Nothing

Yesterday

I do not dream of yesterday
when all my troubles seemed so far away
but they are as near as my finger touching the nose on my trembling face
and so false it is 
when my choir sings on Sunday mornings that trouble don’t last always

I can clearly see the morning mist 
clearing the view from the heavy lynch roped branches of southern trees
weeping women and children on their knees
as their men swing above them like orchards of strange fruit 
musical strains softly played in the background
the ghost of Lady Day
still singing from a long rusted microphone

but this ain’t yesterday
when we were meagerly rewarded
severely chastised based on our daily yield 
the long unending God forsaken crisp baking hours in the plantation field
back to being less than three fifths of a human being
and what I am seeing isn’t a vision of long a...

Antiseptic

bending low to the ground
aluminum dustpan in hand
brushing the last remnants of who you 
neatly
completely
into the plastic trash bag tied against the kitchen doorknob
 
just to be sure
under the kitchen sink
considering which cleaning agent would 
best remove the stink and stench of you from my home
from my mind
from my life
knowing full well
tomorrow
Wednesday
6 a.m.
like clockwork
sanitation trucks
they be comin’ around the mountain 
beating my alarm clock to the punch
 
I gotta send a thank you note to the Mayor
them sanitation trucks are always on time
to take away the things I no longer want
no longer need
no longer present to clutter my life
attracting unwanted vermin and insects
keeping reminders of who you were 
invading my pristine&nb...

Coming Back Home

it may have been just a media ratings boost
when Malcolm said that thing about 
chickens coming home to roost
it was like Alice in her Wonderland
off with his red bearded head
but one look down that dusty Tara plantation road
there was Scarlett
scampering down the lane 
holding her fancy petticoat
 
I ain’t here to gloat
but we seen them dark clouds before
the impending hurricanes on the horizon  
comin’ round the mountain
weeks
months
years ago
this daily show reminds me when 
the master called good old faithful
Rin Tin Tin
but the whistle didn’t work this time
 
they are sitting in them leather recliners
won’t peep the other side of the aisle
nah
they can’t point crooked fingers at me
'cause we ain’t had nothing to do with it...

It Was All Too Good To Be True

you

in that hip-huggin’ black dress
just lookin’ for me to
lock my arms around your waist
and hold you tighter than a crack addict holds his habit

your hair
flowing freely
softly
just lookin’ for my fingers to examine each long
delicate
golden brown strand

your eyes
hungry
hypnotic
big
brown
beautiful
expressing to me without words
your every hidden desire
your desire for me to
touch you
to hold you
to love you
and love you
AND LOVE YOU!!!

then

your lips
symmetrically perfect
brown sugar and cinnamon
drew close to mine
and your voice
soothing as the summer breeze
whispered to me

“there is no God...”

then
my eyes surveyed you once again
and in that instance
I found yo...

People, Places, Thangs

poem
tucked neatly discretely away underneath three upside down walnut shells
people
places
thangs
carnival sounds and tasty Caribbean ware
colorful
festive costumes surround us
contemplating

it is about you?

watching shells shifting
slow
accelerated
be patient
in a minute I will give you the chance to overturn one
uncovering the truth

was it about you?
somewhere with you?
something we did?
somewhere over the rainbow
far
far
away

made me incapable of sleep last night
until it found its way on my note pad
and underneath one of these empty walnut shells
a game of chance
for sure
even if you pick the right one
I’m not obligated to tell you the truth
a writer of poems has that privilege

so
step right up
take your pick
is it there...

Soul Food For Lunch (Brother Malcolm Turns 100)

she told me
she was only nineteen
maybe twentyish
simply having a quick Sunday afternoon soul food lunch with the girls
booth by the window 
a view of Lennox Ave
optimal place to people-watch on a Sunday afternoon
and maybe catch a look from a handsome young gent outside
who would smile
come inside for a proper introduction 
an invitation to a Saturday movie matinee 
or leisurely stroll uptown in Central Park
that's what she told me was on her mind
while she was simply having a quick Sunday afternoon soul food lunch with the girls

she didn't see him enter from the 125th street side
tall
well dressed
well groomed
well spoken
but he caught her eye
she didn't catch his
yet
the lunch counter heads turned in perfect synchronization
as three men in black walked before him
three men in black ...

Now, I Am A Black Poet

because I am black
and a writer of poems
my semi-automatic pen should be loaded with fatal words trained at temples
blonde-haired
blue-eyed
those made of glass and stone

I am to blindly follow those whom I never voted for
and shout
“right on!!!”
and
“that’s right, brother! speak the truth!!!”

when the words I hear ain’t necessarily the truth
and the
‘brothas’
who speak them
I respect
but sometimes I gotta respectfully disagree

(sometimes, my truth may be different from yours)

because I am black
and a writer of poems
I should target my message to those who live where I live
loving only those things readily accessible
hating those
blaming those responsible for why I live where I live
and can only love what I am allowed to ...

Nouns

it used to be my student desk
paper
typewriter and pen
this was when words were newly put together
jigsaw puzzle pieces on a cardboard plate
they spoke to me late in the night amidst black velvet posters
my black light illumination
sounds of classic R&B always helped me find the words to write

it was my space
my place
my haven
my escape
to record the experiences of the day
to hell with form and meter
I would write them my own way
bedroom door closed
everyone peacefully sleeping
there was no rush
I wrote about every girl I had a crush on
and there were
indeed
many names
the excitement I felt attending our high school football games
and I am surprised dad never barged in
my typewriter keys working in overdrive
sometimes slumber found me
and I would wake up at five
to the warmth of the risi...

We Took To The Streets (How I Celebrated MLK Day)

then
we wore afros and dashikis
and took to the streets with poetic words for our women
militant words for our people
revolutionary words for the establishment
 
incarcerations and interments would soon follow
as sure as Willie’s dice would roll up 
seven eleven
every Saturday night in the back room of Grady’s bar-be-que shack
 
we took to the streets
with the fire of the sun in our eyes
blazing through our black shades
black berets
partially covering our black afros
and a sea of black fists in the air
 
God
it was a beautiful sight…
 
then
we took to the streets
burning our neighborhood stores
our homes
our businesses
our lives

that was then…
 
each year thereafter
we took to churches and auditoriums in suits and t...

Blizzard In DC (Can You Dig it?)

blizzard in DC
but don't look for accumulating flakes of snow and ice
not sure today what the actual temperature might be
just know for sure
that there will be a 
blizzard in DC
could be Jack Frost nipping at noses
or the sun providing a January mid winter tan
already called out sick
will spend the whole day curled up on the couch
watching Netflix with remote in hand
or scanning other channels to view anything
but the daily weather report on CNN 
or FOX
or...
'cause I knew it from a week ago that there would be a
blizzard in DC
such a storm predicted 
driving on the city streets
and walking on local sidewalks will be hazardous to ones health
already 
warnings issued for folk who are not essential personnel 
no telling what will happen to life and limb
if caught in the middle of that
blizzar...