Obedient

Obedient

it smacked me upside my head
stinging
like a Muhammad Ali bee
and I turned around
about to open that can of
whuppass
on whomever was in my immediate vicinity

I rubbed it
my eyes saw stars like
youthful summer camp nights
dancing
like endless Soul Train forms
a shot of lightning
like the right hand of fellowship to my noggin
offered by daddy
when I nodded off during long ago
in Sunday morning church services

I looked above me
dull grey ceiling tiles
looking down at my confused frame
stoic countenance
shrugged shoulders in unison
"nah, bruh...
that wasn't me.."

and there I sat
dazed and confused like Led Zeppelin
loud
uneven guitar riffs rumbling through my brain
sounds of steel wheels
like the city subway I will board in about thirty minutes

You, On My Mind...

white snow falling on black streets
you, on my mind...
 
the arrival of spring
awakens the earth with every shade of green
you, on my mind...
 
summer
melting the senses
hypnotizing the body into submission
you on my mind...
 
autumn
caressing
inviting
enticing the soul into a myriad of unspeakable pleasures
you on my mind...
 
I lay in bed and wonder in the darkness
...am I on your mind?

I Won't Complain

wished upon a star
unseen in the blackness of the night
clouds present 
yet unseen
the wind rattles the shutters outside my window
and the stubborn part of me wished anyway
just get through to the morning
everything will be better
and brighter
in the morning

crossed my fingers
destination needing to reach
the pathway I need to walk to get there is unsafe
littered with caution signs
flashing lights  
cracks in the sidewalks
closing my eyes for a moment
just move the mountain a little
if I ain't asking too much

rolling the dice
no snake eyes, please
and James
papa don't want a brand new bag
just a small cheeseburger and a small fry
a small coke
only if it comes with it
my daily manna from heaven
as my mind imagines a choir singing in the background
no
I ...

Chapter 9

yesterdays ago
long haired hippies on black and white TV
religious groupies squatting everywhere
tell your fortunes with a sharma dance
just drop a bit of change into the center of the tambourine
and watch them twirl like marionettes on the corners of
Mister Rogers make-believe neighborhood

winter shopping at the mall
a Nostradamus on every corner
Salvation Army Santas ring their bells like
Lionel Hampton
as grandpa use to tell me he did back in his day 
and I didn't know who to believe in
and I didn't really care
because my toys were under the tree every Christmas morning

if I were bold enough to ask
and I wasn't
told to just look it up in chapter 9
it's in there somewhere
look it up for yourself
chapter
not sure
but it's in there somewhere
a needle in a haystack of verses

the thi...

You Can Approach Me Now

my intent
was for this to be squeaky clean
content acceptable for any poetry contest
or submission to any literary magazine
edible
palatable
safe to enjoy like cotton candy
make your foot tap to Miles Davis
snap your fingers to Cab Calloway
or WC Handy

this 
was supposed to make you nod your head 
and blankly agree to any wrong doings in the world
your neighborhood
your country

I tried to make this politically correct a
middle of the aisle
place a token in your hand
ready to insert
as you glide through subway turnstiles

this
was supposed to make the cashiers happy
when you get to front of the checkout line
with correct change
as you blindly observe insurrections
injustices
and never once think it strange

the intent of this thing
listening to you speak
and tak...

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 bruhs 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 love

Don't Get The Wrong Idea

don’t get the wrong idea
when you read the words I write
and listen with attentive ears to the words I speak

just because you saw me dancing in the street
and celebrating for days on end
when I heard that afros
black panther tee shirts
and berets are back in style

I have no plans 
to burn down your houses
your cathedrals
your temples
your mosques

and if I happen to ask your daughter to a movie
or find the house at the end of your block
quite attractive
there’s no need to call in the national guard
sign petitions
or rush to the pharmacy for an immediate refill of tranquilizers

I am celebrating who I am
where I came from
thanking my God every day
that He chose me to be
black
and you
whatever you happen to be

in fact
I invite you to celebrate with me

and i...

No Signature Required

peaking out my bedroom window
Rapunzel, I am
sorta
hearing you call out to me with romantic seductions
words
videos
social media
sneaking out the bedroom window
juices flowing
my resistance level
gone
and you call out to me
a mirage amidst my oasis

forgetting everything taught to me
protecting my virtue and honor
wait
until someone worthy rings my bell
passing my authorization scans
approved credentials
approved credit
earning the rights to my bubbling virginity

but
I ran off with you
anyway
barefoot in the streets
take me to anywhere you want and
do with me what you will
have your way with me
fancy banquets
tasty backyard barbeques
your words impregnate me
over
and over again

next year
found prostrate in this public space
for all...

Coming Back Home

it may have been just a simple media ratings boost
when Malcolm said that thing about 
chickens coming home to roost
like Alice in her Wonderland
off with his red bearded head
but one look down that dusty Tara plantation road
there was no Scarlett
scampering down the lane
holding her fancy petticoat

I ain’t here to gloat
but we all seen them dark clouds before
impending hurricanes on past horizons 
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

and they was sitting in them leather recliners
wouldn’t peep the other side of the aisle
nah
they can’t point crooked fingers at us
'cause we ain’t had nothing to do with it
we was minding our o...

Tomorrow Morning

she's going to call tomorrow morning
and I will wait by the phone
preparing myself for just about anything
fifteen rounds of sparring
throwing lefts and rights about Malcolm
Martin
Medgar
or just ourselves

when I hear her voice for the first time
is it the sound of a gentle stream floating by
as I rest underneath the shade of an old tree
or is it the sound of a mighty wind
a hurricane hiding from behind dark clouds
or maybe something in between

she's going to call tomorrow morning
so I must either brush up on my street etiquette

Shakespearean soliloquies
militant revolutionary politics
Barry White bedroom banter
or do what I have done for all these years
just be me
and nothing else in between

the phone will ring
but will she smile
as she says she likes to do
although her eyes will penetra...