Best Keith Poems
Africa is raped. The continent of life is pumped dry, and the colonizer won’t stop, ’till he is stopped. And blocked.
We pay colonial tax for the baskets we have weaved. Our own weaved baskets. We remain cocooned to a mask, a philosopher who has seen Africa’s image in the advent of adversity, concludes; the children of black skins white masks -the despised and the despising. Living in the postcolonial but not yet decolonized.
In 1885 you were chopped and divided by colonial borders, by colonial masters. Your rivers of know knowledge were polluted but they never ceased flowing. Your rainmakers pleaded to the ancestors for rain that will cleanse the worst of the west. A philosopher has paused and whistled, oh, the wretched of the earth!
Now the wind of change is here-the new colonizer has already entered without even knocking, concluding without asking. He is already in a feast and taking to the east. But still the voices of your children are still daring and glaring, voices from within. Voices comparable to water about to evaporate to a desert, in image and symbol. Neatly done, they look like a weaved basket, or sometimes like a weaver bird that does not tire. Yet in rage and singing repeatedly an unending chorus of a dull song. They sing for you the land of fallen heroes, they cannot cease flowing. The river runs along the line of least resistance.
The image of the new colonizer rejects your poets and griots when they cough syllables of tradition, when they plant a seed that should incite no fear for the dead. Africa is under siege, predated by vultures and dining with a fork and knife, and chop sticks. We are silenced and crippled and ridiculed. All of a sudden her tales are beliefs are witchcraft, her decisions are validated. Her dream is differed. From the abundance of her production, her labor, she receives only a grain of wheat, or nothing.
Cradle my body, Deeply into
you, tear me, limb-frm-limb,
Can't deny your pulsing vibes,
380* spins my prime, moving
mountains, amongst, early
dawns, sunlight quake, where
we lost all self-control,
dangerously, Keith Sweats,
song, fornicating, our love....To
another round of sweet
Deveined entwined lyrics,under
bump n' grind, midnights
breaking hour, we co-inside, all
measures of passions love, to
never part...
~CR~
All Rights Reserved
04-18-13
Hello my name is Keith Edward Baucum.
I am a black male who was born on the
day of July 10, 1982.
I'm the youngest out of my mother's seven
children.
I am from Laurinburg North Carolina. I
still live in Laurinburg North Carolina.
My interests are education, poetry, African
American studies, African culture,
literature, visual arts.
My favorite poets are Marcus Garvey,
Phillis Wheatley, Tupac Shakur, Langston
Hughes, Maya Angelou, Paul Laurence
Dunbar, and Countee Cullen.
I would like to publish a book of poems,
stories, quoets, and writings.
I am 31years old and as single as one can
be.
I have no children.
The type of music I like are hip-hop, R&B,
rap, soul music, reggae music, and gospel
music.
I'm a Christian and I'm a black
nationalist
My mailing address is po Box 792
Laurinburg North Carolina 28352
Written by Keith Edward Baucum Aka Red
Seven aka The Brown
Philosopher aka The Green Poet
So farewell Keith Vaz, we don’t really mind
Whether you steered from the front or behind
But the coke was a bit of an epic fail
What’s that, you’re snorting, I didn’t inhale?
So hello Keith Vaz, you’re still knocking about
You can lock up yer closet now yer out
And maybe hang out with Osborne and stuff
Isn’t he a bit of a powder puff?
© Gail Foster 6th September 2016
RIP Police Constable Keith Palmer 2017.
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
Who shall we bury today?
Who has been taken away?
Not me yet I’m pleased to say.
So I can write these words today!
As we mourn loved ones lost.
Or friends we knew, in days gone past.
Lost to us but not high above!
Where innocents go to be loved.
Cry not more tears, I beg of you.
Remember me as you should do.
The last time you were full of glee.
Remember that time you spent with me.
We mourn a special man today.
Killed on duty policing I say.
Policing outside our country’s Parliament.
Unarmed on duty in these days of torment.
In heaven, he will surely take his place.
Head held high, with no disgrace.
So when we all pass Saint Peter’s gate.
Don’t be surprised to see his face.
