***what can we tell each other when we're dead the sliding glass door of fate sinking in to dread the night and willpower's resistance the grace to find the light and need shirking the burning fork of your endurance to burn within the naked hour of the brine shaking its power in droplets from its body ***now with burning the tired and tremulous shattering not quite-- the excision of the laundry list of bright spots and burns scattered over the oasis lecherous delays time gaps and winters the knuckled furl of your voice embittered we can count the ways to know you tracking back through the minutes looking for the doorway out: some shield from the floor of the world where you were sighing ***the delicious tripe tucked careful beneath the whip where the calls whine round the light shining out from the theater on the brink: the naked liquid fire curls under my lip a kiss the naked flame of the temple under my heel ***the patience of the dark shimmers underneath the morning waiting for you to kiss its face the soldiers glimmer underneath their paint watching and waiting for the fragment of your eye beneath the pupil to tighten ***the pale weight of the light shines against my head
the fever's bled delight and bread into my skin like my enemies rejoice upon the field, the sinking sins of streets and alleys bind to my feet embracing the narrow weight of each incision in the day step into the breach beneath the air over the cement to cut the net or merely step away: some broken branch of the orchestra is warbling out its song of destruction an army of miscreants marking the tide with their every beat south to the sea
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GORMLEYAs I drive up the road I see a man on a flat roof he is like one of those Gormley statures. He is perfectly still as he looks out into the distance he does not move at all could almost be dead it is like he is looking at this land for the first time like it never existed before he got up on that roof and now he doesn't want to come down so he is turned to stone When I drive past later I will see if he is still there looking for something that he will never find. THE ARCHITECTThere is no feeling like the feeling you get when you wake up at four in the morning and know you are the only one alive the deadness the stillness you could almost be dead yourself and not know it. You start to think with a clarity that has alluded you your whole life no doubts nothing to hold you back and suddenly you want to build brick after brick those words that speak out from the darkness tell stories that no one will ever hear but they shout out of the silence like alarm bells warn the sailors of the rocks that lurk underneath. So you piece them together and you know you are making something you don't know or need to know what it is you only find out when you finish then you can stand back and see what it is as if you knew before you started then you look and know and see what it is and for once you know what it is UNTITLEDI think about whether I should put this out into the world
just one more just one more. Even if I only send it to one person just one more just one more. So people can see that I am an artist, I can create still just one more just one more but I have given up on the world just one more just one more. The stillness that gives me this bed is the only thing I want Just one more just one more So if I hit send or not the chances are the world will not see it but no one will lose much sleep for me so for the last time the very last time one more time
