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Poet Michael Ellis Poem
I know I promised
no more ‘Make you Cry Poems’
I said I'd never write another
‘Wipe your eye poem’
And for three years
I tried not to retract,
but after so many tears
I have to take that promise back.
I write this Thesis
after going through a lost photo album,
trying to trace the trails and tracks
of growing up young, poor and Black,
taking the sad trip back.
I hope you brought your tissue with you
Because my childhood was one of issues.
So I give you one more poem
for your eyes,
and if I make you sad, I apologize.
Please don’t hate me.
Like Miss Holiday
I been in pain lately.
The doctor said I got Blues Build Up
and it sits the soul like constipation.
When I hold it in
I get a painful burning sensation-
I gotta get this shi* out of me!
And since emotion is a sad reminder,
Perhaps Math, Science or notion will be kinder.
And to who ever said
that every problem has a solution
and is scientifically attainable,
I hope that the equation
of growing up Black and poor
is equally explainable.
And since I have been
at the Blackboard nearly thirty years,
hopefully, I won't run out of chalk
before I run out of tears.
The answer just has to be near.
Or maybe I have the X too far to the left
or the Y too far to the right,
maybe there’s just a slight oversight.
And so if I put this Essay to rhyme,
maybe I will solve it in time
Or in a lifetime.
And to not solve this problem
would be even more terrible,
So if anyone after me tries
I know I’m close,
all you have to do move a few variables.
For those who say Black children
are educationally damned,
I propose the following problem
for your next SAT exam:
My Black mother had nine children
by six Daddies in nineteen years,
and sadly only two of those Daddies
stayed around more than a year-
And if each week
my mother lost a River of tears,
what was the rate of my Mother's tears per year?
For extra credit
what was the total weight of her fears?
You can round off to the nearest tenth.
I didn’t have the strength.
And if the ratio of alcohol to tears
was three to one,
How much whiskey did my Mother need
before her life was done?
If Black Mother Hubbard
had no food in her cupboard,
how could she keep a man much less a lover?
Trying to ward off her own internal doubts,
That of the eight babies
only one or two would make it out.
These are averages to theorize about.
What do you do
when the down side of your life has no reciprocal?
We can search for an answer
but it will prove to be difficult
But she kept those blues
Bottled up inside
and at the age of forty-eight she died.
Diagnosis suicide?
When counting sorrows
Do you add, multiply or divide?
And your Stepfather
who was opening presents on December 25th
and was opening up your sister on December 24th-
How do you know
if an angle is acute or obtuse
when one of the sides are loose,
or when its base
is fooling around with the hypotenuse?
And though your step father wasn’t shi*,
he was the best a mother
with eight children could get.
And learning the "Tickle Game"
From your Step Father is cool I suppose,
until he says,
"Good, now lets play without clothes."
And when the Numerator says,
"Tell Mommy later!"
you just know that the big bad denominator
will get you…Soon or later.
I guess you can call these Improper Actions.
Or watching pornographic movies with him
at the age of eight,
when the Wonderful World of Disney
or chasing a frisbee
would have been just as great.
And Can I ever know if it affected my fate?
And if I could put her sorrows on a graph,
the negative coordinates would just laugh,
Realizing twenty years later
That all those stolen Christmases
had nothing to do with the Grinch,
just your Step Father feeling a heroin pinch.
How do you measure a child's heart break
by square inch?
Your Mother cleaning floors until Easter
just to reduce the friction.
Sometimes when you add up life
You have to use long addition.
And just maybe Pythagoras or Euclid
can help me with the following:
If being Black plus being poor
equals being miserable squared
Then what is the sum of Black Poverty squared?
Einstein are you there?
Some factors just refuse to be equal.
Some theories just don’t need a sequel.
And if I could get a scale
and weigh all the pain and sorrow
on one balance, more than 15 funerals,
Ten molestations
a dozen drug addictions,
all the loved ones who have lost their
"Gawd-damned minds."