Of course off-duty he will not be.
Saint Peter’s gate is so busy.
Yet all who queue to enter there.
Cause no trouble I do declare.
So when we finally do die.
Shake his hand, will you and I.
For he did not die in vain!
At Saint Peter’s gate he is on duty again.
They met on a Monday
She said her hair was a mess.
Or was it a Tuesday?
She had just come from the gym.
It was the ice cream section
On aisle number 5.
Oh wait, it was aisle 3.
I remember she said the tuna - was buy 1 get one free.
She noticed his hair
Then well, maybe his rump.
It could only be him
Making her heart go thump thump
She quick put on lipstick
And ran her hand through her hair
She was ready for the big hello
But could only stand there and stare
Keith Urban in Publix?
In little ole DeLand
She had to be seeing things
She had left her glasses on the nightstand
She heard him ask
where he could find beer
She quick grabbed his hand to show him
Because she was from here.
They left aisle 3
Past the salmon and soup
They walked hand in hand
Basically making a big loop.
Now back where they started
She said oh silly me
The beer is right here
Right here on Aisle 3
Keith Urban thanked her
And asked her name
She said I’m Barbara C.
But you can call me babe.
This is the untrue story
Of how Keith and Barb met
There no harm in a story
Hey its just between friends.
An Angel, Fairy or Nymph Now In Human Form Collaboration with Keith O.J. Hunt
An Angel, Fairy Or Nymph Now In Human Form
Her exhilarating breath so quickened my heart,
her poise, I stood transfixed in overwhelming awe.
Gasping for air, as one does when lovers depart
begging that, "dear lover please return to me call".
Her Hellenic face, Shelly would have stood agape
her voice, Eliot would have simply called divine.
From her warmth and sincere charms, exists no escape
an angel, no less than a Byron would opine!
Was she a fairy, of Faust and the Niblong's Ring
born of dew, Nature's anticipating harvest?
Creature in human form devoid its silver wings?
Angel coming to give, we lost stragglers a rest?
Had she escaped from sunset's magnificent views
a savior tasked to this dark, gloomy earth now heal
Angel or saint earthbound walking in human shoes
would time and fate, her great mysteries soon reveal?
Rejoice this moment; heaven's gate standing agape,
with all the angels in tow, and manna served hot;
Ripe as the wild earth wonders, swift as the eagle sage...
these monolith moments come to touch earthly lot;
And split upon the shores and rocks with honeyed dews....
the flowered Lovers tip-toeing a full moon night
And Artemis --- how she doth shine in fairy-wood hues
where in thy machinations it is for thee light;
For love and kindness does kiss my soul swift and soft
with her slender nymph stride to come and give me peace
And hope to kindle a secret fire held aloft
in her eyes, the stars doth twinkle love's endless sea
A great sacrifice, she has given heaven's wile;
and descend this dark world to give a greater warm
And in her lush pledges to me the heaven's smile;
(An angel, fairy or nymph in human form)
--------
First 16 lines written by Robert Lindley
Last 16 lines written by Keith O.J. Hunt
Kindly
Evolving
Into
True
Happiness
Written by Keith Edward Baucum
aka The Brown Philosopher aka The
Green Poet
The voice of death tho a whisper still
If exercised is loud and shrill
A couple of coins & sign the line
May just buy you a little time
Library’s filled with ancient tomes
A lot of stories of the unknown
On going tales of lore
Their to impress the present whore
Two bits to cover the eyes
A few roses to deodorize
A Constant rattle to the soul
can create more havoc than you know
With A few scriptures recited well
Place a dollar bet and you’re out of hell
From our minds the hero’s rise
Revealing how we lived our lives
Speaking in circles nipping our tails
Creating enough wind to billow a sail
The flag of glory is beyond repair
Yet plainly visible to all who dared
This is to Francis& Keith &
The Captains of thrift ANSWERS TO ANXIETY
My son Brian is a special fellow, with just his smile he can turn my darkest days brighter than the brightest yellow.
He sees the good in everyone and will make you feel love down deep in your heart.If I would ever lose him my life would be ripped apart.
