt

to make it an erratic symphony.

(furious plucking)

Steel the joy in your bones,

suck out the marrow, and

bellow your pain like bagpipes

on a barren Scotland plain.

Your music is too sacred

for discarded batons.

Be an aria of light,

vibrato sun, and

rainbow arpeggios.

Too ascendant to ever fall

dull and flat on an open ear.

It was good to you.

 Until truth penetrated the heart of our lies.

It's 2012, and I live in a country governed by a Black man, in the White House. The media and his political opponents can do everything short of outright calling him a "nigger" and physically hang him from a flagpole publicly. I believe if they could, they would. Young, black boys and men can still be shot in the street, harassed, beaten, arrested, and  murdered.  There is something distinctly wrong with the country, the world that I live in. It disturbs me, more than 400 years after slavery that I can reach back in ancestral memory and parallel the scenarios too closely.

It's been a lazy weekend for me following the big book launch party for I Have Come Forth By Day, A Woman's Evolution. It was an amazing event being surrounded by most beloved and sincere supporters: family, friends, fans and new faces.  I was humbled and honor!  In the next few days I will post up pics.  

So with the release of my new book I Have Come Forth By Day, A Woman's Evolution, I am receiving more inquiries from people wanting advice on how to get published.  Honestly, I would say a lot of luck and a good connection!

I just left a meeting with Okane Media owner Miles Dixon, and I am excited to announce I will be launching a new internet radio show in January!  I also have some magazine and publication projects in the works.  Watch for me good people.

It's 12:39 am and I have been slaving over this website and social media pages for hours.  I am nearly feverish in my drive to get this book published, promoted and into the hands of family, friends, fans and the public that has yet to discover me.  It has been a long road getting to this place of realization, to the manifestation of a long cherished desire.  I never imagined it would be so hard, so emotionally demanding and draining.  I feel like I have been leaping Olympic hurdles, and have been so afraid that I would fail, and that this opportunity would never come.