Long Black body Poems
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I
Yours is a mystery no mortal man can comprehend,
and your name which I mistook for my sister's, is a riddle
that would remain unsolved…
I have searched and searched within the recesses of my heart
since we parted at the crossroads
to know why my heart suddenly fell
like a fly into the spider's web, like a creditor's call
on a debtor's door,
like rain on a sunny day for you (a stranger)
on our first coincidental meeting,
and why it never stopped falling…
II
Weird as it seems,
the resonance of your soft contralto voice
lingers in my head
as if it were moments ago, and I feel
the reverberations against the daunting din
of the crowd that encompassed us…
The image of your slim black body stands in my mind's eyes
like slender palm on a bar beach,
and the perfect projections on your comely face
reminds me of my mother in her prime
when maidens prided in the sanctity
of their innocence
and thinking of you lulls me to sleep, to daydream
youthful dreams of her
in whose shadows I weaned…
Doyin! Lightfooted archer* on the wings of fate-
the suppleness of your black skin and your matchless manners
are true reflections of your untainted roots,
and the playfulness in your cultured tongue exalts you
amongst the silken daughters of Eve
(and are mere reminiscences of our first meeting)
How can I define your superlative beauty in verse?
III
Doyin, you are not one of my sisters, you are not my mother's daughter
yet, since we parted at the crossroads,
I have been in despair longing for the overwhelming ambience
of your sisterly warmth,
to hear the sound of your tender voice resonate
in my head down to my heart,
to feel the enlivening breath of your inner bowels,
to rest beneath the sheltering canopy of your hair, and
be enlightened by the magic splendour
of your bespectacled eyes…
Doyin, I long to bridge this river between us
to reach the enchanting realm of your refreshing countenance
and dwell therein within
the friendly fountains of your heart.
But since we parted at the crossroads,
and you went your way while I stood watching,
the image of your fetching figure
lodges in the chambers of my heart like a golden fleece
IV
And why my heart suddenly fell for you
I cannot tell…
Was it for your fetching figure or matchless manners?
I still cannot tell
I leave it to fate…
As the sun goes down
The feral cat’s prowl
Looking for mice, searching for rats
In the alley, bins full of out of date
And yesterday’s wrapping.
A tribute to Consumerisms detritus
On the ground a smiling face
Colonel Sanders, blocking a stagnant drain.
Slowly freezing as the frost descends,
And up above the stars shine their scorn, upstaged
By the moon, seeking to unveil,
The cities vermin
Residents of the night.
The thief fox, screeches’ his indifference
At the stray dog, licking the remnants of last night’s kebab
And in the shadows behind the skips,
In a cardboard den
A pair of eyes glares across the alley
Seeking forgiveness that is not there,
From within this frail kingdom
A tiny light appears,
A fragment of hope, the start of a happy ending
But no, it is a tab end fading
For the last drag has been taken
And the last can of comfort is now empty
And while we sit down to watch TV
To marvel at Attenborough’s view
To see the blue planet and the leopard seals kill
And "ahh" at polar bears, and gorillas in Brazil
All neatly packaged by nature’s quill.
Oblivious to the view outside
Beyond the living room window
A man will not wake
For when the dawn releases this night’s chill
He will be found, taken away,
Sanitized by his black body bag
Anonymous to this world
For we do not want to know
As we did not in life
A stain on the community
One less beggar to avoid
But look in the mirrors spell
And dare to What if?
You lost your job and your wife ran off
Your child was gone and your house taken away
Your mind now broken,
Fear of humanity is but a step,
The comfort of being alone
Led you down this dark alley.
The rat, and the fox your allies
For they too fear mans footsteps
Think on for I do not preach
Nor do I wish to teach
But remember Attenborough’s planet,
And the wonder of life
I did not see the animals behave this way,
Only mutual survival
Are we less than that we see?
Are we too busy or too proud?
I see no mourners here, only indifference
And when I die I wish for no mourners too.
Jon doe, your maker will mourn for you
And relative’s dead will feel your pain
And perhaps one day your community
Will learn to mourn for a stranger
For we are all strangers, when we look the other way
May you find peace Sir, whoever you may be?