Ruthless Ruin There was A menace. A genocidist. A gukurahundist. A wrecker of life itself. He possessed oppression. Brutality. Immunity. Iniquity. A real wrecker of a rich nation. Intolerant of those who dared To challenge his oppressive style Of leadership, his life of deception. What a life and a foul lie he lived. His legacy is not only a disgrace But also a wreck and a hellhole. Dissent he couldn’t stomach. No. High was his heartlessness. Ego. It knew no apologies but orgies. For all his vile,selfish decisions-- His failures, his sellout actions He had scapegoats,sycophants There was shamelessness in it In his blame game: be it critics, The opposition or the West or all Sadly some fell victim to his foolery He was a cunning and cruel tragedy. Never frank. No. Ever power-hungry. He sang of unity as a phony unifier. He was no panAfricanist. Not at all. He was a schemer and a divisionist. The history books must be exorcised Of lies and dishonesties otherwise history Will not only judge a bunch of pretenders And confusionists and denialists severely But as facts` rapists and insensitive loyalists Who ignore the reality of shallow mass graves Whose orphaned tears continue to seek justice. Disowned Long Long BackThe destructive justice evader And demented deceiver Was NOT my leader! So much for his fever! For I have no relationship Whatsoever with dictatorship Masquerading as stewardship! Author of hardship & censorship! Sleaze and decay was his authorship Misrule saw a floundering,capsizing ship Yes men, sycophants formed his discipleship What was missing in his ways was statesmanship Mlobikazi Of Mzilikazi Along VithikaziFew people knew she had lived in Soweto Not only had she resided in that township Of the city of Jo'burg,Mlobikazi of Mzilikazi Had lived in the core of greatness on Vilakazi Street, for Soweto is historic by virtue of heroic Struggles against apartheid that ensued there There was Mlobikazi from Bulawayo's Mzilikazi Suburb with a painting that told of a great story-- Titled Vilakazi, the pretty princess from Mzilikazi Not only exhibited the literary artistry of Dr Vilakazi It also captured how Vilakazi is the only street In the world where two Nobel Laureates once lived Perseverance, painting, passion, her mantra None could see, hear ,smell, taste or touch it A breakthrough, a beauty's brilliance and dance Mlobikazi of Mzilikazi lived on Vithikazi Street Mlobikazi of Mzilikazi had an awesome passion Her loyalty to her profession paid off in profusion And precision when her painting proudly propelled her Into prominence:they crowned her a prizewinning painter A sea of attendees ,her mates, all they could see was glee! An Orgy Of Bondage And PlunderingHe had an insatiable hunger for all things That clanked like capitals and cartels He had the disorder of grabbing all-- And a compulsion to cheap labor His cluster, his colony and all Were founded on captivity Oh Africa, oh dear Africa You surely don’t want Or warrant any pain And a rain of drain Anymore, anytime For an official’s gain A Distinction And A Dance To Life I recently watched an inspiring video featuring old chaps, All men and women dancing in an eye-catching fashion. I guess they were gyrating to the music of the 50s or 60s, What stood out as my eyes feasted on their dance routines Was the smoothness and elegance of movement, wow! They twisted and turned with effortless grace and charm! Can I dance with such finesse? -- I found myself wondering. How does one master such delicate dance moves? I pondered. Music is not my domain, but let me say it again for our gain--- They twisted and turned with effortless grace and charm! By any definition or action, I conceded that I was damn no game! Their dancing was an outright delight, I was awed, downright too! I recalled when one day granddad found me dancing like crazy: Some modern dance moves and music … I don’t know what to say… Gone are the good old days, he bemoaned as I halted, breathless. Our dancing was artful and delightful and meaningful, he stated. Now what I see here is artless and directionless clowning (oops!) Our music was timeless, the lyrics of your music is meaningless! He grinned warmly for a while, and cuddled me, saying dance on, You can`t be dancing like you`re boneless if the music isn’t telling!! Cut DownThey bought lawn mower after lawn mower
as if they had lots of cash or they had grassland yet they wanted to bid on government contracts to cut the unkempt hair of government officials! They brought razor blade after razor blade as if they wanted to cut the long nails of officials yet all they sought to do was to move from shop to shop in order to cut down the prices of goods!
