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Mark Turner Poem
The Unborn Child
I wonder will they let me in?
Will they furnish me with life support?
I want to be my Grandpa's friend,
his pride, his joy, and his hero in sports.
Really, it’s not his decision
for these nine months to go on through.
Mom and Dad, it’s up to your religion
to see that I’m worthwhile and needed, too.
Oh God, I’ll make them love me,
please, God, tell them both to go on.
I won't act hardheaded, nor wicked nor will I be ,
apathetic and sad, nor gripe and moan.
I’ll lie restfully in my Mother's arms.
Please, God, tell them both to let me be
BORN.
Copyright © Mark Turner | Year Posted 2016
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Mark Turner Poem
Don’t Look
I glanced at you for two seconds,
the longest two of my life.
I felt your touch in the glance, I reckon
for something touched my need to sacrifice.
Wanted to give more to you
than the glance that I gave back;
the conditions made it not true,
so I settled into your eyes to relax.
I journeyed to peace and pleasure,
into the depths of my soul;
there were no material treasures
to replace my desires for you to hold.
So the next time I nibble at your hook;
Please, baby if you see me,
don’t look.
Copyright © Mark Turner | Year Posted 2016
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Mark Turner Poem
IMMUNE
I saw a crack-head lying in a ditch,
resting peacefully upon the soft mud,
scratching at what he thought was an itch.
It was a creeping and nasty bug!
A group of church folks pass by,
and looked upon him as an "it."
They too were far from God’s love.
It went through my mind to ask the question,
why, how, can a man accept to be so low,
to feel no guilt, or desire to cry,
no purpose to live, or no proof to show?
Immune! immune to these things you see,
had became a repetitious part of time,
they became a way, or a part to be --
they became his "state of mind."
A cowboy who sees his father chewing;
he, too, chews and grows to accept it .
A black boy, who sees his father drinking,
out of low self-esteem; he, too, begins to drink it.
America has cheated, lied, and
dealt a crooked hand;
now, Americans have grown to love it.
We became immune to what is constant in our lives.
I smelled a rose, it was so soft to me ,
I picked it up and held it in my hand.
I wasn’t immune to its' beauty, and so, I put it close to me,
desiring it to become a part of me,
but it slowly died -
it wasn’t immune to me.
Copyright © Mark Turner | Year Posted 2016
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Mark Turner Poem
TO BReAK THE CIRCLE
The circle is formed-work is done,
pace has been set.
To a losing end-deluded as a win.
To break the path, it’s hard to do that.
The power must come from above.
It wasn’t your choice-you didn’t have a voice;
nor do you know if they did it for “LOVE”.
But here you are, The Circle-Child,
brought into a world of disgrace,
sorrow will hold you for a little while,
then reality will slap your face.
So break your circle-make your change,
go the way you choose,
you'll have to endure a lot of pain-
but to stay in the circle, you lose.
So don’t be alarmed when the circle is broken
and they begin to call you names;
they will do you harm while cracking their jokes,
and charge the fault to your blame.
Don’t be insecure and feel afraid,
reach for the golden miracle.
Go to God to give you aid,
to break the unchanging circle.
Copyright © Mark Turner | Year Posted 2016
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Mark Turner Poem
Some Americans Ain't At Their Best!
Sitting here hanging around on earth,
God, I want to tell men about his birth,
their sins to you they must confess.
But their screaming and hollering who's right or wrong,
bearing no ear to hear my song,
that some Americans ain't at their best.
Oh!, some American ain't at their best.
Selling dope and making a lots of crime,
ain't the way to repay God's time.
We better show each other how much we care,
we better share God's love he put here.
To the girls on the corner, who are glad,
accepting the things that make life sad;
like, gossip and dope, mixed with dirty thrills.
If the dope don't get ya, AIDS will.
Oh, some Americans ain't at their best.
Some Americans ain't at their best.
They brought the Blacks against their will,
now all others come seeking thrills,
of freedom, and liberty of all colors and nationalities.
Ours laws being broke ten thousand times.