Would I call life cruel or kind?
And your ten year old ears and ten year old eyes,
hearing and seeing your mother
telling the paramedic,
"Leave me alone and let me die."
The Circumference of Black life
taste nothing like Pi.
And should I best describe my Blues
as a segment which has a beginning and an end
or a Ray which has only a beginning…
Or a line to go on and on- never ending?
And when your last remaining picture
of you and your mother
has a junkie/ child molester in it somewhere-
if I took scissors and cut him out,
could I forget that he was ever there?
I cried out for the divisor
and the square root was scared.
Superman, Batman and no other Super hero
in a two-thousand mile radius cared.
Still for some reason I was spared.
And so I put these away these photographs,
and I’m done with all this Math.
The quotients are now quiet,
the angles are napping with the squares,
and I’m sure probability is here somewhere.
I just don’t know where.
Yesterday I looked at a picture of my mother
on a wall and stared-
Finally she is free from all those cares.
What did all of her efforts gain her?
And I look at myself.
Perhaps I am her remainder.
These are the Mathematics
I love to hear.
Excuse me while I wipe a tear.
Well this is my Thesis for Mathematics 201.
Until next time I'm done.
Copyright © Michael Ellis | Year Posted 2021
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Poet Michael Ellis Poem
I suck at dying poems
Chemo poems, Metastatic Cancer poems,
Hair falling out in the shower poems
And I told a half truth
When I told you I could write you one
In less than six months (It's been eight)
I apologize for being so late
I wanted your poem to be pink and graceful
Like those ribbons
I see all over the internet
Filled with cheesy generic rhymes
That could get me hired by Hallmark
I just know my metaphors will start melting
And that my similes will get all soft
I guarantee you the rhyme meter will be off
I went to Google
And the typed in the word 'happy'
Three billion things came up
Not a single inference to
Breast cancer, hair loss
No redirects to mastectomies
The only thing research could teach me
Is that a good day on chemo
Is when your stool doesn't come out tar Black
And has no blood in it
Or when your urine
Smells better on Wednesday
Than it did on Tuesday
Sleeping less than 12 hours
When 24 would be better
Still I refuse to finish this poem
Without something bright and hopeful
And I know I'm doing a horrible job
America has more poets
Than it does alcoholics
And Pot smokers combined
And you chose me to be
Your Breast Cancer
Poet Laureate
Trusting me to write a poem
About the biggest battle in your life
And don't think
I didn't notice your Facebook activity
Had decreased by 88%
In the last three months
And you aren't really
Coming to any more of my poetry shows
Ever again. Are you??
But we still have January, February
And how do you write
A Breast Cancer poem
With no references to breast
(I get embarrassed)
That would be some kind of Oxymoron
I guess
But even if you had one breast
Or no breast
or if you had less hair than I do
I promise to look only in your eyes
And never ever even notice
Or even think about it
And never for a moment
Would I feel sorry for you
Yes I suck at lying too...
But I don't suck at loving you
Or at hoping you wake up tomorrow morning
With no Cancer at all
And that The Eiffel Tower will be right outside
Your bedroom window...
And I would be right there with you
Holding your hand while we look down on Paris
And you can impress me with your French again
And if I ever make it
To the Pulitzer Poetry board
I might lose a thousand points
Just for this poem alone
And my hopes for the prize will be smitten
And some old person with white hair will say
That this was the worst love poem ever written
Copyright © Michael Ellis | Year Posted 2016
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Poet Michael Ellis Poem
Thirty Eight ( Corny Cancer Poem) For Sharon
Hallmark has a million cards in their catalog
And not one of them says,
Life Sucks
American greetings had nothing that says
Thirty-eight and Never coming home
So I hope it’s not too late to write this poem
After your eighth round of Chemo,
The Doctor says the best medicine is prayer
Any Pre-med drop out
Or High school Health student
Can interpret what this means
But it still just isn’t fair-
Still who am I to be a pessimist?
