Born into the ticking clock of innocence
a hurrying forth of second hands
to match the inhale and exhale of lung
we sing truth against the fragile voice of newness
and taste of the refreshing sound of belief
Trust
it is the automatic gift life births us with
against the cold relentless winds of the skies
of experience
of living
we lose sight of this gift like we age
the only circumstance in which increasing numbers
is representative of loss
a slippery lyric of experience snatching away
our inherent decision to bend
a revelation sung to the instrumentals
of life
not as gentle
not as soft
not as giving as naiveté in childhood
we learn not the automatic taste
of confidence
but the wisdom of serpents
to discern the shady tongues
the coated lips of deceit
against the cold relentless winds of life
of experience
that teaches
that we cannot trust every breathing entity
for these winds are not so trustworthy any longer
for they have grown old
and have known lies
these lungs do not sing the song of genuine
for that we trust now like serpents
and wrap ourselves
inside the delicateness of the dove
Tag: poetry
I Wonder
I wonder what would happen
if I threw my pen into yesterday
let it scribble up the past
and teleport those memories
to the edge of my fingertips
If I splashed this page with infinity
so that you remember forever
where you came from.
Or what if I just thought about it
wirelessly sent messages across dimensions
bringing back roots
and read your thoughts before they reached you
replace futility with the integrity of substance
create worlds out of nothing
create soldiers out of nobody’s
a ghetto child that’s restored to his place as a King
I wonder
If I could.
Would you let me
transcribe history
staple its pages to the roof of your mouth
let your tongue unfold like ancient scrolls
saliva running like living water
and dripping like liquid foundation
stand in the backyard of Eden
and hide no longer between rocks and hard places
find your place here
inside the body of this pen
along the lines of this page
I give you permission to bleed
all the crazy reasons why
you matter.
Mama Put a Curse on Me, by Stella May
Mama put a curse on me
When she gave me that name
Attaching history to my skin
When she knew it had stains on it
Though her eyes were green
She acted like her skin was brown
And teleported her daughter back to slavery
What kind of name is Stella anyway?
It don’t hardly go with my skin
And mama’s either.
But she tryna be something she ain’t
And I’m just tryna be something I am
You see, there’s a stigma that comes
With the color of history
Being white
And yet being colored
Race wars always concerned these two groups of people
and there ain’t seemed to be much room for a mulatto
So you see
Mama put a curse on me
When she named me Stella
After my great-grandmother
A slave on Paul Saddlers plantation
And his daughter too
So as to escape slavery
I think I’ll just opt out this race
And considers myself white
Maybe even change my name
And pitch my tent somewhere
Beyond the Colored Line
Those Who Love
It’s their presence alone that
lifts the floor and
commands the clouds to unclench their fist
cause
love wraps its garment around
their bodies
like insane prisoners to compassion
confined and restricted
to the affection that binds them
stitched and knitted
like a fresh garment,
like fresh skin
to the beautiful body of genuine
call them
the mentally insane cause
they got to be crazy
to be binding themselves like this
Her Song
Her fingers girdle themselves
around the microphone
like blessings wrapped in silk
prepared to sing poetic melodies
in front an audience too deaf to hear the angels
playing on the strings of her vocal cords
to witness the flapping of wings against their skin
too blind to see the messages dancing on her collar bone
but she sings still
and smells too much like happiness to be broken
Write Me a Picture
A blank faced lyric
how dull is the stare of a ball point pen
bleeding empty
This collection of words all myth in mouth
colorful descriptions
that cannot pierce the skin
or cut the bone and tendons of image
What lay beyond the composition of a word undefined
What triviality is a tasteless meal
What kind of food is this
What scarlet
What fine silk
What significance are thoughts under ball pointed pens
that have no pixel
And cannot paint
That cannot walk across the bottomless ocean of sing
Cannot sing this gut
What rebellious tongue
What confusing blood from bleeding pens
Something strange these destinations duplicate
Copied vision
No fire
No engines and bare fist
No fight beyond the pretty
No pretty beyond the picture
twisted mouths
no open minds
Do you mind?
writing me a picture
viewable beyond my eyes
write me something I can see
with my gut
and feel underneath my skin
no just sound good
no just feel euphoria
but write me a picture
beyond ball pointed pens
and pixels
Books are…
“Books are meat and medicine
and flame and flight and flower
steel, stitch, cloud and clout,
and drumbeats on the air.”
― Gwendolyn Brooks
The PBS Blog 