Best Black Haired Poems
Modest woman moderate woman
Your inner beauty strikes me
Like the tongue of noble eloquence
More than gold even refined gold
Or our purged fulgent silver.
Black woman proud woman
Your pride is not haughty
But a humble pride of eaglets;
Your black eyes are so glittering
As the eyes of our dark rivers
Filled with messages of peace
That banish the broody turmoil
From those panting hearts
Of your foreigned offsprings.
Gentle mother diligent mother
Your kindness kindles the fires
Of my heart –
Your dexterity dresses
The table of our ageless history
And the thought of your being
– Oh kind mother! –
Makes the most delicious menu
For my heart.
I remember your naked feet
Fast and fair as a pigeon’s limbs
Treading the invisible paths
Almost covered by shrubs
Small shrubs misted by the prime mist.
I remember the wood from the wood
The water from the water
And manifold items from jungle alleys
Borne by your delicate hands
And upon your soft black-haired head.
I remember the constant match
To markets and to farms
And your bright face smeared with
The ash dust
Making you more beautiful
Than any woman whose feet
Ever touched the naked earth.
I remember those burdens
Upon your cheerful kin-souls
And babies strapped to your backs
Babes full of unspoken words
To unborn others in patient wombs
Waiting in an endless turn –
Indeed, mother is dove!
A black dove and a dark huntress
A hunter’s gift from the maker?
Mother is like a weaver-bird
Building a big foot-like nest
Filled with corn and warmth
A bundle of eagle-flight
Mother is dove
And the hunter calls her
The clan’s eternal dove.
Oh, mother loving woman
Gentle as our black horizon
To you we humbly come
From these far and lonely lands
Hoping to grace our love and beauty
Before that jealous grave
Makes her temporary feast.
Decades of mystic dreamers have worn the path
trod across the leys, coupling pairs within Stonehenge.
Beneath the Wiltshire skies cornflower blue; they lust,
lotus-eaters, loose-limbed, seeking a blessed outcome.
With longing strides-- they reach, climbing earthen berms
to add their lovers song to move with the cycles.
Some take the blessed day, others wait the pearly moon.
See her so fairy fair dressed in naught but moonlight?
Watch his black-haired beast rise once encircled by her arms.
Back pressed against the dolmens, her heels wreath his waist
as virgin blood runs red like the holly berries
to feed the holy earth, she'll bear his child; she trusts.
Beautiful, busty black haired gypsy girls
looking at me
like they want to steal my heart
and keep the money they find in my back pocket
Those beautiful gypsy girls
rolling through my town
showing leg and drinking champagne
for no reason what so ever
and the one thousand year old grandmother
with five hundred granddaughters
and they all are looking at me
all those eyes pointed at me
and my heart skips beats,
each one take my heart
and a penny from my pocket.
I write upon my twisted trails of fairytales
Whereby some arcane beauty is defined
As meek blonde girls sweeping the coals
No chance to dance at balls
Hoping only for pity from some magic elf
Or a royal's fetish for tiny feet
But now she's shattering those mirrors of deceit
crossing out lies left too long on the shelf
She needs no prince to break her walls
No damsel wrote this scroll
while the black haired adventurer partakes of wine
riding on backs of disappearing whales
whose red shadows splash over purple pirate sails
by colors erupting outside gray lines
as she cuts holes in paper souls
of heartless paper dolls
Once she rescues herself from this passive pale self
she will quiver the air with her drumbeats
2/1/21
'I Write Upon' contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
As I was walking down lifes ' road one bright and sunny morn.
I espied up ahead in the crossroads a black haired beauty,
her dark locks blowing in the warm breeze.
There was a bewitching smile playing about her lips
and green eyes you could get hopelessly,happily,lost in.
I took up her hand because it seemed what I was born to do.
With that touch as our fingers entwined
my question was answered, yes this is home and where I belong.
We walked along for a while, enjoying the day and each others company.
As of a sudden,dark clouds gathered on the horizon,
the winds howled,thunder exploded and lightening streaked the sky.
Fear crept into the light of those eyes,and a single tear.
Gently I took her into my arms and held her close.
For you see this is what I was meant to do.
I held her tight until the storm clouds passed
and the sky once again turned vibrant blue.
Once again we walked down lifes' road and presently,
came to a fork one road to two.
Reluctantly I let go her hand,and started down my path
and she hers.
Stopping and turning I held out my hand.......
Come take my hand,take a chance.
Our paths are one,there are no lights ,signs,obstacles or pot holes.
For this road leads straight to my heart.
Tha lil ugh-gy duckin...
...Waa-uh-uh...a BAT lookin baby!
An somMO (I don mean jus maybe!)