Under the table a friend of mine-
dealt to me a hand of contradictions,
but I refused it because of my American traditions.
You know me and I know you-little girl it just ain't true-the color of my skin don't mean a thang.
It comes from within -that caused the pain.
Little black kids are joining gangs,
wearing weird colors and saying odd thangs.
Like rapping songs trying to show their love,
where they are coming from- we don't care.
Oh, some Americans ain't at their best
Some Americans ain't at their best
Blacks hate Whites-Whites hate Blacks
Russia sits down and China relax,
while the Japs buy, up our land-
and we don't try to understand.
That together we should stand and divided we would fall.
if divided we stand -we have nothing at all.
Oh, some Americans ain't at their best,
Americans ain't at their best.
Oh, my boy I think we've been had,
just the other day they burned our flag.
Oh, Americans lets get together,
Oh, Americans lets get together and share God's love.
Hee!!, Haw!!
Oh, some Americans ain't at their best!
Some Americans ain't at their best!
Copyright © Mark Turner | Year Posted 2016
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Mark Turner Poem
Sonnet
I wasn’t giving liberty to think.
Or encouraged to speak my thoughts
I wrapped them within a limited sink
This was simply how I was taught.
Everybody was busy, too busy
No one noticed or gave attention
So I become dizzy
My soul became detention
At this point, I began to sense hope
Realizing something greater within
Cleansing power greater than soap
My thoughts released from sin
Jesus Christ my friend
Saved me from the devil’s end.
in honor of Aaleeyah Walker and Amiyah Moore
Copyright © Mark Turner | Year Posted 2016
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Mark Turner Poem
Sonnet:
You Can Keep Your Name God
You can keep your name, God
That’s the lease we will do.
Be minded, you want be Lord
We have created another You.
You can execute some of your attributes
Healing, blessing, loving, forgiving,
Your judging and reaping we rebuke
It doesn’t mingle with our living
So sit there and be quite,
you still part of our team.
Just accept what we do as right,
and don’t mention redeemed.
and by the way, we are having fun!
mention to us no more the name of your son.
Mark Turner, 06/15/2016
Copyright © Mark Turner | Year Posted 2016
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Mark Turner Poem
Modern Ways
People's modern ways may fool the innocent mind-
you may find yourself trying to impress man’s "society"
by communicating with some type of rap
or by doing their doings.
You will find yourself falling!
When you fail to communicate
with the world of the 90’s,
Falling through your own self-made hole
from feeling unequal for not being as-
"Modernly stupid as them."
I, myself tried hairdo's, fancy shoes, rap-attacks,
funny shades, then I topped that off with trying to
"walk pretty."
Now, believing in God and being as poetic as I am,
I’ll settle for butterflies, the fresh air after a rainfall,
or just to see down in Dixie Land, a Black and White
together, peacefully smiling.
With these desires, I may not reach modern fortune or fame, or be called cool by someone wearing dark shades, or have in my back yard my own private plane.
Since I've found God, I’m far beyond
"Modern Ways."
In Dedication to the late Luke Turner
Copyright © Mark Turner | Year Posted 2016
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Mark Turner Poem
Why?
WHY do we blacks laugh at each other
whenever we get the chance?
We talk about one another,
When the other one tries to advance.
WHY do we fear when someone is different,
but the same color as you and I.
Do you, as being blacks, read of our past existence?
If you did, I think you would cry.
WHY do we dress GQ,
put our jerri curls on?
We who came to America without shoes.
Now we value materials so strong.
WHY do we hold back and pull back,
paint our friends to build ourselves?
Until we, be exact, we’ll never accept the fact
that we're no lower than anyone else.
WHY are we afraid of what we are,
but try our best to be the spot of thrills?
Look around you,
feel the pride of being black.
It’s not far through this mortal deck we’re dealt.
WHY are we sitting here
reflecting on past memories?
Because one day we were only gathered,
to pick cotton, boy, sing those songs,
to find rest under the shade trees.
Copyright © Mark Turner | Year Posted 2016
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