Black Riddled Red

Black boy at risk. Routine stop and frisk.

Innocence confused by color.  Soiled fingers rest on pristine triggers.

“Officer please” chimes as bullets find speaker.

Untried. Sentenced to death. Judge and jury, badge and gun. Breath.

Dreams undone when black hands rose. A red chest heaving.  A stranger screaming. An officer repeating. “He was reaching.”

Clean trigger fingers fondle a fading pulse. Death reaping.

“He’s stopped breathing.”

An officer realizing this death will read race. New stands holding tales of his hands. Ink willed to paint his face.

Time fades ink, jury pardons crime, tears no longer gush. Salt trickles, as years dissolve memories.

The badge will shine pristine, yet hands will always be soiled. A mother will forever greave dreams that never materialized. A community will resume raising hands to the badge in fear of the color they plead with.

Black riddled red when black hands rise instead of white.

With words I fight.

spilled tears

Prison or Therapy

A boy slurps his berry Popsicle as a stranger licks his lips.

Gazing at a sticky grin, an old man tightens grip.

He’s gripping onto morals that chime his mind is wrong.

He bows his face in plain disgrace for spurring red lips on.

A sin of thoughts, mind the court. Jury solely lead.

No action taken, no life forsaken. The crime is in his head.

A pervert in the closet, a predator debating.                                    .

Do we sentence him to prison for a crime that lay’s in waiting?

Do we open hearts to illness, treating man’s affliction?

Provide a place that won’t disgrace to heal with no conviction?

 


I would love to hear your thoughts on this topic. Rehabilitation or incarceration?

This poem is not written to cast judgment or condemn. I am sorry if my words are offensive to anyones personal experiences.

This was written after observing a stranger on a park bench. 

Love heals above all…

Bet Hedged on Happiness

It’s sunny, I’m stormy. My mind is raining as warmth soaks skin. Puddles pool in eyes as pool brims with laughter. I’m swimming in tears as children grapple with pool toys. A blissful frolic.  Sprinklers are danced under. Picnic rugs bare crumbs and little ones.
Smiles seen not felt. Giggles heard, not caught.
I’m playing catch. A game of too and fro with pity. Giver and receiver.  My party. A pool party for that matter…
I’m asking why? Why do tears well in my eyes as watermelon drips from stranger’s grins.  As painted toes plunge into a blue too blue to be the ocean. Not my toes. Not my plunge.
I need to taste what I envy. A glutton for pain is not me. Can’t be me. Won’t be me.
Dipping toes, an attempt to shed woes.
I want to jump in! Swim! Blend tears with pool. Attend their party, not mine.
With happiness at stake, I taste. Let melon drip while toes dip. Hedging my bet on a better tomorrow. One in pools, not shedding them. I gamble with happiness. I hedge my bets on no regrets. All in.
Sadness will have to wait because life doesn’t.

No Applause

A budding blossom poisoned by the dread of empty seats.

Fear of faces bowed as they scroll through favored tweets.

Fear of crickets clapping, dismissed by the applause.

Fear of ten toes tapping, wearied for this cause.

Will I find the words that bled boldly to book’s page?

Will terror mark me mute as I stride onto the stage?

The most paralyzing fear is of failing those oppressed.

That my words will be unworthy of the plights that I address.


This poem reflects my fear of failing those in need on a spoken word stage. That my own insecurities will prevent art from changing lives. This poem is fear of failure. Fear of not being understood. Fear of rejection. Spoken word is the art of change.

Poem Derailed

Passage plotted, journey sound

Second glance, errors found

Polished line, diverted track.

Tempo gained, no baggage packed

Fixing form, omitting worth.

Value spent while tweaking verse.

“Mind the gap!” Conductor calls

Platform crammed, no one boards.

Hollow train departs from station,

Deprived of final destination.

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My poem’s soul is more important than its tempo. Love is raw when unedited. “Just so” prunes not tunes.

I’m constantly fighting to  keep the heart beating from start to finish within a poem. Syllables, syntax, pace, cadence, assonance and alliteration are a literary defibrillation.

The parameters of pentameters leave me with a page full of empty words.

 

 

Kernel Remains

Eyes glued to screens. Fingers fastened to keys. Characters are not novel, just 140 long.

Nightly news! Death’s script flung from monotone lips. The hour skit a regurgitation of third world shit. First world filter cleans so we can swallow. Popcorn that is…

Crunch! Buttered morsels dissolve. Fingers greased with privilege.

Eat, tweet, repeat. Screens smeared with #FML.

Popcorn spilled as drones kill. Kernelled remains. Full bloom unreachable.

First world unteachable.

Eat, tweet, repeat… #2ndBag. Bodies that is…


Worded bullets fired. Bullseye