Tag: spoken word

Love Poem

love-couple

Wanted to jump into memory
and photograph pieces
of your smile
the only cracks worth seeing
on someone’s face
Didn’t know dimples ran deeper than wells
but every time you chuckled
my nerves melted underneath my skin
Is this
Is it real?
Could the pull of the wind
be the yearning for your laughter?
That always fell like diamonds at the base of my feet
Could someone tell me how a poor woman
becomes rich again?
For I knelt before history
and shackled your existence to my future
and when you laughed
The moon was missing that night
cuz I held it in your gaze
And the sun dripped hot from the gaps in my fingers
Cupped your chin gently against my palms
And when we kissed
Heaven cracked open its skies
and thunder praised our union

Writer’s Quote Wednesday – “Passing Pebbles”

Welcome back to another episode of Writer’s Quote Wednesday as hosted by Colleen of Silver Threading and Ronovan of Ronovan Writes. It feels good to be back I must say. In my country voice “How yall?”

It also appears I have returned to a new challenge! Here are the new rules:

Each week we will include a theme for anyone who needs additional inspiration. You don’t have to follow our theme if you don’t want to. It is optional.

In fact, Ronovan and I will alternate each week with a themed prompt post written on Silver Threading. This will give you a different perspective weekly to keep your inspiration flowing. Make sure and join us. You never know what we will come up with!

So what do you do?

You select a quote that inspires you. Then, write a short piece of flash fiction or poetry to share with us all using the quote either in your story or as the title of your masterpiece. You can include photos, photo quotes, or anything else that helps to highlight your quote. – Colleen

****************

Sounds exciting!

My writer’s inspiration today comes from an unknown author. I have decided to include a poem with my quote:

image

Huge mountains
and great hills
They tower above our heads
Like mothers to sons
The intimidating weight
Of experience
To our youth
Like a father’s instruction
Heavy with discipline
Is the carved stone
The frightening rock
But it is true
We can move mountains
If we tried
If we faith-ed
One pebble at a time
One pen to a rhyme
One stuttering syllable
And leaking ink
We scatter stumbling blocks
Like children at play
Except
There are no toys
No plastic dolls
Or wind up cars
Just similes
And metaphors
passing pebbles
And conquering mountains

***********

030816_1826_writersquot1

And that’s it for my contribution to Writer’s Quote Wednesday New Challenge Edition.

Murder She Wrote

silhouette_of_a_girl

No, it wasn’t suicide
the freedom in her chest
the genuine in her throat
and the explosion of awareness
she didn’t try to hide
packing a strap
never hesitating to open fire
leaving trails of Earthquakes lingering at your side
pen to paper
creating a new world of gun smoke
white dope
and fienes who didn’t mind dropping the dime
even if sudden truth made em choke
you see she killed ignorance with her words
dropping bombs
and cracking open minds
that refused to otherwise
oblige
she ate books with the speed of speech
and digested their integrity for breakfast each morning
but she wasn’t a good girl
or rather
a good woman
for she would spit tsunamis later that night
a raging storm
were her words when she blessed the mic
a collection of seas
to wash away the broken
and a ringing silence afterwards
like screaming death was her audience
jaws scattering somewhere across the floor
tongues unfolded
like red carpets
and eyes found a home in her face
it was clear
she’d destroyed the room
overturned tables
and left bodies in a state of ruin
for they all sat unmoved
like statues
feared her voice like blank pages
and empty books
silence dragging their minds to ponder
a new birth place for their thoughts
and no this wasn’t suicide
for she killed ignorance with her words
and the detectives concluded that yes
indeed
it was murder she wrote

Why I Write Black

two generations

Because flowers grow in strange places

like tattered pieces of wood and recycled paper

 

Because history is frost bitten

and winter refuses to be comforted by the sun

bluish-white and numbed pain

cold skin

and prickling feeling

 

Because the sky don’t stay dark forever

but light ain’t taught in history class

 

Because some skirts

are too heavy

to lift without permission

Because Dust Tracks on The Road

was subtracted 3 chapters

Because some truths

are too big to sacrifice

on American alters

 

Because Zora died broke

and Nina died sad

Because their voices still sing

Because strange fruit still swings

 

Because ignorance is worth more than rubies

and diamond gems

Because no one has picked up the pieces

of truth

underneath the ruble

of bombed out churches

on 16th streets

Because little girls ain’t little girls no more

but crushed bones

and melted skin

a strike of disobedience

against premeditated sin

 

Because hope is stronger than despair

Because freedom is worth more

than all the

raisins in the sun

I’ll Carry It With Me

047

From the bowels of the deep south
To the place of the rising sun
She’ll stretch her roots to the ends of the Earth
And her scent to the universe edge
From the Nile
To the Euphrates
Her soul is Langston
And has grown deep like the rivers

On her bark
Are the names whipped out of her ancestors skin
Pocketbook scriptures ripped out from underneath their tongues
And she stands there
Towering over the people who pass her by
Singing their song in the wind

She remembers the scratchy fiber
It was course and woolly
Like Nyongo’s hair
When they tied her arms
Around the Magnolia

She was there when Moses died
They buried his bones under the shadow of her roof
Tied bright yellow ribbons to her branches like shackles on her arms
So that Tubman can tell that she was a slave
And carry her falling leaves to freedom
She sings her song
From the bowels of the deep south
And the deep North
clean across the Atlantic
And on up to Spain
Where the ships of Tarshish came first

But you will never know of it
Not when you see her standing there
All tall
And full of pride
her petals are soft and delicate
and burning passion like the sun
But I won’t forget
I’ll bottle her scent and carry it with me
The history of her children
The memory of the hanging tree

Brown Skin

Mississippi lips

Lousiana tongue

West African shaped nose

Skin kissed by the sun

Israelite Culture

American Captive

Egyptian Color

russet brown

seal

dark puce

blue black eastern man

blue black woman

symbols of authority over her head

natural beauty no longer dead

hair like sisal rope

braided

coiled

nappy

strong

prayer hands that crack open the sky

from the place of the rising sun

to a land that sought to shackle their tongues

run aways

slave ships

cotton fields

those days

share

croppin

jim crowing

freedom ridin

no more hidin

Mississippi lips

Lousiana tongue

West African shaped nose

Skin kissed by the sun

brown skin

Her Skin

beautiful-skin

She has heard for too long now
that her pores bleed the color of slave ships
that chains have been seen in her smile
that her skin shines like a beacon of shame
sprinkled amidst Mississippi cotton fields
sometimes
her beauty sticks out
like a diamond in the ruff they notice her
and still
she is only pretty for a dark skin girl
Who does she think she is?
being darker than a brown paper bag?

The truth is that she is the color of the Goddesses
a dark chocolate kiss
neatly wrapped in silk
want to touch her face
just to see if it’s real
just to see if it’ll melt underneath my fingertips
Instead
I’ll keep my hands to myself
don’t want to be the stone
responsible for the wrinkles in her skin
this delicate rose petal of a woman
reborn in the spring
don’t want my touch
to taint her gorgeous
where not even the bite of Winter
dares to diminish
her light