They told me it was medicine.
A cure in a capsule.
A little light in liquid form,
a powder path to paradise.
It whispered like honey,
slid smooth down my veins,
said, “I’ll heal your hurt, hush your hunger,
pull the storm from your skull.”
And it did.
Oh, it did.
The world slowed
colors stretched into forever, and my chest unclenched like a fist finally letting go.
But the bottle had teeth.
The pill had claws.
The powder carried a price tag I couldn’t read at first.
Every high built a higher wall.
Every flight carved a deeper fall.
The nectar that kissed me sweetly at midnight
bit me raw by dawn.
It is love that leaves bruises.
A friend who steals your shoes while you sleep.
A healer who poisons the wound so you’ll crawl back begging for the cure.
They don’t tell you the double-edged truth:
that the elixir doesn’t choose.
It cuts both ways
one side silk, one side steel.
And you,
you are the bleeding in between.
So I stand with the glass in my hand,
heart trembling on the rim.
Asking myself
is it medicine?
Or is it blade?
And the silence answers,
“Both.”
The Jazz poem brothers, so hip and so way cool,
With their smooth jazz talk, they never play the street fool/
They snap their fingers and dance to the bass conga beat/
Their rhythm and rhyme are hip in time/man, they are kicking the verse and breaking it down/
They paint a mind collage with each word they say, Man, it just lays me out / What can I say/
Taking us on a word poem journey, in their special soul jazz spoken word way/
Get down to their word flow/ a slaughterhouse of jazz words/poetry from the jazz edge/let's go/
The brothers transport us to a place where the bebop Buddha shows his face/
Yo listen up tight, to what their jazz word orchestra has to say/
Let their words guide you to the jazz planet in the Milky Way/
The Jazz poem brothers know how to groove high/to the spoken word poetry/ in the simmering jazz Zen sky/
Their poetry word jazz will lift you/Man, it's a swingin' affair/ Miles, Trane, and Diz/ horn blowing word jazz and a gin fizz/The jazz poem brothers/in search of the new word vibe/Tossing a snow storm of words into the crowd as they wave by by/
It feels like a lock
Click
slamming shut on a door I used to walk through without thinking.
Words
they pile up inside me.
Not gone.
Not lost.
Just trapped.
Like a river swelling against a dam that will not break.
My mouth is stone.
My body heavy.
And every attempt to speak is like running in a dream:
legs sinking,
distance endless,
the finish line always just out of reach.
Inside, I am screaming.
Inside, I am whispering.
Inside, I am still me.
But you can’t hear me.
Because the silence is thick.
Not empty, no.
Thick with frustration,
thick with shame,
thick with the ache
of wanting
so desperately wanting to be understood
without having to explain.
So don’t rush me.
Don’t push me.
Stay.
Wait with me
in the quiet.
Because this silence
is not absence.
It is survival.
It is my body saying:
enough.
And when I return
when my voice crawls back
know this:
I was never gone.
I was always here.
Behind the glass.
Behind the lock.
Still me.
Always me.
A day may be yesterday,
a day may be tomorrow,
fragments of the past,
and whispers of the future.
But!
Today is not yesterday,
And today is never tomorrow.
Today is the present,
to be lived,
one breath,
One heartbeat,
one moment at a time.
There may be many yesterdays,
and tomorrows are never promised.
But for each daily journey,
you are given only,
one today.
She say she wants to go home with me tonight as we sit by the bus park,
but I tell her we can make home right here in this moments,
haven't you heard heavens rumours that the god of love escaped,
maybe the rumours are true cause you are with him at the moment,
gods create let me create love like no other for both of us in this moment,
you realize I cannot stop staring at you heavy chest,
because am already in the world of fantasy you squeezing me with those beautiful breasts of yours
till I ran out of breathe,
don't worry you won't kill me am already dead cause I died the moment I saw you
so am as well zombified in the moment,
let me handle you with care cause that what happens in home,
and I would do a perfect job of taking you home as you wanted
Loving You Is an Art ????
