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…

 

 

 

5 Ways To Get Past Your Poetic Writer’s Block

By Ty Jacoby

As poets and writers we all know that it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been writing poetry, how great you are at creating long and intricate pieces, or even how many stories and experiences you have to tell…we all get writer’s block sometimes.

Writer’s block is defined in the dictionary as a “temporary condition in which a writer finds it impossible to proceed with the writing of any work”. Sounds about right, sometimes it seems like there’s a literal block inside your brain preventing your ideas from communicating themselves with first you and then your pen.Often times this will stop you from being able to write for days and sometimes weeks on end. Trust me it’s not fun, especially when you have deadlines to make.

So how exactly do you overcome your poetic block? Well, in just a few simple steps you will be on your way to beating writer’s block in no time.

Think of a topic that you’re passionate about

What gets you fired up? What topics make you feel 10 different emotions all at once? Whatever it is, identify it immediately. It could be anything that you have an opinion on, want to tell a story about, or have a unique interest in. The faster you pinpoint what you want your piece to be about, the better. Try not to spend more than 10-20 minutes thinking of a topic, not only is it a waste of your writing time but poets go wrong when they spend days trying to find the best topic to write about. The best thing is whatever hits you the most.

Start Writing Down Key Ideas

Grab a piece of paper and pen or pencil of your choice…no, do not write anything down in the notes of your smartphone…and start jotting down words and phrases that come to your mind when you think of this topic. It gives you almost a list of things that can be used once you actually start to write your piece. Writing things down on paper also makes you think more critically and it helps you remember your ideas better. Things you write down could be anything! Even rhyming phrases. For example sometimes when I write songs, one line of the verse or chorus could come to my head and I just think to myself, “I should write that down”. Next thing you know by the time I go to the write the song I’ve got all my best lines down on paper for me to just organize into a flow of lyrics.

Write and Don’t Think

Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to think later. One of the worst things about writer’s block is that feeling of being stuck because everything you think to put down on paper doesn’t “sound right” to you. It prevents you from getting the pen going, and once you get the pen going it gets easier to keep writing. Therefore the most important thing is to just start writing and don’t worry so much about the technicalities until you’re done and you’re ready to revise. That’s what revision is for, so you can think, but when originally writing a piece you want your freshest and most raw thoughts to be on paper first and foremost, so that you’re not contemplating the perfect first line for hours.

Look For Inspiration in Things

Having a hard time finding inspiration? Watch a movie, read a book or talk to some fellow poets. Sometimes when I’m stumped on what to write my poem on, I’ll watch slam poetry on YouTube to get me inspired. A lot of times I’ll just watch some of  my favorite poets perform and it somehow loosens up my brain a little bit so that I can start writing. Reading short poems or poetry books usually can help too.

Take a Break

You know how they say if you can’t figure out a puzzle you’re trying to solve, put it down and come back to it later? Sometimes we tend to focus too much to the point where we’re frustrated and not seeing any more answers or clues. However upon returning later, you find things you didn’t see before and it’s easier to think now that you’ve unloaded all that pressure. It’s actually pretty true, and the same can be so when you’re writing a poem.  So putting down a poem and coming back to it later is never bad. You may even think of some other great lines you could put in there while you’re away for a while.

All in all writers block is a very common thing, even in poetry and can be overcome by taking these small steps. Happy Writing!

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All That Is Me

untitled (2)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

Things Done Changed

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

Sonnet 15

When I consider everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check’d even by the selfsame sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
–William Shakespeare

I Can Do Bad All By Myself

woman-with-attitude-pinkHere 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.