Growt up in a house-boat shack
Way downt-ere in ole MAN-chac
Ain lyin!! (An I AIN hat no toke)
Ugh-gy baby make BU-tam-ous foke
All LAFIN an bubbly an-DIN!
Dat black hair and daak Creo-skin!
Guess who I be TALKIN abouts??
Wha-uh SWAN dat de LORD dun turnt out!!
For my beautiful black-haired Bayou Manchac granddaughter - DIXIE!!
This is rural southern African American dialect. It is used in the present-day Delta and central Mississippi regions...I tried to state exactly how a good friend of mine from that area might describe my grandaughter, who was am ugly baby but turned out to be beautiful both inside and out...
VIOLET LIPSTICK
She was . . . smiling into me,
Her eyes, in mine, asking me
"Sir, what do you want to order?".
I could not speak
I could only see
her violet lipstick.
I quickly, shyly, adverted my eyes.
I did not see that she was tall, shapely,
black-haired and pretty -
did my racial mind blink?
Not.
What does race matter
when it comes to beauty
and violet lipstick!
I have never seen it before,
violet, this exoticpassion hue
on a woman, a goddess,
or a black angel.
I thought she must have
beautiful eyes, but I could not
stop looking at her lips.
I mumbled my order
and fell
in love
with life
again.
Scent of men and sweat pervade this little space
away from vast expanse of exercise machines at this gym.
Here they strain beneath laden bars
or lift and lower black and silver weights held in their hands.
A delicious black-haired male with slim yet sturdy legs
exposes muscles which tense as he steadily pumps iron.
Beautiful and intense dark orbs peer into the mirror
at the biceps of his own taut and tawny arms.
Now he lies upon his back and hoists a bar.
The sound of his laborious exhalations permeates the room.
He doesn’t notice the pair of paler eyes on him
(I also watch the mirror. . . but more discreetly).
My softer respirations match his rhythm.
Then. . . with his final reps come virile groans.
Inside my head. . . I moan and I see myself
above his rippled abdomen and heaving chest,
pressed against his sweet, dark perspiring skin.
The fragrance of my lingering Taboo
mingles with his musk.
I see him glance my way, and I avert my eyes.
If he takes to older women as well as to the younger girls
and if he fancies ones like me - robust and voluptuous -
not just the females delicate and slender as reeds ,
perhaps he is breathing in the essence that is me,
and for that one moment in time. . . I’m the fantasy.
For Cyndi MACMILLAN'S "MY SPICE BOX: SENSUAL POETRY. ADULTS ONLY.Poetry Contest"
Oh, you African!
Of cocoa skin and black-haired
Like your judgments
You African!
The lamb in the elections
Son of the people, wandering in the dying neighborhoods
With your sweet and spoken worldly pretentions
Hiding your ties, leaning of lions
Uou African, black as the charcoal
Of heart as the darkness
looks at the White! look at the glitter!
but you left the moodle
Ignored the guides, the witchcraft
And infiltrated yourself in the Avé Mariah
Becoming despaganized Christian
why did you lie to us? Why?
Why did you hide yourself, why?
Why did you steal our wills?
You are not lamb, You are black wolf
We are already sinners to burn
This hell and the upcoming
And the flames of worms, dead alive
Ah! Revered Beloved Black
Heavy are your sins both hidden as revealed
that they rise with the clamour
Of the pregnant women, the virgins and the young men
Without bread, water, without light
And you there in your sublime throne glittering
But only a king has his throne, Jesus the Narazeth
And this is not thou, black brother
Two souls searching ?
Inspired by a writing from my sixteen year old Daughter
This old man, sits in the shadows of his life’s plan,
this fading shadow, of what once was a man !,
who’s life’s colours, his aura are not but shades of gray
that come in, and seem to fill his every day.
And then, black shades he doth find
in the troubled shadows, in the mind
of his youngest, his black haired beauty,
his ever growing all knowing, big cutie
who’s mold is told, as it sets sound,
after all the rules have been laid down
for this, my dark haired child
who’s dark soul seems so wild
with rage, her soul locked in a cage,
and there seems to be no turning the page.
That book needs to be found,
her soul, her spirit set free,
to know that beautiful sound,
find inner peace, let herself be.
Escape the clutches of doom, find peace
and know just how easy it is to release,
from the deep recesses of her troubled mind,
all she looks for but never seems to find.
That place where she may set free the flames,
get out and get away from the games,
be strong my Dear, and put the fires out
with such glee, be free, and shout.
B. J. “A” 2
February 27th 2001
Lost in a strange Space
A writing by my youngest Daughter,
about a painting she had done of herself.
In honest god truth, I could not really explain,
to you all, what is going on in this painting.