revenge of the cockatoosAt first, Keith chuckles and rubs his hands together, his shoulders bouncing up and down like Lleyton Hewitt preparing to serve at the Australian Open, when he sees the sulfur crested cockatoos dive-bombing pedestrians who pass in front of the red bottle brush shrubs he has planted with as much devotion as an Episcopalian Sunday School teacher explains Moses and the Burning Bush, his bushes a striking border for the gray convict cottage he has restored: cedar planks from a demolition yard, shutters he has adzed and stained himself, but not satisfied with harassing passers-by, the birds attack his weathered cedar, sharpening their beaks as companionably as bridesmaids getting manicures before a wedding. At night, as he tries to sleep in the soft Sydney air, he hears them pecking, pecking, pecking at the wooden exterior so, in lieu of a scarecrow, he ties a yellow kite to a shutter knob to try to end their repetitive grooming, but he is not successful. Finally, he crosses and crisscrosses fishing wire across the east side of the house like an intricate cat’s cradle and the noise stops. He goes to work the next day as flash as a rat with a gold tooth, happy as Larry that he has fixed the problem. When he returns at dusk whistling Abba’s Dancing Queen, however, he sees white feathers floating above splintered ruins as mystically as the background music in the Australian movie, Picnic at Hanging Rock. Revenge. Secure footingRon helps her into the boat after the banquet on the island off Hong Kong mainland the way anyone would, holding her elbow to help her judge the little distance from the dock to the boat edge, her yellow espadrilles finally shuffling to secure footing on the boat bottom, so difficult for her now, until she sits staring as if lost in her own musings. She never did say much when we played cards with them in Chicago years ago, except to articulate the pinnochle words: I open, or pass. Her fingers, bedazzled with showy rings, clinked against the glass when she’d get up to mix another gin and tonic for us or fill the cashew bowl. Now she doesn’t comment on the charming stationary sanpans we pass, the Chinese women cooking on charcoal brassiers, their chicken or pork fragrant with four flavor spice in the nine p.m. hot breezes continuing from the sunny day. Once ashore,we say “Good-night, Cynthia,” and hug, the way we used to, but it’s clear she doesn’t know who we are any more. The GleaningThe ancient distant hills are bruised with mist this morning in the South of France. Within the frame of a Millet painting, I sit under a tree, bucolic as one of my piebald bovine friends who chews cud. I listlessly gaze at the aproned women who glean the fields for leftovers after the nobility have taken what they want, then the noises of real life intrude: -grind of the morning coffee maker -flip-flop rhythmn of clothes in the European washing machine -and the forever coo-cooing of mourning doves in the pine trees. I step out of the frame into a foggy day. Until FallAll cold winter the snow piles up between us like the neighbor’s wall in Robert Frost’s poem, you late for dinner in Rochester most nights due to icey roads along Allen Creek, so you say. I clatter the pots on the stove as I reheat the chicken casserole with carrots and aromatic marjoram and feel more anger icycles accumulate on the eaves of our marriage. However, this morning, I wake with your fingers just grazing my left breast, your warm breath on my shoulder. Visiting My SisterI can’t face visiting my twin sister alone,
in Cumming, Georgia, after this two-day conference in Buckhead, trendy suburb of Atlanta. My sister let her ortho take out her whole hip like a roast out of the freezer. The ortho couldn’t clear up her infection from her hip replacement after a year of trying so she has to wear a four inch high “elevator shoe” (we called them as children in Chicago) when everyone we knew had hips and noone scooted around in wheelchairs like she does now. Medical friends suggested she go to an ortho at a university hospital and even though she only sheepishly replied, “But my ortho likes me,” instead of changing enthusiasticly when we told her what they advised, I understand that she probably didn’t want to leave the convenience of her hospital for Northwestern or Rush nearer us. Her hospital was poorly rated on YELP and the doctor got snarly with “interfering relatives” who asked about her options. She wouldn’t ask the doctor the brand of the hip replacement so we could figure out if her doctor used a cheaper, defective one so she could sue, he must have realized. We do appreciate that she was malnourished when she first saw the doctor which must have given him a certain perspective and is partly why her children finally suggested a senior facility in Cumming where her oldest boy, Eric, lives. Nevertheless, tonight, my husband and I will eat well at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse with my sister plus Eric and his wife, Sharon. They’ve made the reservation. I’ll bet my sister will order fish or soft lobster since she