And I apologize for screaming at your surgeons
(Telling them to stop comparing
your tumors to fruit)
For telling them you aren’t a damn fruit stand
Even for tossing those fruit diagrams
In the Hazmat can
Sorry if I let things get out of hand
Tomorrow they get to pull out
Their zapper instruments
And shoot at your cells like you are
One of those Nintendo video games
Over and over again
And I get to sit in the waiting room
Hoping the red cells surrender
And the white ones win
And Tylenol has a zillion dollars
And can’t even find a cure for cancer
Bayer pharmaceuticals has no answer
And if you die at thirty-eight
I’ll probably boycott Tylenol
For the next twenty-three years
Advil for the next twenty-two
Blaming both of them
For not saving you
Forty calls to Bayer pharmaceuticals
And not a single one returned
What kind of heroes are they
When they aren’t even concerned?
And I’m pissed off at Obama
And Dr. Phil and Oprah too
And all Nationally syndicated talk show host
Who are talking about who slept with who
When they should be talking about
YOU
I’m also ticked at a thousand Nazis
And twenty millions gangbangers
And eight-hundred serial killers
Who have working organs
When all you need is just one-
Still I know you wouldn’t even accept it
Even if there was a law that said you could
And you would say something corny like
God loves bad people as much
As he does the good
And i wish i could snatch
half of my lymph nodes
And give them to you
But no Doctor would approve the surgery
So what else can i do
Except write this silly poem for you
except watch you lose weight and hair
And listen to doctors suggest prayer
And more chemo only means
More Hallmark moments at the hospital
And more crying, more dying
More doctors and chaplains lying
But mostly I’ll never get to figure out
How it took you thirty minutes
At Build-A-Yogurt in the mall
And they only had six flavors-
Even after I told you
Chocolate Coconut Sprinkle
Was really the best of all
Tonight your children get to sleep in your bed
And pretend You’re coming home
And I get to cry for them and finish
This corny cancer poems
Copyright © Michael Ellis | Year Posted 2015
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Poet Michael Ellis Poem
I remember Christopher Robin
When helping Pooh find honey
Was my biggest problem
I remember the blustery days
We trusted each other in every way
I remember When we helped Eeyore
Find his way home from the Sea shore
Everything was good
In the Hundred Acre Woods
I remember Curious George
I had to chase him a hundred miles
As soon as my mother kissed me good night
We went around the world
But we made it home
Two minutes before sunlight
And everything was alright
And Sammy the Seal would let me get on his back
And ride for a million miles
We exchanged halcyon smiles
And I remember the monster
Who brought fear to the hundred acre woods
Scarier than the Heffalump
Scarier than the thing with the Black eyes
He was pure evil in disguise
He told lies
Filled with evil and guile
Christopher Robin called him a Pedofofile
It tried to seduce me
Ten minutes after my mother introduced me
I remember that ice cold June
When Mama said “We’re getting married soon"