What I can tell you is, the title explains a lot,
because a lot of the time, I am lost in a strange space,
that is so indescribable that I’m not going to try.
The flame I’m holding in my heart represents all
the anger and frustration I hold inside me,
in fear of letting it out, may lead to destruction of myself.
My face is black because a lot of the time
I feel I have no real appearance, just a mind.
The faint yellow around me
represents what little faith I have in my body.
If I could explain, to whom is reading this,
all of what is going on inside my mind
I would, but I can’t, and all I know,
of what is keeping me alive,
is the love I feel for a few people,
and the love they return .
By Melanie
Atfield .
Simply for sake of conversation,
On one chilling, dark December evening,
I challenged my son to one-on-one;
Time offered me the reason.
Spotlights glaring...hours playing,
My tall, gaunt black-haired boy,
Submitting his secrets on that day,
Love I willingly offered to my boy.
That red cobblestone alley...two lives altered,
Girls...friends...not friends...music ~ we discussed;
Countless questions...answers with integrity performed,
Honesty I offered...conquering trust.
So many demons surround us,
Fresh snow...digressive days
When I search for him as the wind argues before and behind us,
My heart shall find my son in that alley...
I love you, Tyler. Mom xo
A black-haired dirty thinker
your words invade my head;
where lust and thirst become me
and love will see me dead.
Your body build a sailing ship.
Your keel at my back.
Your nods upon the ocean-
my death from your attack.
A bum to form a segment.
A fruit as firm as day.
A touch to stun the surface.
A helm to clear the way.
Your honey laden affections
captured me from the taste
of your first deep kiss
and my eyes melted into yours...
Your soft smooth hands
prompting my innermost desires
as you caressed my chest
with a soothing touch of adoration...
It's only you, you, black haired youth
with your dark skin and nocturnal eyes
and rubies glowing on your lips
it's only you I see, nobody but you...
You dark angel, yes, of my fantasies
the ideal shape I see in the afternoons
who whispers sweet seductive words
repeated by the autumn breeze...
Only you i have felt this way
a most tender elated anticipation
you've filled my hours with delight
you've spawned new life within me...
Georgie
His was a pudgy boyish countenance,
With rounded river eyes and an Alfalfa smile.
He wheezed like a sick tern with repeated asthma attacks,
Playing hard at the various outdoor games and chases,
Of our fleeting childhood years in the inhaling sun.
He perspired profusely in 1964 as he sat with beads of sweat which
Gathered like a water pox above his lips, all in a wheezing row.
Bespectacled Georgie was the curlicued, black-haired boy
who lived two houses up from ours; the one with the green hedge.
He wore converse sneakers, a white tee and blue denim, with
Thick black-framed glasses astride his chubby white face.
His was a temper not sought by anyone, including Elsie his mother.
Georgie was her little boy, but when angered, baseball bats went flying.
Curse words were screamed loudly with one’s birth name questioned intensely.
Stones and large rocks were heaved at innocent windows and nearby statuary.
Baseballs were hurled at the heads of other little boys, with misses near and far.
Toy darts were skipped across baking sidewalks to the bare feet of his playmates,
Producing more loud voices shrieking in pain when the darts impaled their feet.
Oranges and lemons were rabidly picked for the purpose of pummeling one’s nose;
But gentle mother Elsie loved her little Georgie, and his little blue inhaler.
Years and decades sailed by like lost boats in a starless harbor.
Little Georgie grew into a pudgy man with nothing changed except, the drugs.
Marijuana odors hovered like invisible swarms of masticating locusts,
Lurking above the silent brick houses of our street, with old Georgie lighting up.
With a pipe and a baggie in his pocket, my old friend gave up on his life.
He decided not to work, but to take aimless walks down deserted avenues;
Day after empty day he took his drifting strolls into a personal oblivion.
We subsequently lost contact in the ensuing decades, and I forgot about him.
Until recently… I found out…
Georgie’s funeral took place 25 years ago at Rose Hills Cemetery.
Rest in piece old friend, old tormentor, with your little blue inhaler.
She is so beautiful
that my heart can love no other,
but only her;
she sees me for a ghost
and my heart has no courage
to tell her my own true feelings.
She so lovely,
when she laughs
she brightens the world;
when she smiles,
she makes my heart laugh
and she makes me feel alive.
She is so kind,
she makes the birds fly high,
the rivers flow,
and the ravens sing songs,
as the merry deer prances away
all cheerful and in love.
She is my one and only,
my world, my love song,
my moon, my star, my sun,
my spring, fall and winter.
She is my rose, my sweet, beautiful rose,
my black haired angel beauty,
who I love so dearly;
she is my everything...
Only if she knew how much she means too me.
.12.22.2013.