won’t replace her upper partial and fish is softer than the steak which Ruth’s Chris is known for plus it’s nutritious which she needs because she continues to suck gummy bears and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups supplementing her senior living diet. Ajay Kumar is an undergraduate student based in Chennai, India. Poetry, for him, is an explosion of things he cannot say out loud. He was the editor of his school magazine- Abhivyanjana. His works have previously appeared in The Bangalore Review, Muse India and The Medley among others. AngulimaalI don’t know why I cover my nakedness with doors dressed in tantalizing ajarness, why the clock, when I punch through it, gets lodged on my wrist & when I try to shake it off makes me jerk off the air, orgasming in a breeze that ruffles nothing but the everything of me- never go into the river with wounds, fish will lick them healed & no one will ask you how you got those scars & you will not narrate the solar myth labor behind it- you won’t wake up with the nebulous idea of existence, wet cloth on your forehead, back of fingers feeling throat, palm in palm in palm, no touch to bridge energies- I don’t know why I wrote haikus under benches as if benches are for anything more than chewing gum punctuation & lunchboxes before lunch- appetite, when I lose it, will give way to digestion, of the smells of the lunchboxes of the benches still opened ahead of its time, by rusted words, that pinch of sugar, that pinch of fingers that wait on you swallowing a bitter herb when you woke up with the nebula. Fire medicine |
 | Renee Drummond-Brown is an accomplished poetess with experience in creative writing. She is a (Summa Cum Laude) graduate of Geneva College of Western Pennsylvania and The Center for Urban Biblical Ministry (CUBM). Renee’ is still in pursuit of excellence towards her mark for higher education. She is working on her fourth book and has numerous works published globally which can be seen in cubm.org/news, KWEE Magazine (Liberian L. Review), Leaves of Ink Magazine, New Pittsburgh Courier, Raven Cage Poetry and Prose Ezine Magazine, Realistic Poetry International, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, SickLit Magazine, The Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., Tuck, and Whispers Magazine just to name a few. Civil Rights Activist, Ms. Rutha Mae Harris, Original Freedom Singer of the Civil Rights Movement, was responsible for having Drummond-Brown’s very first poem published in the Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., in Albany, GA. Renee’ also has poetry published in several anthologies and honorable mentions to her credit in various writing outlets. The Multicultural Student Services Office of Geneva College presented her with 2nd prize in the Undergraduate Essay Contest. Renee’ also won and/or placed in several poetry contests globally. She was Poet of the Month Winner in the prestigious Potpourri Poets/Artists Writing Community and in the running for Poet of the Year. She has even graced the cover of KWEE Magazine in the month of May, 2016. Her love for creative writing is undoubtedly displayed through her very unique style and her work solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!” |
April Showers
I smell ecstasy, taste diamonds
in the sky, touch love,
heard a baby cry, and see myself
for the very first time
rammed in love.
Dedicated to: Rain, rain don’t go away!
in the sky, touch love,
heard a baby cry, and see myself
for the very first time
rammed in love.
Dedicated to: Rain, rain don’t go away!
MADE IN THE USA
Produced in the south.
Plantation-owned;
down to his holy infested
trouser-and-shirt.
Poor dirt. Dirt poor.
Without a nickel to loan,
or, surname of his own.
Light-skinned-ed,
cept Mrs. Millie and Massa’,
ain’t hardly putting claims on that tan-skin.
Yep, he’s (half) owned,
bought, and sold!
Green-eyes.
Other slaves smell a spy.
Too beige to be black;
too red, to be white-bright.
He’s loathed by all,
and generations to follow
will wear his stigma…
Ill will “PLIGHT.”
Plight mimics the
ancestors breed. The 21st century,
meticulously produces them
one-of-a-kinds’…dirt cheap!
Liberty proudly clones her slaves unto this very day.
The more thAngs have changed
The more coloured-slaves have stayed the same.
Afterall, they’re designer studs,
proudly owned, and made
by the US of A.
Dedicated to: Prototype.
A RocDeeRay Production
Plantation-owned;
down to his holy infested
trouser-and-shirt.
Poor dirt. Dirt poor.
Without a nickel to loan,
or, surname of his own.
Light-skinned-ed,
cept Mrs. Millie and Massa’,
ain’t hardly putting claims on that tan-skin.
Yep, he’s (half) owned,
bought, and sold!
Green-eyes.
Other slaves smell a spy.
Too beige to be black;
too red, to be white-bright.
He’s loathed by all,
and generations to follow
will wear his stigma…
Ill will “PLIGHT.”
Plight mimics the
ancestors breed. The 21st century,
meticulously produces them
one-of-a-kinds’…dirt cheap!
Liberty proudly clones her slaves unto this very day.
The more thAngs have changed
The more coloured-slaves have stayed the same.
