Without Allegiance War Defeats Itself
Thousand Oaks California hate speech and hate crime
In passenger seat of crime as war
"Do you want my ex change"
Driving away from store front
Attempt of beauty in cowardly defeat from racist feminine face of propaganda.
In America
As American
What was not your families crime in creation of you
Identify yourself formally
Thus production as matter in universal law prevents how?
Unfinished student a financial crime of origin.
Jericho's Ballad in Walls waits for stencil?
Courageous hatred waits in your god given talents
the devil swings
with the pain Billie brings
to the song of a sparrow, once lost
but heaven cries
with the drug in her eyes
and the weep of a willow's sad cost
the awed repute
of a tree's strangest fruit
never gave up its dead or it's moss
one mother's urn
sifted ash from the burn
of a tragedy's southern-most cross
shall only years
dry that muddle of tears
the torrent drowning races and sin
or will the truth
age a sweeter vermouth
let as blood on a much darker skin?
weep collected
for life, disrespected
would deluge all Jehovah's dear streams
yet not one wonder
that God's loudest thunder
will ne’er quiet that riot …
of screams.
~ for Billie Holiday ~
Copyright © 2020 Gregory Richard Barden
( photographic art created copyright-free by the poet with GALA AI software )
Charlie Kirk
Breaks my heart
his death today
the bullet was not signed
as is the Zionist way
A Palestinian child denied her right
to sign the death sentence
with Gods best wishes
another terrorist fades into oblivion
Now women shut up
and make babies, your only job
that was his message
Feminist's laughing, this fool a knob
All the women already in heaven
dancing with angels of empathy
and compassion
look down and laugh this pious clown
you live by the second amendment
you die by the second amendment
Jesus will never have to see you again
finally in hells fire, you are with your own
Be causeable in restraint before my voice
That witness of wilted realms given
Allowed all to pass
Withering torment
Endowed article of bridge drawings
Beknownst as aisle
Meander purchase beneath frown
I am male and without
Earth herself shells foreign against you
we came up same building,
same busted elevator, same rumors in the walls —
three girls stacked on top of each other
like secrets whispered through radiator pipes.
6S - she’s half rican, half black,
but don’t call her half - she all attitude,
dark skin glowing when she laughs too loud,
hips slick like she dancing with nobody’s permission.
5E - 5’1 and built like a threat,
she got a stare that’ll stop you mid-lie.
she hate surprises, so we never sneak up -
she come knocking first if you do her wrong.
then me - 7N, freckles spread like stars on light skin,
red-brown hair tied up, book in my lap,
content to stay inside while they chase block heat.
they pull me out anyway - stoop nights, corner gossip,
big dreams that don’t always fit our pockets.
we so different it make no sense -
three girls shaped like soft rebellion,
like hard lessons, like love
that never needed no permission slip.
puberty tried to twist us up,
boys tried to break us open,
life threw her worst
and we just leaned closer -
me, yaphia, tarita - same building girls,
same busted elevator,
still going up.
Everyone grieves in their own way
that’s a fact not a belief…
Which means there is not date of completion
no timeline for our grief…
To all the thought and prayers
those who’ve suffered a loss might be receiving…
Today I’m grateful to add
this Native American Prayer of grieving:
I give you this one thought to keep
I am with you still…I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not think of me as gone…
I am with you still…in each new dawn.
Storms off Cape Verde garner strength in the Oceans.
Fed by seas of angry, restless spirits, Middle Passage emotions.
brightest bulb in sky
colors trees with chill and hue ~
sparks of cold winter
(September Full Moon – Assiniboine)
“Forward Ever...Backwards…Never!?!”
With all
The progress
We made, how
Is it that we’re
Back to where
We once were
With oppression?
Did we become
So comfortable
That we failed
To see what
Was coming
To push us
Back and make America great again?!
How could we have simply missed
The vivid message of Stockholm,
Which, for us, here today, is now
A USA, Oppressor Syndrome?!
