shh don’t cry for the
innocents slain at their hands
innocence is often broken
don’t cry for me
i’m still here
taking it all in
but find a tear
for those two legged foes
who walk on this earth
to destroy consume and bend
your parts around your will
those hardened hearts without control
they are considered normal
and until the reign of normal ends
cry for what could have been
Don’t smile
for some reason smiling is a sin that tempts the devil inside most people to cross that line
between polite and creepy
Don’t fear the boys who follow you
like dogs sniffing at the scent of your heels pressing the pavement
running will only encourage those emboldened by the cover of night
Never slouch or try to disappear into yourself
this will only make them want you more
Hold your chin parallel to the ground
more often than not they just want the queen they see gliding by to soften
to cuddle their crusted over sense of rage and rejection
to hold not knowing how so they reach out and grab
You remind them of ma and grandma pounding yam in the kitchen before dinner
of Sunday school mornings and hide-and-go-freak evenings
of their first dirty magazine
and the embarrassment of not knowing how to kiss because no one tells them what they’re expected to know
Don’t offend when skulked
Watch your shadow in a reflection
it will meet a person too close
before your eyes do
Don’t back down when challenged
and balance your bags on both shoulders
Don’t let that comment burrow inside
I know you’re tired
but home is waiting just there
and that place
you should keep safe…
and defend
by any means
necessary.
a poem
can hurt or hate, can feel abandon…and reckless
it can joke
and lie
and speak
and whisper all the things you want them to hear
a poem
can have secrets
when the soul is too heavy to carry them
it can live
in the bruised skin on your knuckles
and just beneath the ducts in your eyes
can hold you
feed you
miss your voice as its reading
it can be
a listening friend when everyone else
ignores the screaming
We who survived the war and took to wife
And sired the kids and made the decent living,
And piecemeal furnished forth the finished life
Not by grand theft so much as petty thieving–
Who had the routine middle-aged affair
And made our beds and had to lie in them
This way or that because the beds were there,
And turned our bile and choler in for phlegm–
Who saw grandparents, parents, to the vault
And wives and selves grow wrinkled, grey and fat
And children through their acne and revolt
And told the analyst about all that–
Are done with it. What is there to discuss?
There’s nothing left for us to say of us.
— Howard Nemerov
another great entertainer
bojangles
jingled his way to the top
tapped nonstop
for him it was play
but he was made to work it
he tapped himself to the stage
jingling jangling
jangling baby jangling
until he couldn’t stop
because the penalty was
whuppings on his back
so he tapped himself
until his freedom ran raw from his pores
’til blood seeped from his soles
’til sweat poured from his soul
Sambo led the way for black entertainment
remember that
step to the table with a pen
release all the static within
view the universe clearly
in my thoughts sand, gravel slipping through my hands
cocoa butter memories swim around
this intellectual revolutionary
bury me with dark chocolate and a floatie
i can back stroke through the essence of life
anger and admiration raise the question
are you really that comfortable with ignorance?
ebonics has spread like the bubonic plague
devil obscured our language to make meaning vague
if you can’t comprehend what i said
let me reiterate
in communication lies peace these words we preach
but the violence can’t cease if no one understands us
ninety percent of your speech is driven by thought
think of the truth
translate that into actions dominated by ninety percent of your heart
You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and
skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Mendel Rivers to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by the
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, the revolution will not be televised, Brother.
There will be no pictures of you and Willie Mays
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
on reports from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the right occasion.
Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so god damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally screwed
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.
There will be no highlights on the eleven o’clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb or
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash or Englebert Humperdink.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be right back
after a message about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver’s seat.
The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.
Have you ever loved a rose,
and watched her slowly bloom;
and as her petals would unfold,
you grew drunk on her perfume.
Have you seen her dance,
her leaves all wet with dew;
and quivered with a new romance–
the wind, he loved her too.
Have you ever longer for her,
on nights that go on and on;
for now, her face is all a blur,
like a memory kept too long.
Have you ever loved a rose,
and bled against her thorns;
and swear each night to let her go,
then love her more by dawn.
–Lang Leav
The Poetry Corner 