Poetry

The time has come… For the mountains whose peaks penetrate the skies to recognize the soil that holds them fast For the vapors in the heavens to acknowledge the lowly tepid waters from which they were borne For the Sequoia whose branches scrape the celestial canopy to remember the seed it once was, and to praise the roots that hold it in place For the gold on the crown of English kings to remember its impure beginnings beneath the South African soil For the butterfly in its colorful majesty to acknowledge the caterpillar it once was For the diamond on …

      The kids in the playground do not like me. Just yesterday, we did the “Knock, Knock” joke.   Me: Knock, Knock They: Who’s there? Me: You are… They: You are who?   ….The straw that broke the camel’s back.   Me: I am the spawn of sultans and the progeny of princes. So it’s no fault of mine that I crave to be crowned the king. I am the dream, that Martin spoke off, the chair that Rosa sat on, what Malcolm X was shot for. I am the freedom for the negro. See my ancestors and …

Ugly I am, Ugly I will be With a face only a mother will love Spawn of Ogres, progeny of Beasts I walk amongst men if they’re fit to be called A pariah amongst my clan, deracinated for the way I look Laughed at and derided, because my genetic code wasn’t written with a pen but charcoal But… When you’re falling off a cliff and need one last rope. When you need an extra hand and something to hold. Does the presence of my grotesque grace fill you with fear or fill you with hope? Now, you will touch me …

Grandpa laid these thoughts on granite just for me. Senile minds cage evergreen memories Wrinkled fables of Old cronies and juvenile follies Tucked neatly in folds of skin, a library of tales The mouth needn’t speak, for one to know details Wear and tear, Sweat and tears, rust and dust These eyes tell of a love once lost. Most likely lost to lust Old minds hide a fountain of youth; Parched skin hides a well of knowledge If you care to peruse, you find these cannot be found in college Hair is grey; life isn’t black and white anymore Gleaming …

Tadpolesque perches on the egg. A merge A product of lust or love, a fetus on the verge Not exactly a tumor anymore, the time it’d be nine A baby is born, a life has begun. Folded hands with dreams and hopes it comes With frail fingers and widespread palms, it’s gone With empty gums it comes and goes but all it chews in between, nobody knows The head of the family tells tales to the children on the floor They listen, soon to take the place of the man they adore The heir to the throne feels more royal, …

Locks of hair, touch shoulders shivering with fear The azure sky cuddles the orange sun. The morning’s here With the early birds cry, she knows the mourning is here Her soul’s canvas, a chiaroscuro of pain, a pastel of hurt, Different strokes for different folks, so they brush her aside. Picture’s in-depth. Sticks and stones break her bones; words mar her soul for cert Little doses of death, little doses of death. “Dreams are for sleeping, goals are for soccer You will fill these shoes, but you won’t walk too far You are a dime and for what it’s worth. …