And Disney left the room
I remember when
Larry Flint
And Hugh Hefner moved in
And H.A. Ray moved away
And Dr. Seuss and Syd Hoff
Took the Summer off
I remember seeing the door knob turn
The Pedofofile kneeled on one knee
Said he had a story he wanted to read to me
And he brought pornos to my bed
Mother Goose turned her head
Christopher Robin Fled
Curious George hid under the bed
And the hundred acre woods were
filled with dread
I remember us all gathering around
The meeting in Hundred acre woods
Christopher Robin said if I
Opened up the pornofo graphic
magazine
I could be banned for good
I asked him what’s a Pornofographic magazine
He didn't know exactly what to say
But saidt they were ten times worse
Than any blustery day
But i was curious like Curious George
I was curious like Curious George
I opened the Pornofographic magazine
I remember the woman
I saw more of her insides than a doctor
I remember the dog on top of her
But I can’t tell you what they did
And i cried out for Winnie the Pooh
I just wanted to be a kid
I remember the last time
I saw Christopher Robin
Tears rolled down his chin
he asked me why I had to
Let the pedofofile in
And it was a blustery day times ten
And I waved goodbye to Piglet
And Roo to Tigger
And the heffalump too
But Mostly I remember standing closely
To Danny the Dinosaur
He told me he would always love me
But I couldn’t slide down his back anymore
I remember 1974
2011 Dr. Seuss Poet M.e. Michael Ellis..
Copyright © Michael Ellis | Year Posted 2016
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Poet Michael Ellis Poem
I wanted to write
The best slavery poem ever written—
Perhaps win a Pulitzer or Faulkner.
I had every intention of conforming
To the standards
Of modern verse and composition,
Lyrics fluidly written,
Perfect in frame, tempo and time,
but a lot of my thoughts on Slavery
(and the Holocaust)
Were just too difficult to rhyme.
And though I found a few words
that rhymed with Oppression—
Most were slanted.
Granted not angry enough
To leave my true impression.
Forgive me for my error of expression.
Maybe Dickinson, Keats or Elliott
could have written this Poem
In a more graceful form.
So I suppose I'll use prose
to get me through this metaphorical storm.
It's going to rain so be warned.
I'm sure you'll find at least one example
of ASSONANCE in this Thesis,
which is repetition of similar vowels,
if you search carefully through the words,
but no guarantees.
For just doing the research on the Middle Passage
was a painful enough TRIP (no pun intended).
I can only imagine how much more painful
It must have been to have been there.
If you scale through my paragraphs
I'm sure you'll find a few examples of IRONY.
I know I included it in here somewhere.
And reading of a Black woman
Running through an icy lake with baby in hands,
Trying to dodge the slavers gun,
The masters whip and rod,
Screaming "Help us God"-
Chased into a cold lake by a Beast more colder
And then saved by the waiting arms of death—
Sometimes PERSONIFICATION can be too real.
How do you use ONOMATOPOEIA
to describe the sound of Adolph Eichmann
Throwing a Jewish child
Twenty feet up in the air
and shooting it before it hit the ground?
I wanted to compare these mother's screamings
But both ELEGY and PROSODY let me down.
Or when you read of a Jewish woman
Who had to quiet her baby
By feeding it her own Urine
To keep a murderous Nazi soldier from killing it.
How do you analyze the above sentence
to see if the meter is correct
or if the syllables are TROCHEE or ANAPEST.
I couldn't do it but I tried my poetic best.
Or a Polish woman who strangled her own child
just so the Germans wouldn’t do worse.
Blake or Kipling can you help me
put this in FREE VERSE?
Or a Black woman in the belly of a slave ship;
Breaking the chains—
Tossing her baby into the sea,
Saying "You ain't gon be no slave like me!"
As she was shot and killed.
This doesn’t need a TOPIC SENTENCE
And has no Theme-
There are a million and one listings
On Google under Bad Dreams-
Neither slavery or the Holocaust was listed.
If it's in Yahoo I certainly missed it.
And I rushed through a stack of History books
trying to find something happy to write about,
But no Historian ever recorded
Happy Christmas memories
of slaves eating half cooked chitterlings
and raw cornmeal by the fireplace
While the Master ate steak in the kitchen—
This just ain't happy ish.
Seven million dead relatives
Can really make Hanukkahs and Passovers
a real drag and ruin Birthday celebrations.
As for ALLITERATION,
I could only think of a lone sentence.
Why in the Hell did the Holocaust
Have to happen? How?
Millions of human beings executed in showers
while thirty-one Kings or more played Golf.
I'm sorry if the rhymes are slanted
or if the rhythm is off.
I could have used the word 'ovens'
instead of 'showers'
but what teacher gives extra points for METONYMY.
