Best Apropos Poems
OF AN EBONY HUED MID-SUMMER NIGHT DREAM
(Apropos of We Kings, Queens, and The Fiery Furnace)
Indeed, this is a day the Lord has made:-
Considering last night’s revelation dreaming,
Waking up into this day the Lord has made,
I must enjoy and be glad for being still vertical.
Although “The Great Dream” may have been deferred,
Indeed, it has not been forgotten and deterred.
Oh, they may have murdered its dreamer, but
His and our liberation dream is immortal:-
Looking out over the horizon of our challenged life,
It is realized that we Exodus people have come a long way;
Survivors of the blood-stained shadows of horrific death:-
And we have come this far on the sojourn by faith.
Yes, we have come this far by an inherent faith—continuing
To maintain and sustain us in the present perils of our lives:-
And as African-Americans, surviving in this deemed “promise land”,
We’ve had and continue to have a special kind of relationship with God.
During our living experiences here during and after debilitating slavery,
We’ve seen, heard, felt, and responded to the Word of God in ways that
Are unique to us as an African people of God; for indeed, as chosen ones,
We’ve always been able to sing and praise God in truth and in holy spirits.
Reflecting on the truth of ourstory, it is realized that we are of a people
Whom many would have expected to have stopped singing and praying
A long time ago; yet, from generation to generation, we’ve just kept on
Singing and praising and trusting in the love of God and His redemption.
Indeed, sacred revelations continue to bring us from extermination
To exaltation, from degradation of dignity, from nobody to somebody;
With wide wondering eyes on the prize, we continue to sojourn onward
For our eyes have seen His glory as we have continued marching in His truth.
Indeed, we not only believe but know that in the savior’s favor
Life is and while our perils may endure here a little while longer,
We know that a liberating joyful stay here on earth is on the horizon
Promised by that very present help to those who live in good trouble;
Thus, let us not be exhausted nor deterred by the ghost tyranny
But with undying faith and spiritual strength, let us victoriously
Demonstrate that we are not of the children of Sisyphus’ fate;
But living reflections of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego:-
LEAST WE FORGET THE GIRLS’ KILLING CRY
(Apropos The Boko Haram Girls)
i
We no longer hear
the screams of the young girls
nor the whimpering
of their little brothers—
nor the echoes of falling tears
of grieving widowed mothers
and the muffled hush, hush, hush
to new born babes.
How much longer
must we awake
to another morning
we wished we never lived to see?
Mornings where
the horizon’s plains
are dotted with earthen keloids
of humpbacked graves
in overpopulated makeshift cemeteries
where food crops once grew.
Horizons reminiscent of
the screaming echoes animating
from departing Middle Passage ships.
ii
How much longer
must we experience nights
of damned deranged dads—brothers
roaming, ravaging, raping
sisters and slitting mothers’ throats;
damned deranged dads—brothers
driven by a demonized illusion
of the Nile goddess of fertility;
intoxicating themselves
with chalices of their families’ blood?
How much longer?!!!
How much longer
must our daughters remain
forgotten victims
Of those who’ve lost the free
in freedom—like those who’ve sold the in
in independence—lackeys
to and of ancient slave masters
who’ve learned well
the western ways of deception?
iii
Unmoved and no longer
grievously concerned,
the world mesmerizes itself
with a deceived sacrilege image
of a revered Nile goddess.
Meanwhile, defiled bodies
of African girls
are no longer newsworthy…
these wretched of the earth sisters
continue to suffer ethnocentric
rape and gendercide: perpetuations
of free roaming…hoodwinked brethren,
inebriated with neo-colonial genocide.
Apropos Genesis
(For The Apostolic Poets I Know)
Now I see
said the blind
brother
sister
as the brail
shed light
on the Word:
Truth—
I hear
said the deaf
brother
sister
hearing
the thundering
signed Word—
I feel you
said the paraplegic
brother
sister
who felt and feels
the written Word:
blinking
thinking
scratching
tearing
echoing
in every way—
What’s your problem…
brother!?!
sister!?!
Tell me!!!
Yo! I shall
see you!
Yo! I shall hear you!
Yo! I shall feel you!
Yo! I shall walk with you!
Yo! I shall fight with and for you!
Word!
APROPOS THE REFUGEE...
There is nothing left here
for death to claim; even hunger
has abandoned the swollen bellies
and parched skin of the walking dead:
eyes of gigantic pupils sunken deep
into desiccated cranial caverns.
In this fenced graveyard of waning life, flies
soar to and fro---depositing metaphoric maggots
in the midst of the festering wounds of despair.
In this God forsaken place, the flame of hope
grows dimmer with the wrinkling nipples of the breast
of time---her hourglass---haltingly emptying its self:
There is no refuge here
for the refugee.
