“The Inn Of The Small Comforts” – a new poem

I am “The Inn Of The Small Comforts”.

No one comes to me to stay.

They linger for a tiny spell,

and I send them on their way.

They continue on their journey.

They come to me only to rest.

To quench their dry and thirsty mouths

with milk pouring from my breast.

They lay their burdens on my shoulders.

Their worries, cares, and fears.

Releasing their most tightly held emotions

with loud screaming, and with tears.

They lay their heads down in my softness,

and take shelter from the storm.

They regain their strength within my caring

‘til they’re no  longer weak and worn.

I am “The Inn Of The Small Comforts”.

My tables overflow with food

that is fresh and well prepared

and nourishing and good.

My bath is a luxurious scented dream

of soapy, watery, bubbly bliss.

I massage their heads and backs and feet.

I send them to sleep with a soft kiss.

But I always remind them,

“This place with me is not your home.”

Yes I will let you rest awhile,

but then you must go on. Alone.”

I am “The Inn Of The Small Comforts”.

But all comfort does pass with time.

And then I remind them that it’s time to leave.

Staying too long is a crime.

“You cannot stay here with me” I say.

“This is not your domain.

This place will never be your own;

must never bear your name.”

“You cannot stay too long within my walls.

You are too weak to keep them strong.

So leave when it is time to go.

This is not where you belong.”

Once a wounded, wandering soul

thought he should not leave.

“I could stay here the rest of my days.

The air is so sweet and here I can breathe.”

He admired how well I ran my inn.

I do it with what seems to be ease and grace.

With pleasure dripping from my curves,

and a smile upon my face.

But it took me years to learn to run my inn

and while I don’t ask others to assist,

this man said he wanted to help me.

He asks and then insists.

He chops wood, gets water from the well.

He fishes and hunts and brings me game.

I serve him juicy fruits fresh out my garden,

and his words are always the same.

“I want to be in this place with you

and I want to earn my keep.

I want you to take a break sometimes.

To relax and get some sleep.”

But there are more chores than he imagined,

and I bear many heavy loads.

He had no idea this was the life

behind the gates of this abode.

Now he resents the work he asked to do,

but now I’m used to his helping hand.

He wasn’t strong enough yet to work so hard,

and yes, I guess I understand

that his wounds were still fresh, though healing.

And now he’s angry at me too.

For I just let him stay there knowing

there was too much he could not do.

I am “The Inn Of The Small Comforts”.

Or I was, but not anymore.

Too much damage done to my sanctuary,

and so I’ve finally closed my door.

But one day I do plan to reopen,

that I do guarantee.

But when I do, I’ll have a new name,

“This Is The Place Called Me”

–Petula Caesar


THE LAST STRAW — A new poem…(and yes, I’m gonna try to be better at blogging regularly!)

Don’t play with my emotions,
because I’ve been there before.
Don’t think you’ll hurt me and just go.
You won’t make it to the door.
Don’t touch me, hold me, or make me care,
don’t make my cold heart thaw,
then turn around and rip it out.
Please don’t be my last straw.

I’ve told you how it’s been for me.
I love too hard and strong.
And sometimes I needed to let go,
and I stayed around too long.
I know some men chase girls for sport,
And they’ll chase harder when the girls withdraw,
but they’ll run when the girls give in to them.
Please don’t be my last straw.

I’m asking you not to tell me lies.
Don’t chase space in my head
when all you really want from me
is a good time in my bed.
And when I ask how you really feel,
don’t stutter, hem and haw.
Don’t treat me like some stupid chick.
Please don’t be my last straw.

I’m telling you right here and now,
I’m at the end of my rope.
I’m tired of being all alone.
It’s so hard for me to cope.
If I find this was just a game to you,
I’ll break every single law
to make sure you feel the pain I feel.
So don’t be my last straw.

I will call all my cousins,
play cousins, brothers and uncles too.
Trust and believe they’ll teach the lesson
that I couldn’t teach to you.
You know that gun I got? When I’m real pissed
I’m real quick on the draw.
Too many men have done me wrong!
So baby,
please don’t be my last straw!

And fellas, always keep in mind
how much a woman can hide.
You never really truly know
what storms might rage inside.
So call her a crazy bitch
when she tags your car with a chainsaw,
but maybe she was just fed up;
maybe you were her last straw.


–Petula Caesar

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month…so…

…I couldn’t let the month slide by without posting my poem on the subject:


I didn’t wanna write this piece.
I mean…
How many ways can you describe an abusive relationship?
How many times can you tell that story?
Who wants to hear or read about that – AGAIN?
From Chris Brown to Beau Willie Brown
it is a tale as old as time.
Whether it’s the old school “pimp slap”,
being fed daily meals of strategic isolation from family and friends
with side orders of emotional abandonment,
or just constantly being called out your name —
it’s all the same.
And I hate being repetitious.
I didn’t wanna write this piece.

