Naked Reflections The Shamelessly Sensual Blog

Tag Archives: Cancer

Pieces of Peace #24: Transformed

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Living with the power

of peace

transforms from the inside out.

But suffering inside the fire

of a dragon

kills like cancer

that metastasizes

at the sound of a voice.





Prose Challenge Inspired by “Hairs” from The House on Mango Street

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Missing Hair

Everybody in our family has different hair.  My father’s hair was soft and thick but thin on top. His face stood out more than his hair. One day, cancer took his hair, but he kept it bald. No one really knew what he lost.

My sister, Pam, always had more hair than everyone. Her hair pulled her scalp. Does being tender-headed hurt down deep like being hard-headed? She is tender-headed. I am hard-headed. Pam’s hair tangled and matted when she was a little girl because she liked to leave it alone. She cried when my mother bothered it.

My hair was a creative project. From 2, 4, to 6 ponytails, to press ‘n curls, perms, and French braids. I messed it up, fixed it up, and twisted it up like gossip.

But my mother’s hair, my mother’s hair, like events on an endless timeline. Little girl pigtails, big bangs, pin curls, wigs like movie stars, and rollers with bobbie pins, and then wigs again because one day cancer took my mother’s hair. I remember the day when chemo hair filled her hands like clumps of grass unclaimed by their roots. She decided to shave it all off. No patches. No pity. Just prayers for power.

I saw a lady who reminded me of my mother. Silver hair trimming a golden face. Royalty shining from each gentle curl.  I wanted to comb her hair, brush it into something beautiful like a painting that holds memories before its colors begin to fade. I wanted to stand behind her at a kitchen table cluttered with curlers and cream, and roll her hair while she told me stories about how much hair my grandmother had. She was tender-headed too. I wanted her to tell me she loved me even with my hair a mess. I wanted to smell the oil sheen and her perfume one more time.


Stream of Unconscious Truth

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sparkle shore

This poem doesn’t have to make sense

It is mine

You, willing observer

of my subconscious tableau,

take snapshots of what is real to you

But know nothing

even resembling the truth.

My truth.

Angels danced on waves last night

and carried a melody to my ears.

A woman’s pink bandanna covered her cancer

but pain shouted through her eyes

shallow, searching, sad.

One hungry man got a free book from me today

His mind was starving more than his stomach.

I could not give him a dollar

My change is not spare

But I freely gave him my words and my gift.

The soles of her shoes, worn down

Like the body she dragged with them

But her heart beat stronger than mine.

Whatever hides under his hat

Sails on ocean currents

and washes up on foreign shores

deserted islands

where the story

resounds in drum beats

in wrinkled brows

where truth

tells itself through pained whispers

and weighted cries.

My poem is my story


but it happened

so it is.