Loving you is an art,
Not just words, not just emotions,
Not just romance.
It is like carving a linocut,
Each stroke, each cut—
Careful, gentle,
So I do not wound the sketch,
The same way I hold your heart,
Responsible not to hurt you.
Loving you is an art,
Like stringing beads with patience.
And when the thread breaks,
And the beads scatter
I do not leave them behind.
I gather them, mend them,Like
The way I would gather your broken pieces
And heal them with love.
Loving you is a design,
A vision that sparks in my mind daily,
A creation I bring to life,
Over and over again.
Loving you... is my masterpiece.
I open my mouth
My anger spills out
I say things I don’t mean
And mean things I won’t say
Damage
Oh such damage
Strangers or friends
Words I can’t defend
Family is broken
From words that I’ve spoken
When will it end?
Damage
Too much damage
So conflicted
I’ve inflicted
So much hurt
So much pain
Words like weapons
Sharper than knives
Killing dreams
Shredding lives
Damage
Unjustified
Unspeakable
Damage
Bludgeoning words
Shattered spirits
Wounded hearts
Crippled lives
Killing words
Chilling words
Handful of syllables
Damage
Andy O’(Snaps fingers rhythmically) The air hangs thick with midnight blue/And the city hums a graffiti tune/ a voice cuts through, a velvet blade/Andy O’, where stories are made/Poet, Musician, Broadcaster's soul/Navigating the sonic scroll of a downbeat that will never fade/KUVO Jazz, a haven's light/On Sunday nights, banishing the uptight/The Nightside a whispered promise kept/Where restless minds and tired souls have wept/And found solace in a whispered rhyme/A tapestry woven, defying space and time/Mr. Andy O’ cradles the jazz, a smoky embrace/And invites the poetry to find its place/A conversation, deep and low/Of saxophone sighs and verses that flow/The ongoing relationship, raw and true/Between a trumpet's cry and Gil Scott heron spoken word on heartache, hope, and dreams deferred/In every chord and every whispered word/So tune in to the hip Andy O’/ let the darkness fade/As Andy O’ builds the jazzy serenade of stars on the poetry and jazz parade/ For on the Nightside, the truth is revealed In the marriage of poetry, and how jazz makes us feel to be real in the truth of it/ Andy O’ Snaps fingers, silence/ And walks away to broadcast for another day/
Tony Adamo
I walked where the trees don’t speak—
yet somehow, I heard everything.
The wind and the trees held secret meetings,
and the leaves nodded in agreement,
like spectators dressed in green.
The waters didn’t rush—
they marched steadily down the riverbank,
telling stories in ripples—
of rain that once fell,
and mountains they had kissed on the way.
The sun appeared,
golden and gentle.
Snakes and lizards lay still,
watching its every move,
careful not to miss a single step
that warmed every corner of the land.
And the birds—
they sang and danced
to the rhythm of the wind,
and to the slow ripening
of wheat and corn.
Even the silent waters grew bold—
I could hear their rhythm
as they carried a message
toward the sea.
A message sent
by the kings of the mountains
to the queen of the tides:
"Remind the man
who rides the wooden boat—
to plant more trees.
For when the last tree falls,
there will be no boat
strong enough
to ride the rising tide."
— By Davie Kaliu
Why does the sky keep falling —
but never fall?
Each dusk a slow descent,
yet it never shatters.
How do planets remember
the path their fathers walked?
No traffic signs, whatsoever!
yet still, none collides with the other.
Why do clouds — swollen and quiet —
give birth to rain,
already full-grown,
ready to kiss the earth?
Who whispers to the raindrops
which road to take?
Which village to visit,
which river to fill?
How do babies breathe underwater,
in secret wombs,
wrapped in fluid,
unafraid, untouched by drowning?
Who painted the sky blue —
and not red, or pink,
or gold like morning fires?
Why does it never peel?