Today I revisit a blessing…we need to hear it more
perhaps that’s why I’ve used it so many times before
It’s from the Native Nations peoples
who had their share of tragedy, heartache and strife…
and how they understood about one particular circle of life…
I imagine long ago they found the beat…
and discovered it by chance:
Dancing is a way to pray
prayer leads to healing
once we heal we can give
to give is to live
and one way to show we appreciate being alive
is to dance.
We belong and carry
Historic love is buried
In black genes so strong
They ring like holy song
The curl of your hair
Onyx Pearl your eyes
Heavy hips bring stare
Licorice lips defy lies
We create from scraps
Food homes poems raps
Take nothing make something
All despite devilish traps
We fall yet we ruby rose
So all could experience hope
And amethyst amazing growth
We dreamt and made it so
You silver star are the pride
Of hearts love inherited tribe
The sun kisses your skin
Ancestors kiss given by wind
Destined and designed to rise
Be inspired be ready to fly
God gives you truth not lies
Walk your path live your life
It takes a Big Stick,
To approach the Mound with Pride!
It takes a BIGGER STICK,
To encroach a MOUND that WIDE!
A black child knows the song of heavy trains,
as clanging engines brought my father home.
His weary, sweaty, fat thighs bearing strain,
from cooking pots of food for those well-known.
We felt the forceful song of heavy trains,
not rails or trams that ride below the street.
A move that in your gut of gut does reign,
black power that comes up beneath your feet.
Our past has known the song of steel on steel
as trains have carried tired heads held high.
When we approached we heard the air brakes squeal,
and at that sound we thought our hopes were nigh.
We've listened for the song of trains for years.
Their mournful horns just croon a memory,
and often resurrect the blues of tears,
or flash across the mind as reverie.
For many years we've sang the sad refrain,
with strength and power striving in the soul.
This melody of freedom laced with pain.
The weight of all life's longings taking toll.
Oh, sing a song of praise for those who bare
the weight of heavy trains within our past,
a rocking to and 'fro' from here to there,
maintaining in our spirits WILL to last.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, my blessed little Sister!
When we were young, Papa always called
You “Black Patti”! Now we know why:
A Senryu Quintet Tribute To “Black Patti (1868-1933): **
For My Sister, Sula “Black Patti” Baye (08/25/1943)
Water gives rivers life
I swanee, “Black Patti” gave
Life to the songs she sang:-
“Black Patti” felt that
Singing songs was to her, as
Sunshine to flowers:-
When “Black Patti” sang,
Flowers flooded world stages:
Concert Halls, sold out!
She was Mitilda
Sissieretta Jones: singing
Abolitionist!
Black Patti, rather
Than Adelina Patti, was
Their Era’s Greatest!
**When others sit down and do oursrorical research,
They will know why Papa gave you that honor. Go
And enjoy another blessed year, perpendicular to
Earth and Heaven. To God Be The Glory. In the
Onederful oneness of the onement of Extended
Family, Peace And Love, your favorite Brother,
Deac.
Something caught between the eyes of fellowship and the riddle of thought makes any setting unforeseeable. Yet, within the mannerisms of those declawed by the very societies they themselves conceived armed only with a utility belt of miraculous misconceptions springs forth exponential, autonomous growth, promised by the ancestors of preconceived notions.
Most often, the spirits of ideas formed upon the fragile spine of inadequate frequencies press us all into a reliable destination, one mastered only through performances of unseen archetypes, driving this windowless vehicle we insist on calling time.
My augmented delusions, I admit, disassociate from the fermentation of your reasoning, and so taint our deductive search for the emotions we struggle to preserve. The tropes of an enigma’s fragrance intoxicate the cerebral moments of free thought, undermining even the simplest reproductive solutions for advancing communication.
And so, as I tear this parchment, I summon an opportunity. Yet what a cumbersome opportunity it is.
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