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Best Poems Written by Jonathan Duhart

Below are the all-time best Jonathan Duhart poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Jonathan Duhart Poem

Art of Life

Is it that art imitates life?
Or does life imitate art?
If it's the latter, then my life
has been Expressionist from the start.
It may not be aesthetic to you
but there is an enigmatic grace
that stems from the subtle remnants
of pain, permanently etched in my face

You may find my art to be grisly,
truth be told I can't blame you
people condemn that with they don't compare
and for that I can hardly shame you.
If I said graffiti was aesthetic
and you were to tell me that it's not
how would you denounce the value
of the works of Jean-Michel Basquiat?

Art has no set shape or form
the beholder decides its appeal.
Your inability to grasp art's allure
doesn't make the beauty any less real.
A lack of pain can render you sightless,
baffled by struggle and strife.
So I see why you can't realize
the marvel in the art of my life.

Details | Jonathan Duhart Poem

That Type of Light

My granddad was light,
But not that caramel light,
or even that peanut butter light,
but that "you sure you not white?"
yeah, that type of light.
My mama told me that back then,
when you were that light,
sometimes you wouldn't stop people
from assuming you were white.
She said Granddad was no exception.
I wouldn't call it a misdirection,
more like a common misconception
that he allowed to go on without correction.
And yeah it made me angry.
At least it did when I was younger,
'cause it flew way over my head 
at the time when my mama said
if you weren't white, they'd turn you red
or better yet steal you up out your bed
and leave you swinging from a tree instead.
But now I'm older...
and it took me a while to grasp
that this shit really ain't close to equal,
not slavery, but it's damn near a sequel,
'cause they done locked up half my people,
then said we got there on our "free will."
But that's another story...

I was thinking of Granddad the other day,
and it made me wonder...
What if I was that light?
Not a little bit too much cream light,
or "are you mixed with anything?" light,
but that "You black? Man, you sure that's right?"
Yeah, that type of light.
Would I correct all the assumptions?
Yeah I know it's a different time but still,
maybe I'd be curious how it'd feel
to be exposed to exclusive opportunities,
included in the criminal immunities,
and roam free in the gated communities
unarmed, without fear of somebody shooting me.
So I no longer blame him
'cause we all want the same freedoms
he just happened to be light enough to catch a couple.
But don't let that fool you,
He was light but his blood was brown.
My mama said he was the proudest of black men
and taught her black is as beautiful as its ever been
a sentiment she passed down through her kin,
so I'm gonna love my beautiful skin
until I see my Granddad again.

Details | Jonathan Duhart Poem

I Have No Tears To Give To You

I have no tears to give to you
In a world void of remorse
I have no tears to give to you
Because compassion’s a dead horse

I have no tears to give to you
For the bruises her boyfriend gave her
I have no tears to give to you
For the scared child craving a savior

I have no tears to give to you
For the father enclosed in a cell
I have no tears to give to you
For the mother raising her son in hell

I have no tears to give to you
When the boy befriends a gun
I have no tears to give to you
When a mother’s stripped of her son

I have no tears to give to you
Because they have drenched both of my sleeves
They were all I had to offer you
I guess I’m not as strong as I believed.

Details | Jonathan Duhart Poem

Unsung Hero

Who am I to judge your instinctive desire,
To quench the passionate yearnings you require?
Freely, we placed our inhibition to the side,
Tangled up as one, why should you be crucified?

Such a glorious act, marred by double standard.
One’s perceived as a hero, the other is slandered.
I urge ye without sin, to please cast the first stone.
If that title befits you, you’ll find you’re alone.

Even if it’s a temporary illusion,
You give me a way to suspend my seclusion.
When all of life’s hardships bend my mind out of shape,
You are there to aid as my cathartic escape.

For the strength that you show, you’re a hero, unsung.
Subject to disapproval, you remain unstrung.
Your unmatched composure, can take a demanding toll.
Since you’re good to my body, I’ll take care of your soul.

