Clean

Til Death Do Us Part

forever 
penned in poetry and prose and Hallmark cards and letters 
calls
texts from places where I can’t get next to you
the
“I Do”
part
up to the 
“Ashes To Ashes”
part
 
but it ain’t promised
Las Vegas giving tomorrow even odds
seen and heard about
forevers 
ending in the strangest places and times
here today
gone 
while they lay themselves down to sleep
joy 
absent in the morning

so 
I ain’t gonna bore you with empty words
promises my love for you would like to make 
so you can rush off to the lottery man
cash in your scratch off winning ticket
for sure
forever
is keeping the battery fresh in my watch
listening to the minute hand ticking in the background
yet ...

Clean

I’m not a poet
have gone through the rinse cycle
a writer of poems

Odyssey

so
I wonder what would it be like
if I were a planet in your universe
 
what if I flew too near to your sun?
would you singe my wings
like Icarus
hurling me downward onto the jagged rocks of your shores?
 
could I revolve
and evolve within your solar system
keeping track of time and seasons?
 
would you support me with your gravity
or would I fall from your galaxy
into unknown worlds beyond?
 
would I be just another planet
in your universe?
another star among the millions
illuminating your nocturnal skies?
 
I wonder what it would be like
if I were a planet
in your universe

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 ...