Brian has Down's and has struggled most of his life and does things he was told he could never do, so many surgeries and obstacles to go through.
He has proven so many wrong with just being alive and goes through life with a smile on his face and love in his heart, he always welcomes you with a hi.
Brian is my best friend and right hand man. I can never imagine him leaving my side, I swear I will run and hide away from love and everyone around just stay to myself and forever wear a frown.
Sometimes we look at the spread of the open sky
in deep awe and wonder
At times even daring to claim the sky,
like caged birds, we weep and tweet.
We look at the ocean, the screaming of the sea
and the river between dark and bright.
Where the dire silence of the river sits yawning.
In our drizzling doubt we forget we too are rivers and,
oceans that scream, seas that see, streams that scream.
We murder our own dreams at the end of the twilight.
We have, ourselves, killed not only ourselves but other selves.
We weep, yet told, “weep not child.”
Like anteaters that fight using their callouses,
and not their claws and wits.
We shrink and quake fearing evil dreams and nightmares. We ask:
Who will plead with our ancestors to generously pour their wisdom?
So we can know that it is not necessary to sniff the buttocks of a man who has just defecated.
And so we can know that we are the seas,
the streams and rivers that scream,
elsewhere and everywhere.
VISITING KEITH
this is the graveyard
where i have to come
to visit you
after they planted
you like a weed
(six feet down).
every spring i come and wait
for you to spout up.
it's been twenty years.
you would think
(wouldn't you?) that i'd give up,
tired of waiting, tired
of sitting here, leaning back
against your stone
back aching
(heart breaking).
i have traced your name
so many times in the dirt
hoping to see your face
pop through. i am willing
and able
to wipe away
the crust from your eyes
so i can see you
and you can see me.
i miss you. but i am tired
of sitting here, missing
the thrills, the pills,
the chills of the eternity
we spent together.
i am so tired of waiting
to see your face
spout up i dig my heels
into the soil and exclaim:
start over! start over!
(stay down!) i am done.
you can scratch and dig
all you want but you will not
cannot break through
(you cannot return).
keith, i would gladly dig you up
but we're supposed to believe
in miracles so here i sit
like a believer (of what?)
waiting for a friend
who will never return.
perhaps our sins were too great
to be forgiven
and the resurrection
is a cruel joke
and a broken heart
is really all god can offer.
keith, i do miss you
but after twenty years
if you do pop through
i will stomp my heels
and gladly send you back to hell.
Copyrighted
March 19, 2011
Kindly
Evolving
Into
True
Happiness
Written by Keith Edward Baucum aka
The Brown Philosopher
There are two loving angels
which make me happy everyday
For these sweet angels
everyday I do pray
For how they make me feel
is very hard to explain
They make me fell cared for, loved,
and for the most feel sane
When they entered my life
I would have never of guessed
That because of these angels
I would be so happily blessed
They ignited great feelings inside me
Which i'll never forget
My joy just kept growing
from the first time we met
Love, honesty, and trust,
Belief and inspiration
Protection and forgiveness
Understanding, communication
For all these things plus more
on me my angels can depend
They're just some of the ingredients
belonging in a friend
Even though I believe
They are going to do fine
I'll just try my best
when they need help down the line
For when they're confused
and they're judgement is poor
I'll help to unscramble the baffle
in hopes they choose the right door
But, whatever they choose
I'll try to give them direction
because in my eyes
they're already perfection.
The face like an old sailor hugs the eye
Something deep and erudite there
The white hairs say the man did sigh
But for what does not now appear
Let me tell my own story with it, friend.
Poet of young hearted nature ringing
Whimsical and erudite from beginning
Yours words like Wordsworth still ascend.
O let us keep with our hearts more than men
Two old poets washed up by the tides
Seaweeds telling myth till the time's yarns end
Us, carnal dreamers with stars as brides
Hey, I salute you ... brother in writing, I
Remember we held this friendship long
Ago, but claiming it again fear the song
That death may wreath us with, and you
After me, or I before, alone must rue
How time has harvested us for truth
And stripped us leafless of our youth
May our words win us laurels in the sky.