I didn’t wanna write this piece.
I mean…
How many ways can you say
“I had low self esteem”
“I didn’t love myself”
“I didn’t think anyone else could ever love me”
How many times can you say
“I needed him”
“I thought it would get better”
“I let my standards fall to the ground”.
And even if you truly were in just that much pain,
feeling that much shame,
and didn’t want to give him the blame
you’ll still be some dumb bitch who didn’t have sense enough to kill that muthafucka
the first time he put hands on you!
And I didn’t kill him – I let him live.
I didn’t wanna write this piece.

I didn’t wanna write this piece.
I mean…
Hell, I probably started it.
Haven’t you heard?
Women have equal rights now.
And because we are the most expert button-pushers
on the planet we are just as entitled to be punched
as men are.
Shouldn’t get mad ‘cuz he finished what you started.
And yes,
It does make some kind of
toxic and violent sense in my head that if I hit him first I deserve what comes after….
But in the real world,
that almost-but-not-quite-correct
didn’t hold much weight for him
at the police station
or for me
in the emergency room.
I didn’t wanna write this piece.

I didn’t wanna write this piece.
I mean…
(lowering my voice)
Just between you and me…
Have you seen those abused women
in the shelters and at those meetings?
Those are some hella ugly heffas!
Well, what I’m saying is they aren’t the most attractive bunch of ladies.
You can’t be too surprised that they couldn’t get any better than some insecure asshole.
And honestly…
ain’t I too attractive to be abused?
Don’t I seem too magnificent to be mistreated?
Too bad to be battered?
Too cute to be cussed out?
Too nice to be name-called?
Should I be put down
whenever I come around?
(I conveniently ignore the real question…am I too fly to die?)
I’m pretty sexy, don’t you think?
Fucking me with all the lights on is not a problem.
How would I look running to some…
I don’t know…place to get…HELP…
with my soft and well spoken tones,
my mani-pedi, my good benefited job
my MAC lip gloss and my strappy stiletto heels.
Look at me!
Do I look like I should eva have to lie
about a blackened eye?
I didn’t wanna write this piece.

I didn’t wanna write this piece.
I mean…

Let’s just put the shitty stereotype out there,

I am a Black sista!
Strong sista!
Kinky hair and rounded ass!
Blood of the ancestors,
the an-ses-tas,
the an-SIS-TAS
flowing through my veins!
All the strong women that went before me
Superwomen whose legacy I have soiled
with my inability to dial 911,
file a complaint,
press charges,
keep a court date,
change a lock,
seek/abide by a restraining order,
hire a crackhead to beat his ass
or just shoot that muthafucka!
Then you gotta look all these
modern day Superwoman bytches in the face.
You know the ones.
Miss “I wouldn’t neva let a man put his hands on me”
Miss “What is wrong with you? Wouldn’t be me dealing with that mess!”
Miss “If he touch me he betta kill me.”
Miss “Gurl, you ain’t got no rat poison in the house?”
Madea offering you hot grits, cast iron skillets and baseball bats.
Miss Sophia In Da Hood shoutin’
“I lubs DayQuan, gawd knows I do but I kill ‘em dead if he eva beat me!”
And you know what the worst part is?
Some of them look like they really could kick a man’s ass!
Amazon warriors in spirit, and sometimes in the flesh!
Some of them MIGHT be able to go toe to toe with a man, and if he did manage to win
he’d be breathing mighty hard when it was done.
But I’m not that one…
I didn’t wanna write this piece.

I didn’t wanna write this piece.
I mean…
No one wants to hear the ugly truth about why
I don’t leave for good.
Most don’t say it, won’t say it.
But I know I never will get free
if I don’t try to speak on what’s binding me.
It is mentioned in vulgar euphemisms
if at all. But…..
It’s my addiction
to his DICK-tion!
Get it?
See…look at you
giving me the side eye!
That side eye is the reason why
I bear this burden alone.
I am the dirty butt
of a dirty joke
that ain’t the least bit funny
though everyone laughs like it is.
No one will tell me
how to cut ties with
the sex that has me so vexed.
Yes I need to be confessing it!
But no one wants to help me with addressing it!
How the way we make love is to make war first.
Now our battles are the foreplay
and the sex is the victory dance.
And we both win and lose
all at the same time.
The orgasms he can make
rain down in me
numb my brain
and ease my pain
adrenalin rushing
through my veins.
Serotonin soaking my cerebellum seeping into my soul
until it is bathed in sweet scented amnesia.
You don’t understand how him
inside me
makes it all make sense.
Body fucked hard, yes!
But mind fucked harder….oh baby yes!
It’s the spoonful of sugar that makes
his medicine go down. DOWN.
Like I have.
And since it can never truly be spoken
that its his sex game that got me so open
even long after everything else about us has died…
I accept my punishment for my love of the pleasures of his flesh
no matter what that punishment is.
Because feeling this way, makes me the weakest woman of all.
And I deserve what I get…right?

