Protest Song 1-3
in celebration of rap music
I saw her there, perpetual curves
boisterous, truculent sensuality.
The people called her name: Enchanted.
Her movements: shuffled, shattering light.
They perceived her song
an agile, less vehement anthem.
Two thinly misshaped notions lured them there;
no surfacing sorrow to mark the place/of entrance,
(had been a while since the last lynching),
no protest songs to shape meaning.
an integrationist’s nightmare,
thirty years a canard.
No placards.
Who would testify?
Oh! But you are the scorned brown/blacks
those haughty and revealed.
Your ancestral home
Gospel, Blues, Jazz will sanctify
anointing you. Yet the others might decry:
another Pied Piper’s Temptress In Hip Hop Costume.
mr record company
He slogs through the gray, urban landscape
one derelict eye flashing!
The children holler in delight
jump off their stoop.
The names of our children are construed.
He has found their dwellings and shackles there!
ears splayed to the root, while he riffs on
a dark, cloudless melissma.
Children your mouths are chattel!
The giant is heavy with your wealth
wearing your teeth
like gold chains around his neck.
the rusty-butt rap
Two rusty-butt boys
play outside my wall
trading jabs, keeping tabs
both observe the call
of rogue thoroughfare,
a patois that dares
sinewy domination
creative captivation
They do a scalawag shuffle
Do puff
And yell! Hip Hop’s emissaries.
Ah yes! Do tell!
American Culture remains ambivalent to the artistry of Rap music. Yet the form
is positioned firmly within AfroAmerican cultural traditions; Gospel, Blues,
Rhythm & Blues, Jazz, Roots Music as well as within the Black Church.
for the children of the middle east
Some say
God came to this place
a tortured bird
without song and sullen
and could provide no armament
from hot iron
shrieking
blowing into the skin.
This yarn
a pigeon might bring
a myth intact
lo, a steady and heart tale
but when the people wept
few did hear
while children
did tumble and fall.
fate vs free will/weaponry
Fate, and those who trumpet her arrival
seek an artful cageyness
satisfied
to subvert the small,
wide eyes
burned hands and swollen bellies.
If each man a King
unto himself
each woman Queen
who will serve?
hymn #2
Said, sing me this tune:
Bring your Golden Book
your Mourning Piece
Pray the Ancestors.
Cafe con Leche in Brooklyn: Sunday Morning
the people fuss at the preacher:save yr white lies and plump, empty promises.that is a fable of another, older age!these are the days of no integrity. you will seethe scorned spirit move across the faces`of those who yearn, unable to be free....pass the sugar, please!Hot Costa Rican
with thick, warmed creamis this soul sister’s holy water. I say : coffee !
is this sister’shigh, holy water. Its dark, hot liquid another dusky promise.Friends come and go.
Lovers taint & stain unruly, wild with no home training.Cigarettes and witch’s brew I do consume.
And when the church fathers murmur I raise my hands shout yell praises for hot, wet, redemption!
God came to this place
a tortured bird
without song and sullen
from hot iron
shrieking
blowing into the skin.
a pigeon might bring
a myth intact
lo, a steady and heart tale
few did hear
while children
did tumble and fall.
seek an artful cageyness
satisfied
burned hands and swollen bellies.
unto himself
each woman Queen
who will serve?
Bring your Golden Book
your Mourning Piece
Pray the Ancestors.
A Photographer's Lament
Images flee This quiet, white paper
I find no solace hereThough silence is a destination
I sought beauty in herthick, muted eyes
Paper is fragilean enigma
Still, I strove to consider Winter's barren trees
A meandering railroad'selliptical veins
Now, paper litters my dreamsSilence is but a nightmareOf clanging iron gatesI stand before themProfoundly absent
(Revised Oct 27, 2015)
Mourning Song #6
chant for billie
she did eat
from the tree
though it stained
her body primitive
and they spoke
of her malaise
Sing the song of our people
do sing!
refute the southern lullaby
Mourning Song #9
in memory: reetika vazirani
She traces the line
of culture arriving at
its failure to redeem.
The smallish minister
his silver bible, insistent
queried: What my child?
I saw she picked at the thread
though it was tightly woven
it smelled foreign
began to seep.
The lens of fate, dull and disgraced
revealed a mirror of startling proportion
Mourning Song, No. 8
In Memory: James Baldwin
Words fell from me
from below my mouth
leaving me feeling light.
A sure, steady stream
irresistible to behold.
I have to wake myself.
this is a dream
of fools.
Dead language is hard,
is stiff.
If the light
catches it
it will shine
It will glisten
anyway
always
as if it were alive.
Mourning Song #10
granny
she saves copper pennies in mason jars
and works the bills into her mattress
works the madness.
her padlocked shed bulges; boy-ar-dee, ravioli
tuna, spam, beans.
you must admit
the closer she gets to this tin & glass
filled promise the quieter she is.
you’ve seen her
face fluttering sideways
spin the cans round and round
fumbling
with the sterling shine.
stow, not weep!
her actions signify.
Mourning Song #7
for my father
He has said I am the oblation
this red, black, green rising,
this bone white.
My friends say it is mine
to give away.
Moments I have stumbled upon
and wasted.
Always the chance
it will turn to dust in my hands.
Nubia?
Numidia?
My people are webbed figures
and occupy the space between Temple and Eye
sometimes hovering way below.
My lip
quivering, quivering.
Sassy (Sarah Vaughn)
When marooned
in the deep
slant of evening
there is lush, swirling
Stardust enhances
this gift
the sound low and sustained
Sassy
I worked to maintain propriety
when your voice led
to such places
the road singular and slow.
c2005
The Hurricane Review
Editor: Marion Wernicke
Researchers have found seduction and deceit in the coded flashing of fireflies.
Mr & Mrs Johnson
Charles is a rusty, bus-stop tragedian
Scrupulous in memory of silk and smoking jacket.
You will hear, his Choir laden, operatic voice
finely weave thru bartered and closed doors
leveled ancient, smooth.
His blind knock, his unlit cigarette
misspeak the sonorous chains
he drags to his seat.
betty mae/of poverty & place
Charles brings Betty Mae songs
some, are angry and loud.
Poverty is a house of circles, he croons
A bustling pagoda with a singular shrine.
His cardboard soles tap, tap, tapping.
Miss Betty walks there too,
Insistent the promenade she tramps.
Her feet, infuriated flares
“Life burns! Consumes!”
If you pass by, you might see
her mouth, a raw rant.
Rage tints her hair toward
wild, wooly explosions.
Today, she strides around
the Porch Of Discontent,
her gaze, an assimilated shout
“Welcome my Friends!
Welcome to Betty Mae Johnson’s House”
c2005
Heal
Clique Calm Books
Publisher: Gladys Perez-Bashier
Mid Afternoon Melancholy
Envy has a crisp, emerald radiance
the points of green stars
stuck in my throat.
Nothing is seamless.
All my prayers
yield jagged little losses.
It's a solitary situation
butterflies in my eyes
breached
and flapping.
c2008
la vieja (the old one)
senora rivera struggles
to carry the years
they are shattered mirrors
and crumble together
without grace.
she treads on them,
feet bloody
with the foolishness of graying fears.
her sharp face
woven of dust, mold, cobwebs
c2008
