The sun rose that September morn, brightly dim.
The moon waned with tears in the shadow of Muhammad.
Stars scarred by footprints, heavy,
as Allah made the descent,
wings seared from the heat of hate,
hitching rides on freedom flights,
Almighty power clothed butchery of innocents.
What idol worship can move the soul to cogitate
that crumbling skyscrapers thrust so deep
would anesthetize a slumbering giant?
Awaken, arise like the billowing dust permeating blue sky,
ascending to heaven with supplication men dare pray
in places children dare not.
Dawn’s chaste early light reconciles blue-crimson white
with the Ancient of Days’ incarnate flow,
cleansing all unrighteousness,
providing hope of our salvation.
Revenge is Mine.
Justice is ours.
Godspeed.
Let’s roll.
Copyright © 2001 by Mickey Grubb
Orders descend like sharpened hail
each shard cutting language to ribbons.
We learn to swallow pain quietly,
to bow our eyes before the flag of silence.
Walls do not need ears...
fear builds its own cathedral,
where every heartbeat kneels
to the god of obedience.
Children are taught to trace straight lines,
never to bend them back into loops.
Curves are forbidden
too dangerous a hint
that what dies might begin again.
Even breathing is tallied,
counted like coins in the dark.
Still, a single breath slips past.
Unmeasured, unowned
a secret chord that rattles
the cage of silence.
From that small ignition,
the world remembers how to grow.
In halls where silence cloaked the dread,
You raised a voice, though fear had spread.
With leaflets fluttering like doves in flight,
You lit a candle in the night.
Not with guns, nor iron might,
But truth and courage, fierce and bright.
A rose in winter, pure and still,
Defying hate with steadfast will.
Your words, like whispers through the air,
Asked hearts to feel, to act, to care.
Against a storm of brutal lies,
You stood with clear and open eyes.
Though gallows claimed your final breath,
You did not bow, not even in death.
Your petals fell, but not in vain—
They bloom where conscience dares remain.
White Rose of Germany, proud and free,
You taught what strength and soul must be.
A bloom of hope in darkest hour—
Forever grace, forever power.
What is love, really—
a figment of hope
sharp enough to shatter
centuries of lived patriarchy?
To think
education could make a dent
in what’s already carved
in bone & name.
To think
a stranger could be chosen
over the familial veins of caste, of home
over the womb of belief one never questioned.
Perhaps what’s
whispered in secret
was always meant to be hidden—
buried, before it flowers into regret.
Does it even matter—
your thoughts,
these societal norms, yourself?
whether you’re religious, or not?
What really makes one unique,
when the future already beholds
what always has been,
and what will be?
Destiny.
to think one is different—
to think everyone
is just the same.
To think
all that ever transpired
got fizzled on a random night
that never belonged to me.
"Blackbird"
You cannot cage what's born to rise,
she blazed beyond their brittle lies.
They named her ash, they named her end,
but fire learns how not to bend.
Her silence cracked the sky in two,
she flew where only lightning flew,
They heard her cry, not weak–but wise–
a battle hymn of "Blackbird" skies.
Our pleasure is political
Our presence anarchy
Our smile a rebellion
Our hair A revolution
Our blood our fire
Our blackness A force to be reckoned with
Our joy to them is a declaration of war
Our resilience an act of political warfare
Our resilience a threat to the system of oppression they built
They don't like when we take back control
Then turn it into freedom
Their existence is threatened
By how we embrace our blackness
They can't handle when we love
Being black
Because its something they can't
Have
Be
Or steal
No matter how hard they try
Their envy betrays them
Every time they oppress us
Kill us
Target us
When they discriminate us
They know the only way they can feel superior
Is by trying to make us feel inferior
That's Our power
Joy and laughter
Dead, Dead.
Decay and rotten flesh,
melting beneath the scorching sun.
Worms, maggots, and flies-
a parade in time with the vulture's drum.
Teasing, tearing, ripping this way and that, dashing, splashing like an artist painting madness.
Bumblebee, whisper to me:
Am I dead...or just asleep
in the scariest dream?
No...
I can't be dead.
I refuse to be dethroned.
Oh death, you have no sting.
I have clipped your wings.
A man of all seasons,
I fight in every round.
Knocked down...
but rise before I hit the ground.
Yeah, I am not dead.