Tentative rose thorns graze my skin as I push through the plant-walled garden
They neither break skin nor draw those secret white lines across it
Lillies of the valley wonder where their valley has gone when they realise they are on
flat land
Their delicate white petals stare at the clouds which gather like ants to an amberule of honey
I can feel the rain on the air, it clothes me in a heavy gown of foreboding and expectation
The birds who once called across the garden to their avian lovers silently flutter home
In the tall birches and oaks and evergreens, in the bright aboreal verendace, their world
I walk through a stream which has trickled and will trickle for ages,
patiently it cuts away the tarnished granite bed, deeper and deeper,
Tiny frogs leap away in instinctive terror, my feet suddenly transformed into evil monsters,
and as I step out of the stream bed, I wonder where all the butterflies have gone when I
see a moth
With spanning black wings as dark as night, edged with gold as bright as the sun,
its antennae are feathery and magnificently plume the insect's noble head, a crown above
all crowns,
Its six legs are carried tightly under its richly-furred black body, little dagger-glows
sheathed,
I reach out a hand as tentative as the rose thorns, and the moth plays with me,
taunting me with its nocturnal majesty, with its iridescent wings, with its reflective eyes,
To my eternal satisfaction the lordly moth alights upon my fingers,
and I wince as its claws grip my tightly, it folds in its wings, its royal robes of office,
The golden filligree glitters and the soft pixie dust all moths carry falls unnoticed onto
my hand,
Body quivering, I see the unmistakable mark across its elegant wing-shape;
death's head, a human skull, remnant of a past life,
laughing at me in my folly,
the lordly insect takes flight, leaving my with the sliently roses, the apathetic lillies,
the meandering stream, to contemplate the incomprehensible
and I breathe in the dust of the moth,
forgetting butterflies had ever existed, for the death's head
rules the secret garden day and night
and now I understand these things,
which only the whispered languages of the garden could say.
Red power mode
White digital
Blue logo
My, oh my ...
sweet apple pie!
Patriotic American cheese is turning sour Kraut commie
Democracy is Wisconsin curdling ... penicillin shot
needed between the ailing ballot box,
sho’ ain’t Louisiana Purchase forthcoming
Lady Liberty is bowing face down, Kansas Toto-style,
to Kremlin oligarchy ...
didn’t take much to bend with Washington wavy subservience
It’s an Idaho russet Ruskie crying shame
Couch the Benedict-ion omelette breaking news:
Missy Freedom done Alaska huskie hussy sold herself
to be a Soviet satellite skirt muzzled tramp mule
Red power mode
has taken cyber control of all voter confidence
White digital bar-code
activate the Manchurian self-destruct sequence
Blue logo brand ruble sold,
keeps the general populace straddling the fence
As they reality TV see their loose Lady Liberty
make a Texas loan star barracuda bow face
Proud North Dakota woman bending her knee,
acknowledging her Bolshevik bastard place
It’s a Kentucky bourbon crying shame
Democracy kissing the Politburo Czar ring
Bluegrass filly ruling class
selling the masses out for the Balaam green
Capitol Hill Star Spangled silent gag,
money mutes on a Pavel dog Con-stitutional prostitute
Wavy anthem cloth used as a snot rag,
Molotov noses following the Red Pied Pier booger flute
My, oh my ...
Marx Twain subversive tweet sweet apple pie!
Collaborator citizens being called patriotic comrades
Eating the Stalinist straw buries,
spit sprinkled with
Chernobyl pyramid scheme
propaganda whipped cream
Traitor taste the Taps Blue Fibbing beer,
free-market funeral dirge price gouge overflowing,
in the white Lenin toe-tag black body bag aisle
While the Ukraine lobbyist piggies
are covetously Crimea coffer crying
Oh, Nevada bordello bosom alligator weep ...
let the Alabama tick tears leech flow
down those Florida lemon-squeezed cheeks
It’s a New Mexico caliente green chile crying shame —
Them neo-Anazazi, gun-clicking squatters
getting a Wounded Knee ice gulag reservation claim
Lady Liberty doing an Independence bow face,
it’s a thirteen stripe, Siberian mongrel disgrace
A sliver of bright light
seeps into the darkness
Echo of voices reverberate inside my head
I'm in limbo,
I can't move
Am I alive, am I dead?
I don't feel any pain,
I don't feel much of anything
But there's a sense of dread foreshadowing me,
an unease that I can't seem to shake free
I want to scream,
but I'm disoriented thoroughly
My eyes move, that's all, nothing else
So I glance around,
I see white lab coats, and black body bags on metal slabs
An antiseptic smell permeates the air,
masking the scent that death lives here
The voices are slowly becoming clear,
and what I'm hearing brings horror to my ear
They're talking very dispassionately about dispatching me,
how there's no need to contact next of kin, given I'm government property
I give a silent scream: somebody help me please!