And how do you PARAPHRASE
an account of a Black man,
who quite possibly could have been
one of my great Grandfathers;
Each of his legs tied to a separate horse,
Each horse sent in an opposite direction,
severing his legs from his body—
while the captors cheered—
Pregnant Black women made to stand near.
And if written in a more creative form,
Would it hurt any less?
How do you write of ‘Castration’
with grammatical correctness?
Sometimes verbs and subjects
Refuse to agree.
I just wish I could find the right adjective
to resolve the discrepancy.
And could Frost in all of his genius and wit,
have put to poetry the painful wailing
of a Black child snatched savagely
from the breast of his mother?
A White child placed there to nurse.
Sometimes its hard to care
if the semi-colon is in the right position
or if the quotes or the comma comes first.
And though the sentence "Screw Hitler
and all parties responsible for the Holocaust!"
Is not model English and probably inappropriate;
I’d like to say it
for each of the seven million Jews
who died senselessly,
With no lawyer, court or voice.
I hope I don’t lose too many points
for bad diction or poor word choice.
And I wanted to include ANASTROPHE
which is verb and subject reversal,
but whether I write:
"Three hundred million paraded to the Atlantic shore,
never to see Africa no more."
Or if I write "Never to see Africa no more,
three hundred million, paraded to the Atlantic shore."
The rhythm may be different
but it’s still just as painful to write.
Or hearing our finest scholars
Debating whether Slavery or the Holocaust was worse.
This I can’t even put to verse.
And is there ever
a properly ending paragraph or conclusion for slavery
even when it still lives today in Somalia and Darfur.
The Holocaust was Slavery.
Slavery was a Holocaust.
All is Never lost...
Tyranny in the world is real.
Let us use these Archetypes to heal.
I end this Thesis
By irresponsibly misquoting Cummings—
Pardon the double negatives,
But Auschwitz was doubly
A negative experiences as well:
" Pity this busy monster,
[indifference], not.
Progress is a comfortable disease."
"...A world of made
is not a world of born--
pity poor flesh and trees and stars."
[Pity poor us].
That’s my Thesis for Contemporary English 201.
Thank You. I'm done.
Michael Ellis
Copyright © Michael Ellis | Year Posted 2021
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Poet Michael Ellis Poem
I never got why you always
Ate the red pink color out
The Sherbet ice cream
It was like excavation
How you removed all the cherry
Without even affecting the other colors
Leaving the orange and the vanilla
Neatly for others
Who does that?
Being a poet I used to think that one day
That could be a metaphor in some poem
Which would take the younger half of my life
To give it reason
Now watching you sleep during your chemo
Puts my every coping skill to test
Cause I could really use a hug
Or even one of your corny colloquialisms
Four years of Advanced English and
I had to ask a surgeon what he meant
By two days to live
I asked him that six times
Watching the beeping machines
Playing pinball with your
diaastolic & Systolic
I hope I pronounced it right
You are the one who always mispronounced
Turning my head while the nurse
Changes your diaper hurts in the worst way
Five years ago I watched you
Put a diaper on sideways
July will be his sixth birthday
And though you are on that stupid respirator Thing
I slipped headphones on your head
Noticing your eyebrows moving
Only Prince could make your eyebrows
Dance in such a rhythm
So I knew you were listening
Sorry I purposely didn’t have any Bowie
Remembering your face when you got a low C
on an exam intentionally
Just so i could get a high D
You did more work on my term paper
Than I ever could
Last night I went down to that little
Hospital aquarium thing
where they have the tiny waterfalls and plants
and danced barefoot in the tiny ponds
Like it was Malibu or Santa Monica
It took two security guards to talk me out
I refused their five finger therapy test
You would have laughed
I just couldn’t watch the last minutes
Of your life
Not even the last seconds
I would have said something to God
That would have gotten me
Ex communicated from every
Religion
Neither God nor Jesus has an answer
Why 30 year old mothers
need to die with cancer
I blame your father for your mother's
Wrinkles and Silver hair-
No way was she oblivious
To his multiple affairs
And watching those stupid heart lines
reverberate
from Elvis
To Como to John Denver
From James Brown to a silent Sonata
Some guidance counselor Chaplin person
came in
Asked if I needed to talk to someone
I said, Only if they are on a wine bottle
I know I was abrasively rude
And I know your moans and groans
We're really just encrypted signals
Telling me you remembered
my three month marriage
The volleyball season lasted longer
I Spent an entire week with you
And never once did you say
You knew he was a loser
But he was...
