Spoken Poems - Poems about Spoken

“Are you okay?” They ask me as my grandfather gets ripped from his bed. “Are you okay?” They ask me as i acfively watched my grandfather die. “Are you okay?” They ask me after seeing tears streaming down my face. “Are you okay?” “Am i okay?” What even is “okay”. What do i have to feel to be “okay”. This question...

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When those in this nation, ...

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I am evil. I am evil. And still, in my evil, don’t leave me, Lord. If You walk away, I will fall. My flesh will devour me. I’ve tried to please You with everything in me, but I can’t. I can’t. My strength is not enough. I need Yours. I’ve fought sin until my knuckles bled, but I keep losing. I can’t save myself. Son of David, have mercy...

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FOR ALL THAT IT’S WORTH – BY HAMID SINCLAIR In God… we find the godless. So-called transformers of faith— Neo-Decepticons, New Age ravers, Ravenous sheep… in wolf’s clothing. Hapless victims—bitten by the serpent. They entered humanity’s paradise… and robbed him. No—her. Wait… is it her/him? Everyone catching the vapors of...

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Out my door, I dash To other people's doors for cash Dashing, grubhubbing, and ubering galore In an economy that's sputtering, lent-filled pockets I really abhor Rapacious eyes peruse desktops, tablets, and smartphones for eye-catching menus Man's incessant search for comfort and convenience hungrily continues Dashing, dashing past drive-thrus and beyond dining rooms Now a new and different energy looms Dough dashing Dashing for...

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Who is like You, O Lord, in all the earth? He who breathes galaxies as easily as men exhale, He who paints the sky with colors no eye has named And yet stoops low to cradle the sparrow in His hand. Who is like the One who carved mountains with a whisper, Yet stitched lilies with more care than kings...

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(Sam Trio stands at the mic, snaps fingers lightly, takes a drag on a Marlboro, and smiles to the crowd) Dig this, we’re going back in time, way back to the smokey jazz clubs and cool sounds and jazzy vibes of the 50s and 60s jazz scene in America/ I’m talkin’ bout a sound, a feeling,...

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A street beat… no, a clave/ not just one, but a chorus of Cuban souls, whispering stories of sun-drenched streets/ sugar cane rum, and women of the streets/ Conga lines in the neighborhood/ Fidel Castro and baseball/ Mongo Santamaria, Chucho Valdes, and Perez Prado/ rumba and rebellion, history in their pulse/ then a...

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I. In the beginning was the Single Stroke Roll— left-right, left-right, the primordial heartbeat of existence itself, each alternation a binary choice between being and non-being, the eternal paradiddle of consciousness striking against the drumhead of reality. Listen: the Buzz Roll of morning traffic— ten thousand souls creating multiple bounces against the stretched skin of commuter silence. Each ghost note a rhythmic prayer unheard each...

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Break free from the hell around you And expel the darkness within you Break free from the chords of time And get in touch with your creative mind empty the sorrows within you and remove the clouds from around ambition is the string that tied you to the unrealistic dream, you just have one more month to go before destiny unveil them...

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(Snapping fingers rhythmically) Vocalese with ease... yeah... moments… improv… Off the top, breath bubbling, a spontaneous combustion of sounds, to be boppin' the melody/ Jazz popping vocal notes of wonderment, feeling the rhyme on beat street dancing lyrics, a rhythm so intrinsic… moments... Mark Murphy... strutting... smokin’… in a vocal breeze/ No wordy rhymes here,...

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The lights dim, and a single spotlight illuminates the dude speaker/He adjusts the microphone the voice, and when it comes, it is strong.) The Confidence Man)/ He's not a robber with a gun and mask, He's smoother than silk, a velvet task/ a wanna be hipster and grifter, mean and selfish, a con man to...

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Don’t wait for a trumpet when the breath in your lungs is already shouting. Don’t wait for a sky to tear when your soul is already trembling. The signs are not in the clouds, they’re in your compromise. The delay is not His it’s yours. You think you’ve got time? You think your youth is a shield? You gamble eternity on...

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Mr. President, Mr. Vice President, Americans, and the world: In the crucible of revolution, our forefathers etched their pledge— a bold testament inscribed not solely in ink, but in the quiet, relentless pulse of divine dependence. It is as if the ink itself carried whispers of a celestial covenant, affirming divine Providence into the very marrow of liberty. Yet,...

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An ask of mine needs urgent sating I don’t mean to blashpeme or be rude But when God was done and dusted creating And he looked and saw that “it was good” What was he looking at? Were his eyes glued to the Andes As the little mountains popped up like warts Or was it trained on the Ganges As it snaked its...

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