Long Grandmama Poems

30 Days In

I fall short of just enough
Words escaped my breath
Eager to talk 
My tongue utters
As a mute 
Finding his voice 
My mind races with mighty a speed

My fragility becomes apparent 
A spectacle amongst
Figures who...

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Tribute to The Street Kids of Mumbai Documentary  


I  used to pick pockets
And steal tomato at the market place
I beg on the streets of Mumbai, India’s largest city
I stop drivers and ask for...

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Cry me a river  cry me a river

The change has arrived

Where are all the heroes

Heroes like jolting Joe D

Hit the ball to outer space

Running from first to Homeplate

Kids cheering kids jumping

Popcorn all over the...

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There sat an old man on the 
porch. He was long and gray. 
Skin that looked similar to a 
dried raisin. Dark as a wet 
pecan. His eyes a light green 
color. You know his...

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It was the first day of the new school year
The children of Beslan had no need to fear
In anticipation they eagerly left home for school
Some walked hand in hand with Mom and Dad
Others skipped along...

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Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: I'm Gonna Write
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: August/1988

I'm gonna write about 
my grandmama -

I'm gonna write about 
my mama -

I'm gonna write about
my love......

What I'm gonna do,
and
must do,

Is write about
all
black women
in the world -

About how
warm 
caring
understanding,
and
resourceful 
a...

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I was born to be a prostitute,
I knew this was who I would be 
when  Grandmama walked ten miles to clean houses seven days a week.
I knew this is who I would be
 when...

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(I hold three magic rocks in my hand
Rolling them over and over and over
Leaving this reality far, far behind
I dream Daddy's dream, over and over and over.)

My daddy talked about her.
He said she was a...

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Grandmama,
Mama,
Aunt,
sister,
cousin,
niece,
friend.
More precious than the air that I breathe.
When there was doubt,
in any amount,
you provide the clout,
the belief.
Emotional and spiritual, that nothing else could compare,
true angels without wings,
pulling blessings and hopes right out of thin air.
Passing...

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Memories are just that.
O how I wish Grandmama were making her fruitcake.
Standing alongside the entire time
With the understanding the mixing bowl was mine for the taking.

All year she would save all her dimes. 
So many...

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I remember me and my cousins 
running on the hot paved streets
Of Chicago
In mid summer
to the candy lady 
to buy 
a .25 cent frozen cup

Grandmama in the kitchen
wiping sweat off her forehead
as she prepares our...

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Although she was my grandmama,
We all called her Miss Ida.
Children and grandchildren alike did succumb
To this quaint, obscure, southern custom.

In the days of gold and lavender,
Mother was "Miss," and father was "Mister."
When buttercups danced in...

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