A day later we were Laughing…
Over Sherbet Ice cream
The Doctor said it could be
All be over in minutes
So I guess I leave my final respects
I promise
Your children will never know neglect
I exited the elevator
From the halls hearing crying
Your family covering you like an umbrella
Now I get the metaphor
Of you eating the pink
Out the rainbow sherbet
Leaving us the Orange & Vanilla
Michael Ellis 2021
Copyright © Michael Ellis | Year Posted 2021
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Poet Michael Ellis Poem
December 14, 1965
"Mr. Samuel Cooke. Sam Cooke??
You been in that casket for three days..
You a long way from Chicago, son?"
And Sam said, "What happened
Where am I?"
"This is the Judgement room.
In about ten minutes God himself
Will walk right through that Door.
And you Mr. Cooke better hope
He gives you points for your Gospel years."
And Sam tried to hold back his tears
"A lot of Legends came through here
Holiday, Smith, Jelly Roll Morton
Fats Waller, .....
Charlie Parker
Sat right there.
I've seen a thousand caskets
But the musical funerals are the hardest."
The Angel said, "Johnny Ace died by the gun
The Kid was just twenty-five.
What is it with music, young people and dyin?"
And Sam started cryin
A second Angel paused,
"I’ll never forget Buddy Holly.
That kid was special-
He could sure push a tune."
An Angel rushed in
"We gotta get Sam dressed
God will be here soon."
And Sam noticed a white piano
Sitting right by the wall
And for a moment he forgot it all.
And he felt a torch in his soul
And that Angel said, "Oh no in here we
Can't LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL..”
"That there Mr. Cooke is God’s Piano
Last person to use it was Dinah Washington.
And she didn't get shot in a hotel
With her pants off.
And the answer to yo next question
Can you play God’s piano is "'umm No'"
And Sam’s head dropped low."
"Okay maybe for five minutes..
But play something clean slow.
And Sam played NEARER TO THEE
And it was as sad like a Eulogy
It was sad like a eulogy.
And Sam Cooke sat on that Piano
Remembering The First Baptist church
In Chicago Heights
as his tears glittered under those lights.
And he played like God was comin'
IN THE STILL OF THE NIGHT.
Then an older Angel
Walked up from behind
"Can you play that Cupid song?
I don’t think God would mind."
And before he could say, “Cupid
Draw back you bow.."
Another Angel interrupted
"You know we cant do that no more.."
Before he could belt out
"Please hear my cry.."
Half of the angels were on the floor
Then he stopped and couldn't
Play no more.
And they said, Whats wrong Sam?
And Sam wanted to explain
What happened on that final night.
An Angel stopped him, "Sayin’
This is heaven Sam. It’s alright."
And one Angel joked
You was just a BAD BOY HAVIN' A PARTY."
And then Sam asked
"My son Vincent??
Unable to keep his sorrow in.
They said, "Yeah he made it in."
Down to his final two minutes
Sam asked if he could sing
TWISTIN' THE NIGHT AWAY.
They could see in his eyes how
Bad he wanted to play
Umm God don’t like that song….
But perhaps we can
Turn our heads away
Sam punched that piano
Like Ali punched Liston.
He punched that Piano
Just like Ali hit Liston
And those Angels just listened.
And he sang about a NEW YORK WAY
And Sam’s final minutes
Started to fade away
They said, "You opened the door
For Aretha
You gave us Taylor and Womack.
