The walls of this house
feel so cold now
The warmth and happiness
held in these
dark colored halls have
been stripped away
like a child peeling a banana
painted over with white
covering and blocking out
making these floors strange to me
everything changed
all old is gone
taking with it my precious memories
Happiness is fleeting and thrills misleading. Conjure me joy to ward off wailing agony. Lighten my heart with love to fight the world’s misery. Let me be me. Smiling down destiny
The story of us started when a sand dune,
whipped into a feminine shape dreamt of life.
whispered her wish to the wind,
then jumped into the moon spirit.
In 1551, she crept down the mountain into a wolf’s den
and stole the life of a cub.
A boy of small stature
slaughtered the she wolf and ate her spirit.
With it, she and he taught his tribe to walk as animals,
to protect the land from invading devils
Heartbroken, in 1919 when the race riots murdered her sons
she once again shed her skin.
And as a soldier,
she had cried oceans into existence.
The story of us started when a panther,
licking his wounds in the dead of night,
hunting the light,
leapt into the spirit of the sun.
The sun swept across the savannah filling the lifeless limbs of a Baobab tree
363 years he baked in its bark,
before latching on to a passing slave catcher.
In 1879, he was the son of a king who walked like a God,
teaching his warriors to be strong as trees and quick as cats
He was an empress,
and at one time, even balled himself up into sounds and became music.
There we spun
watching the world unfurl through motion and dance
The story of us
our story
has lifetimes.
Spoiled sick by your curdled fingers
your memory lingers
like milk slipping off the back of my mind
like kids and swings in the summertime
Hold fast, your eyes are far away
Listen close, the sounds darkness makes
When the sun slurps sleep from my cheeks
your eyes and mine meet
again
like chocolate red ribbons beckon
pupils open wide to drink your presence
then escape
as day breaks knuckles on night’s secrets.
I carry with me,
the spirits of Queens
I carry with me,
the wake of Death
I carry with me,
all that I am
So that I will not be afraid
I live here
breathing in the screech of a poorly managed system listen to the cluttered steps passing by ignoring me
while i lull myself to sleep with piss cement blocks for sheets
I am here
representative of the underbelly of these so called streets
the catacombs of an eyes wide shut city Feel me
in every devastatingly dirty train car rattling through the tunnels of my home
I cant go home
So I claim this for my own
You’ve seen me
every piece of blue plastic you sitin or pole you wrap your grubby fingers around holding on for dear life
praying to whoever that its your stop so you dont have to talk to me
Down here is a new hierarchy
i am king if the meek shall inherit the earth then i get the subway
the crying children and filthy tracks
hobos homeless guys bums and sideshow acts
the peddlers and loiters or the guys who hop up & down the aisle holding out thier hats
sharing sob stories of grave misfortune so you ll cut them some slack
people shoveling McDonalds trying not to look fat
hustlers thieves every MTA employee who takes his job way too seriously killers robbers rapists & drunks
We all are here
YOu pay admission to witness our society at its finest from Brooklyn to the Bronx and back
we are the back of a jungle laying on its back
legs open and willing for any customer that dips his card in the turnstile
turn while peering at the surface of the plate glass
we are your reflection
gurgling below the pavement craving retribution
How can I just sit here, stagnant?
The insomnia kicking me in my side, unable to resolve the issues about which I write. Seems like they grow fast, like the hairs prodding my skin. The future looms. I don’t know where I’m going only where I’ve been. It’s sickening, these three lettered words are inseparable. Tossed through the air without affection. Devotion to the voices within that won’t speak.
This isn’t making any sense. My body paces yet I lack the spirit to leave. The problem lies with me? Alone in the struggle. Questions running rampant as the clock ticks. Still here I sit.
In love and suddenly impatient with these three lettered words. Honey dipped lightening laced with the essence of fresh roses petals. Unparalleled. And it all came down to a three lettered word whispered in the dark for fear they’d actually be true, that maybe light would reveal my heart doesn’t feel quite right. It never did.
I miss him, its just hard to say sometimes. But words hold no weight in a world constantly moving, they can be broken as easily as eggshells on pavement. I guess I had hoped if I stood still long enough and felt my emotion sink past my heart to the bottom of my feet. I could shove it down and keep it there.
She doesn’t give a fuck
having stuck
so closely to depression
that she can feel him up against her back sweating
rode in the haul of death’s ship
stopped in hell’s kitchen and licked the pot clean
she’s been pimped, sold
and let the memories jangle around her ankles
She’s your Mother
Sister Friend Neighbor
Girlfriend Grandmother Teacher
She’s so open from centuries of exploitation
that still goes on to this day
Someone grab her, she just got on the A train
Headin downtown with some guy
The embodiment of hope
The last key
If only she cared enough to open the door
Her only audience, the room
the posters hung, turn their heads, watchin’
the windows jockin’,
admires the glistening girl’s glow
and talks to walls knowing they’re in for a show
Suavemente besame te quiero sentir tus labious besando me otra vez
The words married to the beat, eagerly
run from the speakers
dancing with her about the floor
the spectators beg for more
a twist, a turn, a bound, a leap
a smile creeps cross her moistened face
pent up aggression released from her limbs
Strumming my pain with his fingers
Leaked from Lauryn’s lips
the crowds’ roars quieted to anxious whispers
she stops and listens, fatigue lingers
her movements slower, crisper
meaning held in every muscle flexed
tense from holding back bitter tears
from lost loved Nana’s hugs and
visions of strange kisses from her mama’s man
silent smiles fill the room as the ballerina
prances out and on her gloom
no more will she play the victim
to him, them
she spins, round and round she goes
flinging doubt and woes about the opposite sex
she struck a pose
and the towel curtains closed
leaving the room, her only audience
I fought a door once.
My hands bled for all of five minutes.
I fought a man that same day, and they didn’t feel a thing. The scabs were more interesting to look at. They made my knuckles bulge and harder than before.
Darker too.
Now my knuckles match my knees.
The Poetry Corner 