Where do plants sew their green?
And who assigned them
a uniform so consistent,
a badge of life?
Who taught the birds
to weave with twigs and time,
to shape cradles from wind,
to fold shelter from nothing?
And the sun —
who tells it when to burn,
and when to blink?
So many questions,
so few answers.
But still,
the earth turns.
The sky holds.
And I —
I stand in awe.
by Davie Kaliu
There is a silent visitor inside you now —
softer than fresh-baked bread,
more precious than gifts from wise men of the East.
A second heartbeat,
gently echoing beneath your own.
You carry more than a name.
You carry memories yet to be made,
a mirror of past souls,
a vessel for tomorrow’s joy.
So walk gently,
eat wisely,
rest fully.
That bottle of cider —
it whispers lies.
That puff of smoke —
it scorches what is still becoming.
Feed this life with love,
with hope,
not with chemicals that dilute beautiful expectations.
Go.
Sit with those women in white —
the ones who read charts like oracles,
plotting the rise of a king or queen within your womb.
Let them weigh the weeks,
count your months like blessings.
Endure the prick of needles —
not just for you,
but for the strength of the life to come.
And when the countdown draws near,
remember:
Swollen feet will give way
to first smiles.
Too much sleep
will surrender to sleepless nights.
And sleepless nights
will bloom into stories —
told by the very angel
you now carry.
by Davie Kaliu
You put me in a box—
'Cause that’s what makes you comfortable.
You put me in a box—
'Cause that’s what makes you strong.
You put me in a box
And tell me
That’s where I belong.
You put me in a box
To keep me
Contained.
Controlled.
You put me in a box
To strip away my soul.
You put me in a box
And seal it up tight.
You put me in a box
And think I won’t fight—
I’ll just curl up and quit.
But that’s not what you’ll get.
I don’t give a s***
How strong your box is.
I’m stronger.
Last longer.
Will conquer—
Your box.
Your rules.
Your sad expectations.
Imposed limitations.
No negotiations.
You’ll need a coffin
To keep me down and silent.
Because I’m all in.
Ain’t gonna fall in.
Gonna fight.
Get violent.
Damn your box.
Let’s give it one more go—
Don’t let a good thing die so fast.
Don’t let one moment bring us down;
Together, we can beat the past.
Let’s try again—maybe we’ll make it.
But if we don’t,
I promise you this:
I won’t try to fake it.
If you leave me now,
I won’t last another hour.
I can’t go on living
If your sweet love turns sour.
Together we will stand—
Apart, I will fall.
Together we can run—
Alone, I’ll only crawl.
So—
Let’s give it one more go.
Don’t let a good thing die so fast.
Don’t let one moment bring us down.
Together, we will beat the past.
Together we will stand—
Apart, I will fall.
When those in this nation, cling to a non-diverse attitudes,
hatred finds fertile ground to grow.
It whispers into the cracks of unity.
And becomes the persecutor,
circling us like shadows at dusk.
Too often, we let it linger,
We welcome it, invite it in—
an unwelcome guest.
Seated at the table of humanity.
And so, it festers.
Hatred feeds on our silence,
untold truth.
Strengthening through fear
creeping through the doors,
left Ajar.
With my computer in hand, out the door I dash....
To other people's doors for cash
Picking up to drop off,
Then swiftly to the next stop
Dashing, Grubhubbing, and Ubering galore,
In a sputtering economy, 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
Picking up to drop off,
Then swiftly to the next stop
Dashing, dashing past drive-thrus and beyond dining rooms
Now a fresh and different energy looms
A mad dash for cash
Dough dashing...
Dashing for MO'
So, out my door
I GO
To contactless drop-offs and no eye contact, all spawned from a digital transaction
Distant, yet so close, is this human interaction
A mad dash for cash
Dough dashing...
Dashing for MO'
So, out my door
I GO
Specific Types of Spoken Word Poems
Definition | What is Spoken Word in Poetry?