Category Archives: Poetry

Poetry is a passionate outlet that allows me to stretch my creative range via free verse forms. I gravitate towards slant rhyme and off rhyme and me rhyme, but never “end” rhyme. I strive to master meter, but have found myself its slave. I dig syllabic sound, alliteration, assonance, all things percussive with metaphorical meaning and similes that transcend sameness. Poems are built and not written, read not perused, and remembered, but rarely worthy of recitation…unless you’re an Edgar flying a Raven that’s Poe. In the latter case, recitation is both worthy and rich. I am not a spoken word artist. I am not a word-rapper. I am a writer, and one of my creative intersects is a craft that I’ve formally studied called poetry. Does that officially make me a poet? Who’s to say? This much I know is true: I am a writer.

Bishop Rudolph W. McKissick, Sr. “A 45 year Legacy”

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It was a tremendous blessing to contribute my creative energy in the form of a poem to Bishop Rudolph McKissick, Sr.’s 45th Anniversary Celebration. Comforting was my friend Vincent Brown’s comment that he has never known me to write a poem that rhymes. That would be correct, but I knew I had to appeal to a cross-section of generations and ages who could understand and appreciate the familiar nuances of our Bishop who has been at the pulpit’s helm for Bethel Baptist Institutional Church for 45 years. Now that’s what I call serious, ministerial service.

Oddly, I have had few personal encounters with Bishop Sr., but he’s one of those souls whose spirit you can capture from his morning messages, his presence, his willingness to be so accessible to his flock, and his genuine zeal for the Lord and the people of God. He’s humble, consistent, real, often humorous, and incredibly compassionate. (I hope the poem conveyed that!)

Last year he visited me in the Hospital and I was “moaning and groaning” about having been there for 11 days. His poignant perspective to me was, “But these were YOUR eleven days.”  One month prior to his anniversary special I was in the hospital again for 27 days and his prior counsel gave me perspective (not that I want to do any of it again.)

He is a Pastor’s Pastor and a Bishop’s Bishop. While I actually do write in rhyme (slant rhyme, off rhyme, internal rhyme), I leave “end rhyme” to the one and only master of the craft and that was Robert Frost. It is actually very difficult to do without sounding “trite and/or elementary.” Sometimes there are occasions where our gifts find their dutiful place and purpose and in the writing of this poem, I must say, metaphorical genius was neither required nor necessary.

Incidentally, I didn’t read the poem the evening of the Florida Theater spectacular tribute. I was unsure if I’d even be able to attend so another church member rehearsed diligently and delivered eloquently and beautifully. Kudos! I don’t know her name, but thank you for representing my work and uplifting Bishop.

It was a dignified and professionally produced theatrical production and more than adequately served as an integral part of a weekend long celebration for a man whose life and legacy have, and will continue to make a difference.

Much love and respect to you Bishop, Sr. and thank you for being such a blessing to me and countless others.

Penny Dickerson 2011


The Provocative 32 Hygiene-Stroke

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I like doing it in the morning.

It has emerged as a sensual ritual since the deciduous death of my sexy, thirty-two, adult soldiers.

Most stand upright and salute when I smile like victors of a daily battle with debris.  I am sole leader of a decay-prevention platoon who boldly confronts caffeine stains; random, organic brown grains, and loose bits of broccoli and breakfast bites.

Some soldiers are lazy and lean into their own alignment lack. This challenges my white fight, so I  deploy sadistic tactics.

My provocative pistol is pink with a SENSODYNE lubricant ─ a loyal, mint paste ─ that trumped an adolescent Crest.  She is a dedicated instrument, a SCUBA, who knows her role: follow the lead of my left-hand guide and the right-angle bend of my elbow.

I know her best as my soft, bristled lover designed to massage gums into orgasmic glee and leave every soldier longing for ten minutes more. Pink to palm, paste to bristle, porcelain and mirror: the battle ensues. I am now one with my oral.

Rebellious, I defy rules and employ horizontal flurry; an allegro pleasure exercise.

For two minutes, I stroke left and ponder my day’s heavy agenda.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      For two more minutes I reach for the rear-right and wonder why oranges are orange, but apples are red and who are the fruity Gods  deciding the definitive?

I slow down, I slow-stroke and give attention to a fallen soldier’s grave.

He lived a good life, but the Super Bubble and Blow Pop years called him to heaven. His empty tomb earns a sacred, single stroke. I reload my weapon of  brush destruction and continue to enjoy a full-fledged affair with my mouth’s most crucial ─ the front.

With a decisive, vertical allegiance, I reach for the clean, and  I chick-stroke my top rowed soldiers who selfishly beckon eight minutes of overtime love. They must be spotless and void of “something stuck in between.”

They need to unequivocally be a whole-milk hue. They invite the kiss and guard both my praying and perverse lips. They deserve fifty, passion strokes and seductive attention. They own emotional trust and secure my smile. A flood of foamed spit lathers as I continue to make morning music with my mouth agape, but I must now emit. With faucet assist, I fill a cute cup with lukewarm city-sewer-punch. After one gulp, I look like a new-aged Dizzy Gillespie preparing to gargle my gross:

I do squishy, squishy, squishy ─ internal rinse wash.

I do squishy, squishy, squishy ─ tongue roll  cycles.

I do squishy, squishy, squishy ─ followed by a staccato ─ squish-squish.

I do side-to-front-to-side, throw back my head, and muster a “gag-free-utterance.”

With feminine bend, I release to the sink my nasty elixir and re-gift the city.