Details | Jonathan Duhart Poem

Hypothermia

Sometimes the world is a mystery,
sometimes it’s painfully clear.
There’s times the world gets so cold
that it will freeze up your tears
A coat of wealth might protect you,
or snuggling up in rich covers,
or a warm cup of affection
huddled up with a lover.
But then there’s those who are shirtless
engulfed and gleaming with frost,
eyes glazed over and icy,
seeming perpetually lost.
Some of them once did wear coats
With perhaps a logo or stripes
But substituted their jackets
For 40 oz bottles and pipes
A beautiful, transient warmth,
in this agonizing abyss.
Like a night full of sadness
interrupted by a heavenly kiss.
But it can’t last forever
as glitter won’t make it gold.
Because as soon as it’s over,
they’re still shirtless and cold.

Details | Jonathan Duhart Poem

How Can You Tell Me

You don't see what I see
or what goes on in my head,
so how can you tell me
that the sky is not red?

You can't feel my passion,
eternal flame in my heart,
so how can you tell me
from my pain won't come art?

You can't listen to my soul
or the melodies it sings,
so how can you tell me
that I don't come from kings?

You don't suffer my pain,
nor have you witnessed my story,
so how can you tell me
that I'm not destined for glory?

You don't value my people,
but know the price we were sold,
so how can you tell me
that your black's not my gold?

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The Talented Mr Loner

He is rather good with people
young beautiful women to be precise.
He has a warm genial exterior
with a core resembling ice.

A modern day Prince Charming,
searching for the owner of the glass shoe
But what’s a hero without an enemy?
So why not play the villain too?

The ever-so talented Mr. Loner,
with more talents than you could dream.
But in this manifold crop of talents,
one skill sat atop the cream.

Profoundly brilliant as an actor,
lust and longing as his muses.
He can transform almost at will
into whichever character he chooses.

His charm can shift so smoothly,
with such an undisputed flair.
He can play the starry-eyed romantic
and in his mind he’ll never care.

But who is the man behind the artist?
Who is the impermeable heart’s owner?
It seems no one really knows the man
not even the talented Mr. Loner

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Caged Birds' Song

To understand my rage,
or an ounce of my pain
listen to the song that we hum from our cage.
Packed up with birds, off-key we all sing
to the vague tune of freedom
that we've never heard ring.

Freedom is a beautiful lie,
praising the free bird
and his power over the sky.
Such a fraudulent sonnet,
the tale of our sky,
constantly ignoring there's a limit placed on it

Oh such a treacherous chorus,
the caged birds hums,
although the lyrics aren't meant for us.
The words are all wrong, still a beautiful song,
and though we can't understand it,
the caged birds sing along.

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A Man Like Me

I have been on Earth
for twenty years
I've been through joy
I've shed my tears
felt every emotion
that comes to mind
but still I've never felt freedom.

I could break my back
to pay my bills
but I'll nonetheless
owe money still
I grind away
and carry on
in hopes freedom is nearing.

A free man walks
with his conscious clear
and his heart absent
of regret and fear
he stands up tall
so bold and poised
because the world sees him as equal.

While the free man struts
with glee and pride
A man like me walks
with a painful stride
his legs feel dead
his shoulders ache
from the weight of a world that scorns him.

He waits his turn
to feel freedom's grace
but before it shows
he comes face-to-face
with a frigid wind
and brilliant light
because on Earth, he's no longer welcome.

He had been on Earth
for sixty years
he'd been through joy
he'd shed his tears
felt every emotion
that comes to mind
but still he never felt freedom.

Details | Jonathan Duhart Poem

Dangerous Place

There's a dangerous place
where nothing will grow,
everything's stuck in place,
and nothing will flow.

Appealing to all of the senses,
but not as safe as you think.
Encompassed by mile high fences,
with a foundation that sinks.

But if you steer clear,
you'll find glory unknown.
I pray you don't go near
the crippling "comfort zone."