Big Sole Blog (BSB)

Oriental Turtle Dove (Streptopelia orientalis) by NikhilSource "Dead Birds Sigh A Prayer"* by Nordette N. Adams I have been told, "Do not post poems on the Internet!" See, the serious poet embeds her words only at the base of ivory towers where an usher pushes a diamond-crusted elevator button, calling offerings to the spire of the poet gods. "A poem is a sacrifice," I have been

I am still contemplating the capacity to love unconditionally. Here is my poem, not meant for literary magazines, but for all people in struggle for peaceful human co-existence: "The Real Thing About It." It is a meditation.

Cinéma Vérité By Nordette N. Adams A mother creeps through the streets of New Orleans. Her dress has the hue of fresh blood because her children are dead. She clangs an old cowbell,      shouting: "You thought it was a movie, but the Zombie Apocalypse is here. People fear leaving their homes because the dead-eyed swarm. "I have seen the walking dead. Their teeth gleam as bullets, seeking

Ticket Rhetoric   By Nordette N. Adams Romney/Ryan.    Mitt's mechanistic;    Paul's penile-Palin,    but smarter . . . maybe. The Double-Mitt Twins conceived to re-position the winds of forefathers: Mayonnaise-y,    retro-phase-y — A paste-hasty    empire strike! Resetting grand narrative to unrainbowed heritage:    America unwomened    then America unblack — The great take-back.

At the outset, my prayers are with the victims and their families whose lives have been irrevocably changed due to today's massacre in Aurora, Colorado (71 people shot of which 12 are dead). There's no need for me to cover the details here because any reader can visit the websites of the major networks and watch as well as read the coverage of James Holmes's rampage. I'm posting now because I'm

If you would prefer to read the text of this poem outside the video, click here.I do not have an easy answer to that question in the title of this post--"What's wrong with writing sentimental poetry and fiction?"--but I have a few thoughts about why writing critics reject poets who write what they call "Hallmark Card verse" or fiction authors who slather on the sentimentality that causes readers

Written in 2005, the poem "Silk and Flour" was originally entitled "Silk and Flowers," but while creating the video, I changed the title to one I had considered nearly seven years ago. I don't remember what incident inspired the poem. It may have been nothing but a muse in my head, but I feel like I had seen something in the news that caused me to think about the dark side of ego that reveals

Today is Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday. He was born January 15, 1929, and tomorrow the nation celebrates. President Ronald Reagan signed the order for the holiday on November 2, 1983, and Coretta Scott King, according to Time.com, said then "This is not a black holiday; it is a people's holiday."I remember when whether or not to make his birthday a national holiday was bitterly debated in the

I can only work through the misery via creativity. The post on this piece is at the Urban Mother's Book of Prayers.

In the above video, Nordette Adams recites Aberjhani's poem "And Then the Rain God Screamed for Love" with original music composed by Mark "Rahkyt" Rockeymoore.Kathleen Thomas is the photographer who took the picture of Aberjhani you see in this post.

The Reflection in Our New Backyard Pond By Nordette N. Adams 'Twas the season of hurricanes, when all through the land, creatures called "Whodats" scurried and ran to Home Depot, to Lowe's, to Sam's and to Rouses for candles and canned goods and fixin's for houses. They tuned in TVs to local news stations, dreading the word, "evacuation." They counted their children and grandparents, too, and

So, Japan has digitized commercial spokespeople and holographic rock stars.CreationBy Nordette N. AdamsThe new world comes at us fast:Unhuman creatures, made to last.Pretty zombies of our minds—not of flesh, born of time—will count our days and nightsas we inject nanobots to spiteour blood. Desperate, we fight Deathor God to overcome the soiled breathwe have called life. Dust mocks us to the

Prose Poem for the Living DeadBy Nordette N. AdamsIf you had written your name all over my body and sang to me the passion you claim in that song, then love may not have seeped away leaving cracked earth beneath us. If you had opened the spirit flesh of your heart like you claim you opened and had remained so--as unfurled as the lotus--then would I be here writing bitter syllables about a zombie?

Sex and the 50-Year-Old WomanBy Nordette N. AdamsWith a body like Helen Mirren's-- never burdened by babies stretchingskin to an alien curve--she is much at 50 the same as 30, bold and glistening,fevered with lust.With a body like Venus of Willendorf,stretched after bearing fresh blood,she forgets her name, contemplatesskin alien as cratered moons cooling,damp and mysterious--the unexplored cave.

Under the CoversBy Nordette N. AdamsUnder cover of scars crissrossing the torso, purple-blue etchings mesh into one nest stubborn spirits of slurs escaped from inept exorcisms, hiding an impostor's beat. This metronome times the rise of withering supplications. Alone, she skates figure eights, the eternal curve. If only she could swerve off the deepening grooveto sail a new arc high through air,

Another poem about the oil leak/spill in the Gulf of Mexico, 2010.Gold and Black to Black Gold BluesBy Nordette N. AdamsRemember when the Saints had us so high,so high that low meant do the slower second lineand the dirge signaled juke joint jig?Remember when New Orleans won the Super Bowland none could silence our wild Tchoupitoulas,Who Dat! hearts? The whole world laughedand leaped to the beat

A Brand Named HumanBy Nordette N. AdamsPeople play. See me when you try to care how I see.See you when you stop chasing fame.See me when you learn my nameStop tripping 'cuz I'm deep!Lost to you and the games,I'm deep under midnight in what you call blue funkHowling in my soul's blues trunkafter hanging low to weepSee you when I rise for air.See me.See me when I rise for airafter hanging low to