Some swallow, some spit; I am the oral hygiene latter.

Penny Dickerson © 2011

Note: This selection was contributed to a visual arts project titled Beyond Clean.  See http://www.beyondclean.org to read the complete 108 “Cleaning Stories.”

Still Standing After The One-Two Punch (Live Recording)

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           The following excerpt from Lyrical Soul was read April 12, 2011 at the

35th Annual Cultural Council Awards Luncheon. Originally published in a shorter

form, I revised it specifically to reflect my “two-bout” fight.

LIVE RECORDING featuring “Penny Dickerson”

(Right click the title below and select: open link in new tab)

Still Standing After The One~Two Punch.doc

Still Standing after the One-Two Punch

The white coats predicted

I’d lose my last bout ─

scientific reason without reason,

Stage II specific,

clear cell horrific,

two tiny tumors tucked tight to fight.

Weakened, I lived

inside a dark lymphatic maze,

like a clinical pulley

a black woman down,

a down woman up,

an upbeat, beat-down

never meant to beat odds.

The white coats now serve me

anxious hand-clasped glee ─

as though it were all a continuous dream:

a rogue report,

a port for chemo removed

a high-five sign, a fist-pump for respect,

I lived just to give poetic retrospect:

Shaken & shook, I was sure I’d win,

I beat the fat lady’s song once again.

I am cut from the earth’s upper crust,

a Lazarus layer, a metaphorical must.

I’m a Brown Bomber ─ a triumph script,

a butterfly floating, a bee with fly sting.

I’m beyond benign, no bitter or blame,

I am too much tongue for disease to tame.

I’m jeer resistant and I’m crisis defiant,

I’m Lawd’ Jesus lathered with jab repellant.

Diagnosis bring your malignant wind,

your on the ropes Hospice,

your towel tossed in.

Survival rate bring ten counts to my ring,

I will one-two punch you,

I will beat you

again.

 

Penny Dickerson  2011

Lyrical Soul

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This  first poetic collection is built upon my love for language and it’s ability to leap high, reach long, and creatively crawl in free verse forms that range from couplets to narratives.

Initially inspired as a gift to family and friends, it incorporates varied poetic devices that include lyrical verse, syllabic sound, slant rhyme and rhythm’s ranging from:

“…southern sass to  emotions that touch the soul!”

Poets and those less familiar with the genre will all enjoy its three-part sections that include: praise, risk, & double-meaning. My poems  resonate both somber tones and celebratory themes of family and religion that speak to my triumph over cancer to more whimsical poems that transcend African-American history.

The collection ends with an in-depth interview with renowned poet/photographer/professor Thomas Sayers Ellis (Mosaic Magazine , Winter 2006)

ISBN13 Softcover: 978-1-4257-8874-2

Available at Amazon.com, Borders.com,  Barnesandnoble.com or

Xlibris: http://www.xlibris.com/bookstore

888-795-4274 ext. 7876

Lyrical Soul

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When I first began writing poetry, my offerings were raw, uncontrolled confessions that sought to creatively express an experience I deemed significant. Indeed poetry is expressive, but apparently, many dead, old men accompanied by the presence of a host of pioneering women set standards that defined poetry, but also confined and constricted it. Beyond the Shakespearean and English sonnets, Keat, Yeats, Lord Byron, and Emily Dickenson, I discovered new voices that better represented my own echo and a “form without rules” called free verse.

As an M.F.A. student, I worked with Poet Major Jackson who taught me to employ the Subjective “I,” Steven Cramer, Program Director at Lesley University taught me that there were no good or bad poems, just good and bad examples. Faculty mentor Janet Sylvester showed me that a poem without lineation is narrative prose, not a poem; Raphael Campo guided me into a world of writing as a means of healing and allowed me to unleash what he dubbed my, “loud, in your face voice.” And last, but certainly not least, Poet Thomas Sayers Ellis, author of the recently released epic collection, Skin, Inc. taught me – to teach me – to learn me – to show me – that what’s before me can be in reverse, that it’s “Ok” to write like nobody is watching, and those boxes called stanzas, can also box-in a poem waiting to be released.

Lyrical Soul is my  first poetic collection and admittedly, a hurried work of art. A man who loved me bid on a publishing package at a silent auction. He won it, and then bestowed his generosity upon my budding literary life.  Four years later, I decided to do “sumthin’ sumthin’” as the publishing company was changing owners and my poetic voice, too, had changed.

This collection is built upon my love for language and it’s ability to leap high, reach long, and creatively crawl in free verse forms. Initially, it was inspired as a gift to family and friends who had no clue what I was doing in Cambridge, MA,  nor did they know what an M.F.A. was, OR why you needed to study to write. They had to see it, in this collective I tried to show it, but many still don’t “get it.” Hence, the craft directive: In poetry, you show, don’t tell.

It incorporates varied poetic devices that include metaphor, imagery, lyrical verse, meter, assonance, slant rhyme and rhythm’s ranging from:

“…southern sass to  emotions that touch the soul!”

Poets and those less familiar with the genre will all enjoy its three-part sections that include: praise, risk, & double-meaning. My poems  resonate both somber tones and celebratory themes of family and religion that speak to my triumph over cancer to more whimsical poems that transcend African-American history.

ISBN13 Softcover: 978-1-4257-8874-2

Available at Amazon.com, Borders.com,  Barnesandnoble.com or

Xlibris: http://www.xlibris.com/bookstore

888-795-4274 ext. 7876

International Orders:  orders@xlibris.com