Yeah I know.
What can you say?
I know what you’re thinking of me.
But you know what?
Your silent judgment is the REAL reason why
I didn’t wanna write
this piece.

A New Poem…

The clouds remind me of him.
Thick, full, and
slightly foreboding.
Rolling in over me.
Hanging just above my head.
Darkening my sky.
I close my eyes
and await
his final decision.
With a loud shout
he chooses rain.
The droplets
splash upon my face,
upon my body;
cooling my skin
and washing away
all my unanswered

I eagerly anticipate
the return of his thunder;
His heavens tightly
and stingily holding
the power to soothe me
when the heat
starts to consume
my core once again.

“Sweet Submission” — by ME

When it comes to you

sweet submission

is my religion.

And you are my deity.

And you and me

worship faithfully

at the altars of our naked selves.

We call out “oh my god”

over and over again

to renew our bond

as lovers

and friends.

When it comes to you,

sweet submission

is my religion.

I part my legs to show my faith.

My trust.

My lust.

I must.

I can’t stop.

Won’t stop.

Reaching for bliss

with a touch and a kiss,

as we spin into



When it comes to you,

sweet submission

is my religion.

I sigh.


I let go.


You take me.


Now all of me

lives in all of you.

Lives in all you do.

Lives to make it through

to the other side of

our personal paradise.

When it comes to you,

sweet submission

is my religion.

Now I am forgiven

for the mistakes I made

before you.

Feel me inside

the core of you.

Feel me inside

restoring you.

Feel me in your heart

adoring you.

I’ll pour in you

every bit of my

my most devoted


All my soul’s wealth.

With you

Sweet submission

is my religion.


So…today’s blog…

is a poem I wrote that I am posting cuz I felt like it…


When loves’ slave catchers

throw their chains and traps

around me

I will chew off

pieces of my heart

to free myself.

During these sex-filled struggles

I lustfully bite

my pursuer

as I fight the ties

that seek to forever bind

me to him.

I sensuously swallow

pieces of him

during the battle of wills.

But I am always the victor,

and I greedily devour the spoils.

As for the love warriors

who rise up

attempting to rule my

personal internal  queendom

and who always fail,

they now will spend

the rest of their lives

trying to get back

the pieces they lost to me

in the battle.

The pieces

become part of

the fiber of my being

and the marrow of my bones.

These leftover spirits

invade me and

teach me how

to be the hunter

and still seem like

the prey.

Now I chase others

by allowing others

to chase me.

To attract them

I strip my brain bare

in their presence


mentally masturbate

before them.

A psychological exhibitionist.

They watch me

and want me

while I wonder why

the presence of love

has always meant

the loss of my freedom.

And I must fly

until I die.

So, catch me if you can.

But know

that even I

haven’t caught me yet.


On missing romance, and being soft…

I have been “officially” single for a bit over seven years now. (Please make note of the use of the word “officially” in quotes.) And truth me told, it wouldn’t be honest to say I’ve hated it. In so many respects it has been good for me. Creatively it has been great for me. Most of the men I dated weren’t particularly supportive of my artistic endeavors. Some had their own creative dreams and ambitions and wanted me to throw all of my energies into helping them make their dreams come true and not spend time on my own thing. Others were just not into the whole “artsy” thing, and wanted me to spend my time on more practical pursuits. Most of them began displaying their insecurities the minute I achieved even the tiniest bit of success or recognition for anything. Whenever I have been the most successful in my writing has always been when I’ve been the most alone. Time and time again, I have chosen myself and my writing over any relationship with any man. I always felt that if he truly loved me, he would accept how important this writing thing is to me, how much a part of me this is, that he wouldn’t want me to let it go. I always hoped they would choose all of me, not the me he wanted me to be. These men didn’t choose me when it came down to it.  Now 7+ years have passed since I openly and totally gave myself, heart and body and soul and spirit to a man, and accepted his in return, and sometimes I miss romance.