You got the whole world cryin, son
..But no one gets to go back."
And they let Sam look down to earth
Down to his funeral Below
And he let the tears go
He looked a hundred million miles
Down to the earth
To that little town in Mississippi
Where he was given birth.
And they took him back to 1950
When he was with the Souls stirrers
Singing, HOW FAR AM I FROM CANAAN?
And Sam hit that piano once again
And he saw 200,000 People
in Chicago crying.
He saw Aretha holding back tears
And they tried to ease his fears
And they said,
"Don't worry bout Papa Ray
He got another thirty years."
And Sam lowered his head
Revealing his Chagrin..
And all those Angels
jumped to attention
When God walked in
And Sam bowed at the floor
And those Angels got so quiet
You could have heard a feather
Fall to the floor.
And God said, "Sam
Have a seat.
I looked over your entire life.
You were something as a kid
In that church.
But the end Sam
Troubles me.."
And Sam looked at God
With sad refrain
Wanting so badly to explain.
"I watched you singing at the Copa
And you moved my soul.
I gave you everything, Sam.
You were so much better than Cole.
I liked the song you wrote
About the River
And the Little Tent."
Sam became solemn
As he tried to repent.
"This is not how
It was supposed to end, Sam."
And God opened a book
Turned it to page one
Page five and then ten.
"Man you got a lot of sins.
Are you worthy to Enter In?
Sam bowed to the feet of God
Trying to make amends.
When God show him the final page
His hopes grew dim.
God said, Get off your knees, Sam
And touch thee my hem.
The Angels
Gave him his Blue Spiral notebook
And welcomed him in.
And God said, Sam
It's not going to be that easy.
Before I send you on
I have a request
One final test:
Can you play that song
BRING IT ON HOME?
BRING IT ON HOME, Sam.
Written By Michael Ellis
Copyright © Michael Ellis | Year Posted 2021
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Poet Michael Ellis Poem
Playing Batman and Robin is a lot different
When the Riddler is your Stepfather
And simultaneously an alcoholic and pedophile
When your secret mission is to keep him
From bringing heroin and pornography
To Gotham city
Your mother wanted to save you both
But Catwoman captured her
And held her six children hostage
You tried to save your brother
From the Riddler that October night
But you were just nine and
The Joker had you in quicksand
The rope was too rough for such small hands
Twenty years later you both get married
And you laugh at those childhood battles
Neither of you knowing
That those villains were still there,
The Penguin was waiting in the shadows
Batman gets arrested for Statutory rape
They put Department of Corrections
On his fabled cape
No Batbelt to help him escape
II
Batman sends Robin thirty-three letters
Written on that yellow prison paper
With those light blue lines
Tells him he's found Christ
Read the New Testament twice
Robin pretends to be happy for him
Even when he really doesn't believe him
And is too disappointed to care
And returned letters from his two children
Hurt him in the worst way
When all he wanted to do was
Give them four or five dollars
For Christmas or their birthday
III
Still in every Former Super heroes life
There is a Forrest Gump/ Gomer Pyle
That just takes it all in
Regardless of his sin
Just because he's your brother
And because you love him
Because you were the one that rode
On the handle bars of his bike
Holding the umbrella on the way to the store
While it was thundering and lightning
Not knowing that the real rain was yet to pour
And you were the one
That sailed into the wind like Mary Poppins
when the bicycle stopped
"Make sure Mama's groceries don't drop."
