i love you ginger bread mama
ginger bread mama
all sweet and brown
love you
more than tired boys
love collard greens and candied yams
more than new watermelons
do the sun.
before you,
i was older
and owned a sky of sleep
and not even cowboy dreams
were poets enough to wish me you.
now in brownness warm
everything is everything and
our forms move in soft affirmations.
trying not to wake up the sun.
–Doughtry Long
theawards.co/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/OscarDelmar12.jpg
you read me
like an open book, plainly
so playfully
i shrug it off
summarize all my lines
you see me clearly
like prescription glasses
you compliment me
though we’re hardly ever in sync
even on pizza toppings we disagree
yet
you will always fight for me
so put down your fists
i will be your gift, shield, and armor
I am a
black woman
my parents migrated from Paris
i speak three languages
i struggle everyday to raise my children
braid hair, day in and out
They call me Mama
I am a
turkish woman
in Germany, i want to pass on my customs
there are others like me
pushed into neighborhoods while our foods feed their stomachs
sometimes
They call me Outcast
I am
pakistani
i came to america a woman
praying on my knees to keep my sons free
my youngest shouts of foot baller dreams
i’ll go home one day and he’ll be there
They call me Hopeful
I am a
woman
i spend nights on the underside of the italian rivera
my smile is ethereal
no matter where i rome
They call me Real Sweet
I am trying to learn to walk again... all tensed and trembling I try so hard, so hard... Not like the headlong patter of new and anxious feet or the vigorous flailing of the water by young swimmers beating a new element into submission... It is more like a timorous Lazarus commanded to take up the bed on which he died... I know I will walk again into your healing outstretched arms in answer to your tender command... I have been lost and fallen in the dark underbrush but I will arise and walk and find the path at your soft command. --Frank Horne
dont ask me who i am, i
wont tell you, cant
& dont put your goddamn con–
descending paws around
me for the sake of
“existential brotherhood”
no words mean, thats why…
no words mean standing on a corner
in another world
no words mean…
(Someone falling
to his heart in filth)
or become because i wont become
(Rats rounding corners
like locomotives)
what you think i am
the only open door
is the door to man
—James A. Randall Jr.
1989
Dark brown braided down to
there
mini skirt and tank
hot pink converses
and these huge gold hoop earrings
Lived to party, high
never stayed home
always on the roam with her crew
spiked up
no care
Duran Duran and Slick Rick on blast
blowin through her stash
electric, eclectic
gold door knocker
Well, they went out of style and she settled down tired of being a child. Now she sits back and reminisces of days long since past from her mists. Those hoops aren’t retired just yet
She still pulls’em out and takes’em
for a ride
inside
she’ll always be wild
You were afraid to nurse your young
lest fallen breast offend your master’s sight
and he should flee to firmer loveliness.
And so you passed them, your children, on to me.
Flesh that was your flesh and blood that was your blood
drank the sustenance of life from me.
And as I gave suckle I knew I nursed my own child’s enemy.
I could have lied,
told you your child was fed till it was dead of hunger.
But I could not find the heart to kill orphaned innocence.
For as it fed, it smiled and burped and gurgled with content
and as for color knew no difference.
Yes, in that first while
I kept your sons and daughters alive.
But when they grew strong in blood and bone
that was of my milk
you
taught them to hate me.
Put your decay in their hearts and upon their lips
so that strength that was of myself
turned and spat upon me,
despoiled my daughters, and killed my sons.
You know I speak true.
(Beah Richards, excerpt from “A Black Woman Speaks of White Womanhood”)
I’m sorry for all the sorries
I’m sorry for being sorry
I’m sorry for this apology
I’m sorry for no one else just me
I’m sorry I didn’t see it
I’m sorry if you felt invisible
I’m sorry if it was tested
I’m sorry we’ve been weighed and measured
I’m sorry for your loss
I’m sorry your gain wasn’t enough
I’m sorry…
I’m…
I
Search for a clue,
a will to write with a purpose
while my audience dies.
I am an ancient breed
that believes in a key.
Mull around for the moment of miracles,
children,
when
dreams are borne into reality.
Quickly
the present’s presence is temporary
a green siren in the distance
promised me golden sunflowers
if I failed
I just want this life to mean something
The Poetry Corner 