Everywhere
in the eyes that stare
in the crisp air
in a stranger’s hair
the way he sits in a chair
in my reverie
lurking
i see you everywhere
Author: A. Long
The Poetry Corner Celebrates Black History Month
It is important as Americans to realize that Black History Month isn’t just about one race or a few events in history. It is the essence of American history, black, white, purple, or in between. The best way to celebrate is to learn something new,…
Football
I take the snap from the center,
fake to the right, fade back…
I’ve got protection.
I’ve got a receiver open downfield…
What the hell is this?
This isn’t a football, it’s a shoe, a man’s brown leather oxford.
A cousin to a football maybe,
the same skin,
but not the same,
a thing made for the earth,
not the air.
I realize that this is a world where anything is possible
and I understand,
also,
that one often has to make do with what one has.
I have eaten pancakes, for instance, with that clear corn syrup on them because there was no maple syrup and they weren’t very good.
Well,
anyway,
this is different. (My man
downfield is waving his arms.)
One has certain responsibilities,
one has to make choices.
This isn’t right and I’m not going
to throw it.
–by Louis Jenkins
Let’s Be Weak
telling someone to be strong
is like telling a building to be still in a hurricane
only the trunk
that bends to the wind
can weather the storm
don’t be afraid to watch someone crumble
don’t be afraid to be on the bottom
build yourself back up with tears of grieving
or dancing for bricks
learn to bend like bamboo
and backsides
swivel the weight around your hips
like a hula hoop
if the world is too much for your shoulders
Amber Tamblyn Talks Poetry, Bourbon, and Death
Sit down as Broadly takes an in-depth look at the poetry, life, and star power of Amber Tamblyn and her husband, David Cross.
Math Is Hard
–Bill Watterson
Street Balconies Can Cry
a small breeze blows through his cerulean sweater
as he stares off into the distance
the dancing lights below
the fire escape
lean under his weight
i see him
at first he is steady, Herculean
imagining the jump
All at once he crumples into himself
like folded paper
back against the wall
he screams
burying his face as tears race
drowned out by the bustle
the pedestrians shuffle
through intersections, restless
they glide about oblivious
as just above them a man’s love dies
The bricks nick his sweater and I want to comfort him
to brush down the stray hairs with wet fingertips
it will get better
His lover peeks
out of the shadow
sneaks onto the ledge
to whisper a liar’s prayer
and hope that he isn’t there crying
i need him
they meet
words pass silently and all at once
the sad eyed blue of the brown man
stands
yelling,
from what i could tell from here,
all his heart feels
the carnal cardinal red
of the lovers
dread
hangs into his face
shading his shame
i should help end this
here
waiting
underneath the fire escape
River’s Run
Fell asleep under the river’s run
listening to the thunder and rain
Take them to the river
pack their shit for an escape
we’ll be one
and run with the waves
Learn to swim
or would
you rather die here as slaves
I fell asleep and it carried me to a secret place
where honey flowed
like over watered graves
the mint you could pick was too sweet
the trees spat up milk
implanted by the bees
It was backward and beautiful
pretty faced people told no lies
and everything lovers whispered
was theirs to hide
This is where
at the river’s divide
the thunder
died
Amatuer Night At The Apollo
Guess who the lil’ girl with the press and curl is at The Apollo! The early years of the lovely Lauryn Hill.
From Small Beginnings
“Despise not the day of small beginnings, for even the Lord rejoices to see the work begin…”
–Zechariah 4:10
The Poetry Corner 