You open those letters
Because he was one that you looked up to
When there was no father to answer your call
And a twelve year old make-believe father
Was better than none at all
Because he built you a ten feet basketball court
Out of throw away scrap wood
It wobbled when you shot the basketball
But he did the best he could
And you were the one that used to ruin his fishing trips
By getting your hook snagged every ten minutes
And he would still ask you to ruin his next trip a week later
And he would walk in the dirty lake to un-snag your line
Because you didn’t like getting your clothes dirty or wet
You don't tear up those those letters
Because he was the one that
Shared those stupid
What-are-we-going-to-do-now-looks
At your mother's funeral
And you hated it when his kidneys failed
And he was only fifteen
And he couldn’t fight bad guys anymore
And you both swore never again
To wear those stupid capes
Your heart failed when he was charged with rape
You open those letters because
When you can't sleep or rest
Nothing like a game of Russian Roulette
Ignoring the voices in your head
The next letter is the one you’ll regret
IV
But hidden in those letters
Between the lines of
Those religious rants
Somewhere Between the Johns
The Deuteronomies and the Acts
Were those unknown facts
That never made it to
The courtroom
Was never read by the DA or judge
The DNA that got lost by Vice
The bloody tissue misplaced by
The evidence clerk
The real trial was in those letters
And you learn that he wouldn't
Tell the Judge the real truth
Waived his right to a trial
Because he didn't want his kids
To end up in Foster care.
And Robin wasn't there
And he broke his promise
To never ever play hero again?
They gave him fourteen years
For another person's sin
We could have put those capes on one last time
We could have beaten the Joker
And put him and the Riddler on the run
Could have shot Cat Woman with our toy guns
After five years in prison
Batman dies at forty-one
And Robin has to go on
And it sucks that you left
All the clues with me
And I can't even use them to set you free
The rape you confessed to
Was never what we all believed it to be
And somewhere in Gotham city
The Joker, Penguin and Riddler
Are still running around free
Epilog
Goodbye Batman
Growing old with you
Would have been better
But the best of you remains
In these thirty-three letters
Copyright © Michael Ellis | Year Posted 2016
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Poet Michael Ellis Poem
They wouldn’t let me be White
Oh I wanted to be
Dreams of that Pulitzer haunted me
They said, Sir, you have ten minutes to play
I gave them Milton, Poe and Millay
I stood before that panel
Like I was auditioning for Jesus On judgment day
I belted out those rhymes like Sandburg
Gave them sweet elegant words
I gave them personification and anapest
Gave them Trochee with syllables unstressed
I played those Robert Frost Blues
Those Road less traveled Blues
Those Thomas Hardy
going down on the Titanic Blues-
And they said, Son, You could be the greatest
Since Langston Hughes!
And oh I was out of sight
Switched up / Got Fancy
Moved the stressed syllable
From the middle to the right
But still they wouldn’t let me be White
I had every judge popping their fingers
Moving their heads from left to right
So I took a bow
And smiled up at those lights
I gave them Dickinson, Browning and Keats
Oh I had those White judges on their feet
I played until they saw stars
A judge leaned over and said,
You remind me so much of- What’s his name?
Paul Lawrence Dunbar
I played Eliot I played Cummings
I played Stevens too
I had those White Poets out of their shoes
Oh I lifted them a hundred miles off the ground
But when they came down
They said, You could be the next Sterling Brown
I said, Come on! Get out of town!
I closed that audition with my best Haiku
They said, M.e. Don’t take this wrong we like you
I took a final bow I had performed to their delight
But still they wouldn’t let me be White
Copyright © Michael Ellis | Year Posted 2021
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Poet Michael Ellis Poem
My White Daughter
They play like sisters
Quy-Imah has braids
And is of a darker hue
Kayla has blonde hair
And eyes of Blue
In the back seat of my car they play
Martin Luther King’s dream
Just two feet away
Quy-Imah says, Hi Daddy
Kayla copies, Hi Daddy
(They both giggle)
I try to ignore their childish musings
Sisters by their own choosing
No one could could convince them
That they were any different
Then the pessimism in my mind
Start
to
Catalog
If they ever were to go missing
My White Daughter
Would get the FBI, Helicopters
And a hundred canines
My Black daughter
Would be lucky to get a single dog
Copyright © Michael Ellis | Year Posted 2016
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