Tag Archives: poetry

Curfew.

Children.

Black children, stay indoors.

Do not beat the pavement

With shoes too small.

These signs are too heavy,

Words written with a ten-ton weight,

You should not be lifting them.

Close the blinds

For seeing will make you suffer,

And suffering will make you strike.

You are too young to know your

Skin makes you a target;

Too young to have death enter your home,

Uninvited;

Too young to have to fight in a race war.

But…

Black children,

We must fight together.

Play with your dolls, but know when it is time

To put them away,

Toss the balls when the game is over.

Your springtime of youth will have rainy days,

And yet, they will help you grow,

In love,

Instead of in fear.

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Weary Warrior

The tale of the weary warrior

Is long, but also short.

His goal unknown

Yet, hidden under his shield.

He wanders, through the dreams, the midnight thicket, and cosmos.

Discovering

More of himself

At each destination;

But he struggles,

Often.

Watching his knees buckle, underneath the gravity of his situation

Not all wanders are lost, most are forgotten.

But his journey has brought him to a new beginning.

Liquid State

At what point will my eyes stop revolting? Pushing moisture out instead of saving it to safeguard my sight? Tear after tear after tear they fall, droplets rolling of a dried leaf, the rain that falls before the dawn, like liquid crystals hanging upon a thatched roof.

I am afraid, fearful that this powerful feeling will decide to adhere to my dreams, forming a pond of sadness. each day they congregate, meeting between mustard colored pews, my fears being baptized in the rushing river within my veins. Why, then, do I feel the touch of the moon on my breast, the tides of truth washing over my memories, causing these sandcastles to crumble, and leaving unrecognizable ruins along the shattered shells.

Tell me, when will these tears stop falling? How many reservoirs must be drained before I accept this?

Vast lakes live within my irises, blotches of the depths, hiding the real treasures that have been lost to the abyss.

I am nothing more than a half-empty vessel, a handcrafted vase with etches upon its lip, thirsting for the wellspring, but only granted the spit of the clouded sun. And yet, each day I watch as water leaks, escapes from the pores; and my eyes, my shattered prisms, my scales of shadows and souls. They dare to revolt against the death that draws near to my shore, reminding me that the spirit is liquid at body temperature.

Fog & Farewell

Next to the river bank, I awake

With the scent of death upon my brow.

Droplets shatter against the gray waters

As the ghosts of the forests lull over the drenched leaves.

 

Palms clammy, feet soaked in viscous mud

Eyes full of nightmares long forgotten

Staring into the ominous fog,

While the ripples guide souls to the crypt.

 

The granite rocks, lodged next to the split roots,

Resemble graves,

Soft earth ready to swallow

Another serving.

 

This river is uncharted,

Untouched by the wayward wanderer

Yet I,

Alone,

Know where the delta lies,

Only accessible when the sun is gone,

Lost in the deep horizon.

 

The clouds come down,

to spirit away those who sleep in the woods

At the dusk,

Saying farewell in their final, frosted winter.

 

Mistranslations

The last words exchanged

Came quietly through the hotel window

I mistook the chill for the air conditioner

Until I realized the machine has been broken.

Soft sentences coming from a hardened heart

A contrast between soul and spirit,

And yet, they both manage to come together

Clashing violently in my core

As I try to make sense of your silence.

 

Maybe it’s not for me to know,

A question I posed but the answer

Lies elsewhere

In the pencils on your desk

In the bottles of liquor scattered on my sheets

Or, in the clouds forming in our eyes

Draining our vision

Converting it into venom

A poison planted in our retinas,

Changing baby blue irises to virulent blacks

Unable to see what was in front of us,

Seeking the light instead of holding tight.

 

I know, I know,

You needed this

But, I…

Needed you.

Here we now sit,

Communicating with hands rather than lips

The carpal tunnel setting in,

Wrists popping and thumbs tightening

As thoughts are converted to text

That neither of us can translate.

Webbings.

The dark rolls over the horizon like a cloud of smoke.

A hint of fuschia rises above the tree tops as the night shares its first kiss with the cool grass.

A streetlight, a lone temple has been lit, even before the sun started to retire. The sounds of bouncing balls and laughter form a medly with the chirping crickets and dying motors.

I’m one with this place.

It has decided to use me as a decoration; what I must look like to the passing strangers.

“How peculiar that boy looks upon the rooftop. His hand twirls while his head looks into peace.”

There is an open window, his origin.

Little do they know of this place.

I have shared this moment with only one; an arachnid whose tiger legs and hourglass upon its back protect her from touch, but yet we sit…together.

She weaves her web as I weave my words, both spilling pieces of ourselves in an effort to trap any who would come close.

It has taken her the entire dusk to complete, but that is how she works.

For in the night, she will wait while the stray bugs find their way into her net.

Maybe, I’ve become her mate, using the light of the day to build so my creation can have purpose.