New World Colossus Deception—2015
(Apropos The Sonnet of Emma Lazarus)
In her brazened left hand she holds the tablet year
of her shore’s liberty;
And a raised right lights the weary way to the land
of the brave and free;
But today, blind eyes look out to the wretched skies
and tormenting seas
Where frothing waves and white clouds tease hopes
of fleeing refugees.
No longer are there waiting arms and love
for a roaming, exiled family—
Greeted no longer with silent lips, but with vociferous voices
screaming no
To “…huddled masses…homeless, tempest-tossed…” children
that are to be;
Though they dare, must be aware upon these shore
is nowhere for them to go.
Their religiosity—washed with blood of the innocent—
has no place in this land;
For them and theirs—is no way a true Puritan would ever lend
a helping hand
To welcome their tried tired yearning pregnant hopes
of a new life begun.
No! Hell no! There of those here still waiting for true
and full freedom to be won!
This is the land of the Pilgrim’s pride; land where other
fleeing fathers and mothers died.
This land has only fought wars of peace; there is no place here
for you to peacefully abide.
Today my flowing pen
Streams screaming words
Cascading to hungry eyes
And thirsty ears of waves
Of the oceans of minds
Waiting to be sailed upon
In the winds of whatever
The day has decided to blow
Into sleeping sails awaiting
To be blown into awakening
Awareness breezing their way
Over wrinkling waters
Tearing to froth upon healing
Shores to be absorbed by
Dry sands of hope seeking
Long awaited rehydration joy
Waiting to be indebted
To imagine messages of love
And forgiveness raining down
From the cistern of clouds
Of joy thundered with canvassed
Guidance pitter patterning
Divine wisdom in a soft sweet Niagara
Flow frothing bubbles of keloid
messaging memories of 21 years ago
When we collectively died and survived
Together in a Bermuda-Triangle less
That taught us how we can and must
Live together here on the blessed
Shores of the land of the brave free
Who must now seek to finally become
Debt-free graduates of the oneness
Of living together in a unified America
Where we have rolled away the stone
From the tomb of onement releasing
The onederful echoes: "...One nation...
Under God...indivisible...with liberty
And justice for all..." in this sea of life:-
Weeping Webbed World
(Apropos of a Syrian Nightmare)
Affronts to humanity streak the skies
Like once perched war eagles
Soaring over communities of prey
Where the lingering smell of death
Is as normal as the scent flowers once had.
A grieving webbed world in abject apathy
Awaits the cesarean births of hope and peace—
Hope and peace laboring on the delivery table of life.
Will they too, become miscarriage siblings?
New World Colossus Deception—2015
(Apropos The Sonnet of Emma Lazarus)
In her brazened left hand she holds the tablet year
of her shore’s liberty;
And a raised right lights the weary way to the land
of the brave and free;
But today, blind eyes look out to the wretched skies
and tormenting seas
Where frothing waves and white clouds tease hopes
of fleeing refugees.
No longer are there waiting arms and love
for a roaming, exiled family—
Greeted no longer with silent lips, but with vociferous voices
screaming no
To “…huddled masses…homeless, tempest-tossed…” children
that are to be;
Though they dare, must be aware upon these shore
is nowhere for them to go.
Their religiosity—washed with blood of the innocent—
has no place in this land;
For them and theirs—is no way a true Puritan would ever lend
a helping hand
To welcome their tried tired yearning pregnant hopes
of a new life begun.
No! Hell no! There of those here still waiting for true
and full freedom to be won!
This is the land of the Pilgrim’s pride; land where other
fleeing fathers and mothers died.
This land has only fought wars of peace; there is no place here
for you to peacefully abide.
APROPOS OF DING DONG DITCH AND PALS
Literally, AI pranks
Have caused suicides:-
One while on the computer;
The other by a back shot:-
This may sound funny,
But death is no silly joke;
Neither should pranks be:-
Putting all in perspective,
In half of a month,
Check out “AI Psychosis”
And its friend, “Sycophancy”!?!
As must be with war,
Let us crack down on greed and
Its collateral damage:
At least give this all some thought:-
Be as the sun,
And doubt not the Son of God;
Your guiding compass:-
Divine guidance is your gift;
Praise God for each day’s dawning:-
After sleep, you wake,
There’s sunset and sunrise;
You’re guided between:
Always believe in yourself;
Always be in God’s guidance:-
Journey faithfully,
You are destined for success;
God is your compass:
When lost, sign in your compass
And be guided on your way:-
AN ALLEGORICAL COCOON LESSON
(APROPOS OF POLLING)
In preparation, ants are moulding
And stacking their mounds; in hives,
Bees reflect collective oneness
In the sweetness of their unity;
And in high distant places, black
Widows meticulously spin their webs,
While honing hornets harden their nests:-
Cocooned in political and economic darkness,
Let us not be dismayed, apathetic sojourners;
Remember, while caterpillars are entombed
To be no more, their cocoon eventually opens
And out soars a liberated beautiful butterfly:-
Let us be as the butterfly, as we powerfully soar
With flapping vote-casting wings gliding us
Towards full liberation in our political sojourn.
