Tag: poem

They Had It All

Little_Sister_Saved_for_Web
Tim Okamura

 

When it came to progress reports and GPA’s there could be some acknowledgement
But when it came to c-cups she was incompetent
Forced to be ashamed of her good girl,
turned off abstinence like it was an accident
bought clothes by the way they fit,
if pants didn’t hug thighs
and waist bands didn’t advertise hips,
and if these English words couldn’t intellectualize the gloss on these lips…
then they stayed on the shelf
because see this bad girl was a good girl
but because they had it all she was ashamed of herself.
had no real desire for Timberland’s but you see she rocked ’em
cause she had to
hid pretend air force one tags deep down in her shoe
so nobody could ever know that this quite girl
was trying to fit into a world that gave her the flu
cause with dark skin kinky hair
no one had the slightest idea she was there
so confidence slid into empty chairs
and she pushed set-apartness to the side
and wished for positive comments this time like they were prayers
forget water
a trip to the mall was like walking on air
and as long as footlocker existed so would this love affair
‘cause popularity called her bluff,
and although it never existed for her kindness wasn’t enough
you see A’s and B’s were fruitless and college ambitions got no recognition
unknown to her that good grades and popularity both had stock in the elite
or that invisibility would not be defined by other people’s views of herself
no more than the Jordan’s on her feet
and that no matter how hard she tried
neither Master Degrees or Apple Bottom jeans could make her complete
and despite how long she struggled through school
it was truth that offered her the first seat
knowledge,
wisdom,
and understanding she did receive
cause they had it all
and she had nothing

Guest Feature – “Alla my stuff”

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somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff
not my poems or a dance I give up in the street
but somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff
like a kleptomaniac workin hard & forgettin while stealin
this is mine / this ain’t yr stuff /
now why don’t you put me back & let me hang out in my own self
somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff
& didn’t care enuf to send a note home sayin
I waz late for my solo conversation
or two sizes too small for my own tacky skirts
what can I do wit something of no value on
a open market / did you getta dime for my things
hey man / where are you goin wid alla my stuff
I see ya hidin my laugh
I want my stuff back
my rhythms & my voice
this is some delicate leg & whimsical kiss / I gotta have to give to my choice
now you can’t have me less I give me away

– Ntozake Shange, For Colored Girls

400 years…

saggy-pants

Corner entrepreneurs stand guard unknown to gay innuendos like
pants sagged below assets of homosexual down lows
with
packs stuffed between squeezed butt cheeks and stiff gym socks
New Millennium kids
going all natu-ral
with no real knowledge as to the dred locs
see I’m thinkin outside the box
trying to contemplate the mindset of the end of days,
a cursed people, who walk around as if with no brains
from
video games to spinning rims
from the hottest Jordan’s to the newest timbs
corner entrepreneurs…. introducing, the black SIMS.
you see this is a place where success stories are only filled with those who are known around the block as the ish,
hood thugs lack motivation……except to be hood rich
and
black girls have graduated from turning the biggest tricks
slapping high fives screaming that’s my (laugh)
kitty fights scratching finger nails sprayed mace and sharp knives
no ambitions of a family
baby mama over wives
heroin addicts too proud to scratch away that last itch,
whoring has no fingers to point,
no preference of where it may sit
sick
sickness embedded in the depths of men’s bones,
spiritual zombies spend cash to sport skull and bones
t-shirts
they are aware
they have no spiritual home
independent black women who pretend not to be alone
400 years,
400 years how long?
how long will you continue to bring to life stereotypes of song singing cotton pickers
transformed into blonde, weave wearing, pants sagging, hood niggaz?
we shall overcome,
but only when some white man has pulled the trigger
and who you’ve mistaken as your own
is referred to as nigga, by the “nonviolent” civil rights leaders?
ya leaders
ya leaders have pulled the trigger.
but when will you take it back?
take back what’s yours
until there are no more
Niggaz.
400 years…

Guest Feature-We Love Like the Sun Rise

jeff_hall_silky_smooth_love

We kiss like the night
But we love like a sun rise
We love
like were far out there
Like
halos and moon rocks, and cosmos and jelly fish
We love
Like gravity
We love like autumn
the season where everything learns how to fall and we do
Fall
In love that night
You know, one day I’ll understand the earthquake crack from your pulse
I am the rhythm to any love song that made you want to exist.
So when the sun rises–anxious as it always is—
begins to yawn over the cusps of day
I will be here
may the wind lay us back onto our bed spreads where we can hold,
where we can touch,
where we can love
like the sun rise…

– Brook Yung, (excerpt)

The First Time

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The first time we made love was when you walked into my classroom
your eyes danced and moved graciously inside mine like
dancers carefully twirling to the sound of their own heart beats
and
we were young-er
got lost in your mind and day dreamed about your beauty
could not wait to get to class the next day so that I may immerse myself in your intelligence
and like books I was open
(No wonder I like to read)
If loving you meant I couldn’t go beyond the pupils of your eyelids
I didn’t mind
cause
your lips spoke confidently and proud
so that I hung onto every word
swinging back and forth I was a kid at a playground
your beauty was biblical
from the top of your head to the bottom of your feet this was prophecy
thought the teacher was a waitress asked her if I could have another round of you
let’s be realistic
this thing was futuristic like foresight
every time you opened your mouth I took road trips into your memories
and for my blood racing I could not hide the joy
trying to catch my breath after falling into your smile
we were connected
too young to understand this love at first sight sensation I could have been dreaming
or maybe it was “Just my Imagination”
cause I was dancing
moon walking into complete relaxation
your last name should have been Jackson
cause you was a hit
and I could not lie
cause I ran home just to go to bed and wake up to the sun rise
cause it reminded me of you
you didn’t know it but my nose was so open I took notes
I was singing,
a sucka to every sound of the harmonious humility that escaped like convicts from your lips
I was convicted
cause I loved you too early…

Guest Feature – Mother to Son

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Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So, boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps.
‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

 
– Langston Hughes

Guest Feature – Language

enjoy_the_silence

Silence is one part of speech, the war cry
of wind down a mountain pass another.
a stranger’s voice echoing through lonely
valley’s, a lover’s voice rising so close
it’s your own tongue: these are the keys to cipher,
the way the hawk’s key unlocks the throat
of the sky and the coyote’s yip knocks
it shut, the way the aspens’ bells conform
to the breeze while the rapid’s drum defines
resistance. Sage speaks with one voice, pinyon
with another. Rock, wind her hand, water
her brush, spells and then scatters her demands.
some notes tear and pebble our paths. Some notes
gather: the bank we map our lives around.

 

– Camille T. Dungy