A. Long

His Hands

Posted on December 8, 2014 by A. Long

his hands have changed

not sure why

but they are off somehow

the dimples and dips, are

all there

Three bruises from knuckle to wrist, five sprigs

of hair

bare palms

dancing veins

tendons

Nails are longer maybe, fingers steady

I count a medley of callused castles

on the right

Long life lines

on the left

ashen, slightly stiff

but they’re different still

I would know

twenty three freckles

the curve of his fingerprints

from tip to nook

cuts limping into fresh skin

Tender bones, how you have grown

Tell me your story

so that I may know him again.

For Nazir

Posted on December 8, 2014 by A. Long

My little brother has the sweetest dimples

as if honey dipped happiness puddles on his brown chin

Legs made to run and he’s barely one

I hope he’s quick

burdened by forever fitting the description

I hope he’s fast

with those slave feet

fast enough to beat a speeding mal-intent militant bullet

cruising through your hood in cruisers

I can’t breathe

imagining him laid out

like a Law & Order: SVU scene

flashing on the TV screen

The grand jury content with no indictment

Look, I’m no Al Sharpton

but

Fred Hampton,

Rodney King, Emmett Till,

Amadou Diallo, Ousmane Zongo, Timothy Stansbury,

Sean Bell, Bernard Bailey, Jahzeph Crooks, Tamir Rice, Eric Garner,

Akai Gurley, Oscar Grant III, Ernest Duenez, Christopher Middleton, Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown,

my father, my cousin, my brother

They all deserve better

than a supped up militarized Jim Crow task force

The truth is

they shoot dissenters and threats down like dominoes

it takes too long to turn on the hose

get the dogs

and lynching ropes I guess

Cops kill boys that look like me

all natural haired and sun baked skin

suspect or not

no one wants to die here

Why does your split decision always shatter his life like porcelain

dolls tap dance on bloodied pavement

that all the world’s perfumes cannot sweeten

They unload clips

We turn on each other with weapons

and the violence

spins this world on it’s axis

What if I have a son…

What if I came home and my husband…

Short Poems

Hallelujah

Image | Posted on December 8, 2014 by A. Long

My Poetry, Poems, Short Poems

All That Is Me

Aside | Posted on November 20, 2014 by A. Long

all that is me
brown skin
thick hair
black mostly
blackheads
acne
beauty marks
scars
mild stretch marks
knuckles
fists
chipped nails devoid of flattering polish
all that is me
words
principles
deceit
restraint
determination
laziness
contradictions
expression

With all that is me how can they love this
inch closer
closer teensy bit
crawl to the truth
that only i know its hard
not to love you

To A Young Painter

Posted on November 19, 2014 by A. Long

To show the lab’ring bosom’s deep intent,

And thought in living characters to paint,

When first thy pencil did those beauties give,

And breathing figures learnt from thee to live,

How did those prospects give my soul delight,

A new creation rushing on my sight?

Still, wond’rous youth! each noble path pursue,

On deathless glories fix thine ardent view:

Still may the painter’s and the poet’s fire

To aid thy pencil, and thy verse conspire!

And may the charms of each seraphic theme

Conduct thy footsteps to immortal fame!

High to the blissful wonders of the skies

Elate thy soul, and raise thy wishful eyes.

–Phyllis Wheatley

Things Done Changed

Posted on November 19, 2014 by A. Long

Remember back in the days, when niggaz had waves
Gazelle shades and corn braids
Pitchin’ pennies, honies had the high top jellies
Shootin’ Skelly, motherfuckers was all friendly

Loungin’ at the barbecues, drinkin’ brews
With the neighborhood crews, hangin’ on the avenues
Turn your pagers to nineteen ninety three
Niggaz is gettin’ smoked G, believe me

Talk slick, you get your neck slit quick
‘Cause real street niggaz ain’t havin’ that shit
Totin’ techs for rep, smokin’ blunts in the project
Hallways, shootin’ dice all day

Wait for niggaz to step up on some fightin’ shit
We get hype and shit and start liftin’ shit
So step away with your fist fight ways
Motherfucker, this ain’t back in the days
But you don’t hear me though

No more cocoa leave io, one two three
One two three, all of this to me is a mystery
I hear you motherfuckers talk about it
But I stay seein’ bodies with the motherfuckin’ chalk around it

And I’m down with the shit too
For the stupid motherfuckers wanna try to use Kung-Fu
Instead of a Mac-10 he tried scrappin’
Slugs in his back and that’s what the fuck happens
When you sleep on the street

Little motherfuckers with heat want
To leave a nigga six feet deep
And we comin’ to the wake
To make sure the cryin’ and commotion
Ain’t a motherfuckin’ fake

Back in the days, our parents used to take care of us
Look at ’em now, they even fuckin’ scared of us
Callin’ the city for help because they can’t maintain
Damn, shit done changed

If I wasn’t in the rap game
I’d probably have a key knee deep in the crack game
Because the streets is a short stop
Either you’re slingin’ crack rock or you got a wicked jump shot

Shit, it’s hard being young from the slums
Eatin’ five cent gums, not knowin’ where your meals comin’ from
And now the shit’s gettin’ crazier and major
Kids younger than me, they got the Sky grand Pagers
Goin’ outta town, blowin’ up

Six months later all the dead bodies showin’ up
It make me wanna grab the nine and the shottie
But I gotta go identify the body

Damn, what happened to the summertime cookouts?
Every time I turn around, a nigga gettin’ took out
Shit, my momma got cancer in her breast
Don’t ask me why I’m motherfuckin’ stressed, things done changed

–Notorious B.I.G

Poetry In Motion