My lips can't move though,
I'm paralyzed completely
What happened to me, how did I get in this predicament?
Memory is foggy, with only one mental flash coming in and out
A battlefield with sounds of gunfire and bombs,
I must be a soldier no doubt
But those cold, rational voices intrude on me again,
and I get more terrified by what they're saying
They say they want to remove my cybernetic limbs,
download the memory in my positronic brain
Place it in a new prototype version, then scrap the remains
Burn all the evidence,
incinerate any signs of their illegal activity
I want to scream I'm alive
Listen, listen to me!
I sense movement, wheels rolling swiftly
Now I'm descending into a dark place,
towards a room aglow, with a sign above it that says:
Ye who enter, abandon all hope
I let out one last silent scream
My eyes widen as I approach the flames, but I can feel no heat
I hear my inner voice intone a final notation ...
RCN unit #0247895
has been summarily sentenced to a premature cremation
There was a man I once knew.
His name was Norman.
You know how there’s a first for everything?
Well, he was my first.
Despite my visits to the nursing homes with my grandma,
I really didn’t know anything about them.
I had to learn what an Ombudsman was.
Despite having a little one,
I had to learn how to properly tend to people.
At the time, I was a virgin in every sense of the word but one.
I knew nothing.
I knew of no one.
I was made to keep my head down and learn.
Ask questions, but don’t argue.
I saw you there.
I would walk with you around your bedroom.
Somehow you changed bedrooms.
I was so happy to see you.
I was sad for your condition though.
All the hurts would spill forth from your dry, chapped lips.
Believe me, you had a lot of hurts.
It’s as if you’ve spent years in a trench.
Weren’t you a World War veteran?
You’d know what I’m talking about.
How people would get holes in their bodies?
I saw a lot of painful holes.
Oozing, goopy, gooey and painful holes.
You endured so much.
When you finally fell into an eternal sleep,
When I finally saw you in your black body bag,
As you were being rolled along the hallway,
I couldn’t help but feel like you’ve had a good, long life.
Until that moment,
I once again referred to myself as the medical virgin.
That was my very first time.
No, not with death in general,
But with being that close to a person’s final moments.
I would watch and wait patiently.
You would scream in agony.
Those deep, dark holes couldn’t have been good.
They oozed a smelly liquid.
I don’t take offense.
This was always something I never had to learn.
I’m the type who would talk about poop at the dinner table.
From that moment on,
I knew I was in for quite the adventure.
Mr. Norman.
Sir. Captain. General. Sargent. Colonel.
Whatever you were,
Father. Grandfather.
You were my first.
They make the stereotype of the loud and angry black woman seem bad
But why has nobody questioned who made us like that
The language they use to belittle us
Our mouths hand stitched with silence
And the box of requirements we are shoved into
Threatened by the mark of violence
Yes I am loud and no I will never be quiet
The fire you tried to extinguish burns brighter
I will not be condemned to a life of empty sound
Just because you don't like how one word from me can crumble your empire
Built of stolen voice and compliance
Yes I am loud and yes I won't be silent
Our voices the threat to your generational violence
And if me being black and proud
Equals loudness
Then I am so proud of my blackness
Because my voice echos generations of black power
Of words spoken through the strength of those before me
Yes I am loud but that is my legacy woke up to see
Another death, another black body
Yes I am angry and have every right to be
When all we have done is emit a welcoming energy
And we're met with colonisation and inequality
Not to forget your continuous brutality
Yes I am angry, you will not make me the villain
When you are the ones with a history of violence
Calling us criminals
Can you not see the irony
When we present peace
And you present inferiority masked by a face of envy
Yes I am angry, I have every right to be
You call us poor but trap us in poverty
We shared our wealth then stole all our money
You claimed democracy then campaigned tyrany
Then take the opportunity
To abuse your power against us once we claim mutiny
So yes I am angry as I should
When you killed my people
But didn't even have the guts to say sorry
Yes I am angry and every black person Is allowed to be
Because we deserve reparations and we deserve an apology
Yes I am loud
And yes I am angry
That is who I am and I accept that fully
Embodied
Adam’s Rib?
Adam’s Rib, or did you come from Adam’s Rib?,
Were you a progeny of Man,
Or rather grafted by the cosmos, in the image of sacred splendor,
Black Body,
Beautiful and Slender,
Round and Tender,
Is it your shape that compels me to wonder?