(“Creation Myth Merit Badge”, 2016, original oil)
Global Intifada
Everywhere you look today the world is burning
Or is a dried out husk waiting to spark.
It’s a self proclaimed global intifada after all,
Sweeping like a plague across hearts and minds.
But what exactly is this resistance all about anyway?
Inquiring minds want to know.
In a nutshell; change, as the world continues,
As it always has, to spin beyond our control.
The irony being those calling for a revolution
Really just want the world to stop being out of their control.
Stop and go back on track
To some idealized path, to some idealized goal.
While meanwhile the world just continues
To turn and burn in endless creative destruction.
Each of us a bit of tinder to fuel the fires
To temper the steel with which to forge our future.
(6/12/25)
My heart The voice
Each beat a chant
Refusing to be silenced
Each beat getting louder
An act of defiance
It would not be quiet
Our skeleton
The foundation
The vessel which carried the rebellion
It's the ground that doesn't crumble
Even as we march
It doesn't take the attention
It remains humble
Knowing that it was not bigger than the movement
The blood is the strength
It doesn't let it rest
It is the breath of each footstep
It is the fuel of the movement
The bloodstream carries the fire
Throughout the body ensuring we never tire
The stomach feeds the protest
With words of encouragement
Echoes Throughout the body
And bleeds from our mouth
You can't put us down
Our skin Our shield
To show we won't yield
Our representation
Of everything we are fighting for
To let them know out blackness
Is something we are proud of
After all being black is the definition of greatness
Our pain is not your entertainment
We don't exist purely for your amusement
My skin is not a costume
Don't treat us like we are some display In a showroom
We won't apologise for our presence
We will walk in every room with our heads up
Our silence our greatest weapon
It honours our intelligence
Your biggest flaw is your smugness
Our existence is your weakness
No wonder you try to demean us
Our afro is not an invitation
Your hands don't get to ruin hours of preparation
It is not for your exploration
And no we won't explain why it's so sacred
You dont get to be racist
But be in awe of our self made creation
We are proud of our blackness
You dont get to witness our greatness
Or be a part of our self celebration
Especially when you spent all your life on hating us
You dont deserve us
Nor our forgiveness
Their violence Our defiance
Their complaint Not our debate
Their envy Fuels our energy
Their violence We won't be silenced
Their ignorance Can't bother us
Our energy They aren't ready
Our voice They have no choice
Our power They are sour
Our strength They try to destroy by going to these great lengths
Can you finally understand The matter at hand Do you finally understand We won't be pushed around
though winds hurl
with all their might
they cannot break me
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Keeps me focused
Keeps me grounded
Keeps me present
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Takes me farther and farther away
From everything I have ever known
Chained up like a worthless dog
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Reminds me that rebellion
Always comes at a price
You just have to decide if it’s worth the prize
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Tells me that my fight is far from over
The war not nearly won
Whether I’m protesting from my backyard or someone else’s overseas
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Fills my heart with pity
Pity for a society
Too at peace with being alive but not really living
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Makes my whole body tingle
My life sentence stinging and burning
As we near my new home
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Makes me hope
That the words scribbled on my torso
Inspire others to likewise pick up their pens
I am told it is mightier than the sword
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Places courage in my veins
A man who has lost his freedom
Has no more to lose than himself
The sound of wheels on murram
Tells me we've arrived
The old ways not to spurn
Resist change at every turn
Today there’s so much churn
~ For yesteryear they yearn
We built it with soft hands,
stacked comfort upon convenience,
turned our backs to the gears turning in the dark.
Fed by silver screens and full stomachs,
we let the fire flicker,
too drunk on the warmth to notice the smoke.
They whispered,
“Don’t worry.”
And we believed them.
We traded vigilance for spectacle,
truth for something easier to swallow.
The cracks in the foundation widened,
but we called them character,
part of the charm of an aging empire.
When the first stones fell,
we laughed.
When the pillars trembled,
we turned up the music.
By the time we saw the beast,
it had already made a home in our halls.
And now, even the quiet places are waking up.
The ground hums with something unscripted,
a pulse beneath the broken roads,
a breath held too long.
Fists clench beneath dinner tables.
Voices sharpen in the night.
The forgotten, the overlooked, the ones who never raised their hands—
they are standing now.
The tide that carried us into sleep
has begun to pull back.
And in the silence left behind,
the storm begins to speak.
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