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Chauncey Taylor Poem
A single mother weeps, trying to sleep,
Her son’s father figure has been gone for nearly three weeks. How is this funny?
A bright mind has no control in his own home,
The orphanage doesn’t own enough money for the school he wants to go. How is this funny?
Oppression against those who hold more melanin,
Was for a century ago, but the battle seems to never end. How is this funny?
The history of their dire fight for gay rights,
Back then, gay men could be hung if he told or showed who he liked. How is this funny?
Before a woman could use her words and line of work to shine, her
Children and a kitchen is what seemed to define her. How is this funny?
A high school lone wolf stares at his dad’s gun on the shelf,
His broken mind tries to decide if to use it on the school or himself. How is this funny?
A woman pulls along her oblivious daughter,
They rush to the Ukrainian train station, afraid her husband is cannon fodder. How is this funny?
A teenage girl cries, prays, and tries to get away,
A monster, in her eyes and his, pins her down as a rape takes place. How is this funny?
A drunk beats his child, tatting on yet another bruise,
Their mother comes to her child’s aid, but in his rage he beats her too. How is this funny?
An alleyway man sits with white, powdered lips,
He’d rather sacrifice his home than sacrifice his sixth fix. How is this funny?
- Chauncey J. Taylor
Copyright © Chauncey Taylor | Year Posted 2022
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Details |
Chauncey Taylor Poem
if only the men, the husbands, the fathers, the brothers
could speak.
if only they could find the fortitude to force
the friendly flow of fierce vocables, the creative current of words,
the language they longed for, the ones their loved-ones loathed,
the strong strings of meticulously mended phrases,
mingling in the minds of those where it strikes home.
if only these men, the husbands, the fathers, the brothers
could speak.
if only they could speak on the trials and tribulations that they try
to defend their home from,
the heartaches from their hardships that sail on the sea of their soul
yet their suffering doesn’t sink them,
the wind of their everyday war whipping the walls,
the worn down barrier warding off their watery eyes.
if only the men, the husbands, the fathers, the brothers
could speak.
- Chauncey J. Taylor
Copyright © Chauncey Taylor | Year Posted 2022
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