Is it your black beautiful shape, in all wondrous compositions and sizes that captures my eye?
Such that I am willing to die that you might rise?
Or is it something deeper?
Oh sleeper awaken!
For it is not the shape or attribute,
It is not the visage of physical perspicacity, or visual euphony that drives us to cherish
your essence,
Is it your mental alacrity?
Your disposition to unlock the secrets of empathy and objective forgiveness?
Perhaps?
But as Mother Earth nurtures me with the blood of water ridden rivers of the Lamb’s sacrifice,
It is your embodied body that is the source of my amazement,
For you are imbued, and empowered,
Glorified and showered,
By the hue of the effervescent infinite,
The eternal love of life and death, rebirth and resurrection,
Has chosen you for a brighter day,
You are the embodied image of a brighter day, where people look to God and pray,
For an end to the madness abounding,
You are astounding,
My black, beautiful sister,
Enshrined in mystery,
Forsaken by history,
But not forgotten by the cloud of witnesses that you serve with abandon,
Lead on my sister,
Lead us on to the ways of light,
Teach us to fight for right, and the sight of blessed unity,
Impunity cannot stop you,
Rejection cannot stifle the sound of your gentle and courageous wisdom,
If we could just listen,
To the Word Made Flesh,
Black, Beautiful, Female, Fearless, and Ferocious,
Imbued with the light of the infinite,
Embodied, Emboldened, Forever.
I
She died three days ago, the lady in
the apartment at the end of the corridor.
She was eighty-three. The medics rolled
her out in a shiny black body bag,
a not uncommon sight in this housing
complex for the elderly.
They found her on the kitchen floor,
to one side of a chair. She didn’t even
have time to finish her cup of tea.
A cerebral hemorrhage, the obit read.
Instant death, probably, and never felt
the tea cup slipping from her fingers,
never felt herself falling, never felt
her head hitting the floor or the sound
of her tea cup or glasses breaking into pieces.
II
Never idle, she had the work ethic
of an ant, waitressing at three different
restaurants in town, driving her old car
with its noisy muffler every day to work.
Feisty, loud, opinionated, her voice
was raspy, grating on the ear.
A nonstop complainer, she spoke her mind
on subjects most women her age
would never, while we kept our distance.
Her most outstanding nonverbal feature
was her hair, always made up, always piled
on her head like dollopes of cumulus clouds
with potential for thunder and lightning.
III
Now she was dead, a corpse, a body in decay.
No more would she serve customers or wipe tables.
No more would the corridors carry her loud voice.
There is nothing more useless than death –
except, perhaps, to give light to an empty
space or an apartment to another occupant.
A resident made a rather odd comment
in saying that, though she had died three days
ago, she could not have been dead for that
length of time, for death is a condition
without time, eternity is instantaneous,
he said dryly – if she had had even half
a second to remember.
If it ain't Sunday its Monday,
Jamming to slow jams
while contemplating my next come back,
This system got a brother on pursuit
they told me from day one that i can run but never hide,
Feeling all cornered cause i never saw the road,
The aftermath of my destiny,
The true fact is that i'm in custody
Battle of self, my highest goal was to reach cosmic awareness
now how i crashed!
I'm just an alien looking for my higher self,
Reminiscing about my birth place,
The cage, my people never saw the shackles until they looked up,
Realizing the trap they where in,
Hallucinations send so we never see the hell,
Alcohol, drugs to unknown prescriptions
The doctors and scientists that manipulate these labs,
To mass propaganda for the reprogramming of my psyche,
So I act like a animal rebelling against the system,
Its all a strategy and we the enemy,
Set by unknowns I guess nobody knows they just hear the noise,
Modernization roaring this is a jungle
and I'm just an ant standing out due to my black body,
The working class building empires but not for ourselves,
Dreaming at night and working by day
This is the chain of life the order of the Queen,
The nature of things,
I'm just trying to get out of this place,
To being surrounded by wolves damn!
The three stages i have to pass,
Mass corporations making money from poverty,
ask them where they get the ingredients?
We are the sugar coat in their lies,
With added brown for that crunchiness
The poor as a cookie jaw for the wealthy,
and i'm born free!
So catch me if you can like the gingerbread Man,
But i just want to be real this is Pinocchio's story,
Climbing the hill,
I hope i don't fall Jack and Jill.