Now I appreciate any gesture that a man might choose to make to let me know he is interested in me, loves me, is thinking about me, etc. I love big lavish carefully orchestrated drama in my honor, with big lavish gifts to match, and I’ve experienced that in my past. But for some reason, it has always been the small gestures that have always touched me the most. I love the little things. Rubbing my feet after a hard day of work onstage in 5 inch heels reciting dirty poems to music. Taking me out to lunch or dinner or a movie just because, or cooking my favorite meal for me. Helping me dress — some of my stage outfits are hella hard to get into, and I need every extra pair of hands I can get when I am backstage dressing. And of course I reward him by letting him help me get out of my outfits at the end of the night. Having the tequila I love around his home so its always there for me when I come over is romance to me. Getting something for me that he heard me mention in passing that I wanted, and giving it to me for no particular reason is extremely romantic – and it doesn’t have to be something expensive. Calling me just to say hello, that he were thinking of me, or just because he wanted to hear my voice is romance. Secretly touching me in public, rubbing my leg under a table in a restaurant (I’m not a huge fan of excessive public displays of affection), or placing a hand on my ass when no one is paying attention if we’re in a crowd. These things are the height of romance to me. I’d much rather have these small gestures on a consistent and regular basis than have the huge display occasionally. If he is going to do some really over the top, one-time-only kind of thing, I’d suggest a luxurious, decadent vacation getaway to someplace far away, beautiful and hot – in every sense of the word. Bali would be perfect. Other than that, just get me some good sushi now and then and kiss my shoulder blades and I’m in heaven.

I also miss romance because without it, a woman becomes hard. It’s just a fact. Without those little gestures from some man (even if he’s not your man), women become these bitter creatures. They may not become total a**holes, but they are just a bit more difficult to love than a woman who has had the benefit of having some man make at least small sacrifices at her altar. A hint of hardness always becomes a part of a woman who isn’t worshipped at least a little by someone capable of woman-praise. Not all men are capable of this you see, or they can only worship a woman after she has conformed to his definitions. A man who can worship a woman in her most natural, true state is one to be treasured. Sometimes I don’t think men get that they need to worship their women sometimes, but they do. It will make your life so much easier. Now I said sometimes, because you can’t do it all day every day. If she wants you to worship her all the time you and she need to talk. But women are meant to be worshipped because they are goddesses, and when they aren’t being worshipped they are naturally not happy about that. Then the hardness comes, and when it does its damn near impossible to get rid of.

I have been fortunate in that, even in the absence of serious relationships I have usually had men around who thought very highly of me, and didn’t mind letting me know occasionally. Even my platonic male friends will drop a small sacrifice at my altar from time to time. I accept their celebration of me; it helps me keep my goddess-flow intact when I’m up against a cold, cruel world that doesn’t give a damn about me.

And it’s allowed me to write this piece. Hope you enjoy it!

TOMORROW’S BLOG – Find your sexy, love your sexy, live your sexy! How to dress to bring out that sexy classy woman in you!



And here I am…soft.

I have my soft back like I used to be.

I have my soft.

Thought my softness died in me.

But look at me now.

I am sweet smiling joy, and so soft.

All over, inside and out, gentle and tender.

Like water rushing over a hard stone

for a thousand years to finally make it smooth

Him finding me took a thousand tears

but when he did he finally proved

that the soft part of me was still alive.

Just dehydrated.

Thirsting for proper care.

Didn’t know how much I’d missed my softness

until he rediscovered and kissed my softness

and made the waters return,

bringing life back

to the most womanly part of my essence.

The part that is soft,

especially in his presence.

And here I am…soft.

Poured him onto my skin

and it made me soft.

Let him just soak right in.

And now I feel so supple and moisturized.

So silky and revitalized.

He is a spa treatment for my wounded self

and my tired spirit.

Now I bathe in the reflection of the beauty

he reminded me that I possessed.

Now I am soft

from the curve of my breast

to the smoothness of my back

to the fullness of my thighs.

My lips and my eyes.

All soft.

Still soft, to my joy and amazement.

Because I wasn’t sure my soft would survive

this life of hardness.

When I threw that shell over it

for its own protection

I worried that my soft might suffocate.

And I had to leave it covered for so long

I thought it might be too late.

That no one would be able to resuscitate

the soft in me.

But he knew what was living

beneath the surface.

Strangling and gasping for air,

but still managing to stay alive.

So he took a deep breath, held it,

dove deep, long and probing,

and recovered my treasure.

Rejuvenated my pleasure.

And when he came up for air

he had in his possession my soft.

And he still does ‘til this day.

Because with him is the safest place

for the softness in me to be.

He cares for all of it

like he cares for all of me.

Me who is again finally…


Previous Older Entries