Changing The World, One Word At A Time
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Poems
Hey All!
Hey All!
I would just like to thank the followers of this blog for all the likes and comments last year. Hopefully 2015 will be even better.
That being said the site will be defaulted to acylme.wordpress.com temporarily while we improve our look for the new year.
Thanks so much for making The Poetry Corner a success!
Breathe
breath into each tear
let
the hurting come
the warm salt fill you up
each splatter stain
eases pain
The Ghetto Is A Silly Thing To Fear
The ghetto is a silly thing to fear
people scabbed into corners of buildings
trying to go on living
skeeved
you turn to run
suffocating on the scent of trash and weed
Loud music
we use it &
niggardly we
dance to the beat in the streets
shots ring hourly
like the clang of the Bell Of Liberty
ugly mugs hide
scarred childhoods
liberate yourself, leave if that’s all
you need to feel security
but believe you me
don’t think niggers
only reside
on the south side
of some city.
10 Things I Hate About You
I hate the way you talk to me,
and the way you cut your hair.
I hate the way you drive my car.
I hate it when you stare.
I hate your big dumb combat boots,
and the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much it makes me sick;
it even makes me rhyme.
I hate the way you’re always right.
I hate it when you lie.
I hate it when you make me laugh,
even worse when you make me cry.
I hate it when you’re not around,
and the fact that you didn’t call.
But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
–Kat Stratford, 10 Things I Hate About You (1999)
His Hands
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
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…
All That Is Me
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
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
I Can Do Bad All By Myself
Here emoting into a pillow
that won’t hold me back
I didn’t need new
when I had you.
Ramble on,
copper crystals
drip from his lips
hold no weight.
I am silver and spun honey
a caramelized glazed piece in the wind
remember that.
Nails break,
I don’t.
The Poetry Corner 