In preparation, ants are moulding and stacking
Their mounds, while in hives, bees are reflecting
The collective oneness in the sweetness of unity;
With voting power, let us likewise reflect such
Sweetness of unity in power-based rendering:-
We’re moving onward,
Me 83; She 80;
Seeking year 40:-
Praise God for time together;
Nourishing one another:-
In our love’s oneness,
We have lived in its onement;
Bound wonderfully:-
Glory for togetherness,
Living our God’s unity:-
Though life is waning,
To God, we’re not complaining;
Our love still waxing:-
Ready for who may go first,
Going together, we thirst:-
Happy as can be,
My beautiful Queen and me;
Living supremely:-
Praise God for deliverance,
Divine wisdom, and guidance:-
I'm a dark-hued poetic mind
Writing mine:
Inking navel keloid words
Water-broken
From pregnant
Thoughts
YES
But even these I want to share
For sharing is caring:
About love
About peace
About freedom
About babes
About bombs
And about lumbering shadows of life
Silhouetting hungry death
YES
I'm a dark-hued poetic mind
Writing mine
A cranial reservoir dripping
Spear-tipped words
Dripping cognitive flows
Conjuring
Cosmic
Consciousness
Defying
The cryptic
Void of silence
À propos preponderent passion penning poems...
posited puzzling apt aperçu...
While pondering particular
theme to address
amidst tangled webbed mental skein
today November third
two thousand nineteen,
unexpected Möbius strip
tease conundrum unforeseen,
yet as avid aspiring scrivener
only now I became keen,
which theoretical, rhetorical,
philosophical... predicament
may not suddenly find me
flush with green
i.e. profuse legal tender,
but merely thought provoking
puzzlement addresses following quandary
stuck within gray matter of pate
impossible mission to differentiate
jagged fine line between
passion and obsession
case in point strong
affinity to write of late,
cuz yours truly susceptible
toward compulsion that doth not abate,
and mind boggling to wed healthy
love of language analogous as mate
nsync with psychological trait,
viz excessive compulsion
diagnosed years gone
by courtesy professional
mental health specialists, did annotate,
and I admit behavior impossible to satiate,
thus generating aforementioned query
how does one (me) segregate
productive interest versus excessive,
née fanatical all consuming - I narrate
oft times burning midnight oil
(albeit figurative alluded
to mister Arson Wells) witness
as logophile doth painstakingly toil
bajillion cerebral threads to uncoil,
whereby utilizing figurative tweezers
uprooting, untangling rhyme I embroil
(even using Scooby Doo conditioner)
metaphorically beneath mine royal
hirsute (Scottish) matted topsoil
ultimately bringing in top gun
uncannily resembling gargoyle
shape shifting between pop eye
at lightspeed as if
greased with olive oyl
so watch out Bluto,
get ready for turmoil!
À propos preponderant passion penning poems...
posited puzzling apt aperçu...
While pondering particular
theme to address
amidst tangled wide, whirled
webbed mental skein
today November third
two thousand twenty two,
unexpected Möbius strip
tease conundrum unforeseen,
yet as avid aspiring wordsmith
only now I became keen,
which unflagging vexillological,
theoretical, rhetorical, philosophical...
narratological, linguistical, judgmatical
historical, fantastical, didactical,
and bibliographical predicament
may not suddenly find me
flush with green
i.e. profuse legal tender,
but merely thought provoking
puzzlement addresses following quandary
stuck within gray matter of pate
impossible mission to differentiate
jagged fine line between
passion and obsession
case in point strong
affinity to write of late,
cuz yours truly susceptible
toward compulsion that doth not abate,
and mind boggling to wed healthy
love of language analogous as mate
nsync with psychological trait,
viz excessive compulsion
diagnosed years gone
by courtesy professional
mental health specialists, did annotate,
and I admit behavior impossible to satiate,
thus generating aforementioned query
how does one (me) segregate
productive interest versus excessive,
née fanatical all consuming -
affinity towards English language
I loopily, quirkily verily narrate
oft times burning midnight oil
(albeit figuratively alluded
to wicked mister Arson Wells) witness
as logophile doth painstakingly toil
bajillion cerebral threads to uncoil,
whereby utilizing figurative tweezers
uprooting, untangling rhyme I embroil
(even using Scooby Doo conditioner)
metaphorically beneath mine royal
hirsute (Scottish) matted topsoil
ultimately bringing in top gun
uncannily resembling gargoyle
shape shifting between
comical characters such as
Popeye and Beetle Bailey
at lightspeed as if
greased with Olive Oyl
so watch out Bluto,
get ready for turmoil!