Afterall, they’re designer studs,
proudly owned, and made
by the US of A.
Dedicated to: Prototype.
A RocDeeRay Production
They Call Us Out Our Names!
Over 25% of all languages are spoken by your brilliant tongue,
and-yes, that Mother-tongue wags truths,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth…So help me God!
Your breast houses the word. Therefore, you are the
richest, rarest, realist of all Eden’s spotless dirt.
This for certain…I do know!
What do they call you African-gal?
They call you out your name.
But ‘imma love on you hard anyhow.
Yeah, I love you just the same.
Press on gal,
and wear that glorified sanctified braided crown!
Although, snatch west of the Congo;
your breed is no come from behind race.
But you persevered sustah-gal and are
the most educated species
in alllllll “these” United States!
You my sistah, are the Mother of humanity
as you meticulously breastfeed EVERYONE’S shameful-breed.
You sustah-gal are more than Webster’s odyssey;
none can ev’r dispute your holy truth, notoriety, and/or creed.
What do they call you Afro-American-gal?
They call you out your name.
But ‘imma love on you hard anyhow.
Yeah, I love you just the same.
Press on gal,
and wear that glorified sanctified processed crown!
The law is in your tongue.
The truth is in your ways.
You walk a straight and narrow path, and not talk the talk of hideous games.
Your headscarf covers your mysterious face;
modesty coupled with a symbol of love depicts great religious faith.
What do they call you Middle Eastern-gal?
They call you out your name.
But ‘imma love on you hard anyhow.
Yeah, I love you just the same.
Press on gal,
and wear that glorified sanctified khimar crown!
Dedicated to:
“JUST” put Ms. in front of it when you pucker your lips to call-out our names!
A RocDeeRay Production
and-yes, that Mother-tongue wags truths,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth…So help me God!
Your breast houses the word. Therefore, you are the
richest, rarest, realist of all Eden’s spotless dirt.
This for certain…I do know!
What do they call you African-gal?
They call you out your name.
But ‘imma love on you hard anyhow.
Yeah, I love you just the same.
Press on gal,
and wear that glorified sanctified braided crown!
Although, snatch west of the Congo;
your breed is no come from behind race.
But you persevered sustah-gal and are
the most educated species
in alllllll “these” United States!
You my sistah, are the Mother of humanity
as you meticulously breastfeed EVERYONE’S shameful-breed.
You sustah-gal are more than Webster’s odyssey;
none can ev’r dispute your holy truth, notoriety, and/or creed.
What do they call you Afro-American-gal?
They call you out your name.
But ‘imma love on you hard anyhow.
Yeah, I love you just the same.
Press on gal,
and wear that glorified sanctified processed crown!
The law is in your tongue.
The truth is in your ways.
You walk a straight and narrow path, and not talk the talk of hideous games.
Your headscarf covers your mysterious face;
modesty coupled with a symbol of love depicts great religious faith.
What do they call you Middle Eastern-gal?
They call you out your name.
But ‘imma love on you hard anyhow.
Yeah, I love you just the same.
Press on gal,
and wear that glorified sanctified khimar crown!
Dedicated to:
“JUST” put Ms. in front of it when you pucker your lips to call-out our names!
A RocDeeRay Production
Easy like Sunday Mourning
Life ain’t been so easy
for us, since the time we
came-cross
belligerent-boisterous-battered seas.
Since bondage.
Since brandings.
Since slavery.
Since beatings.
Since laboring.
Since moaning.
Since breastfeeding’s.
Since raping’s.
Since hangings.
Since bombings.
Since killings.
Since marching.
Since pleading.
Since penitentiaries.
Since existing.
Life ain’t been so easy.
Dedicated to: There’s a difference between living, and existing.
A RocDeeRay Production
for us, since the time we
came-cross
belligerent-boisterous-battered seas.
Since bondage.
Since brandings.
Since slavery.
Since beatings.
Since laboring.
Since moaning.
Since breastfeeding’s.
Since raping’s.
Since hangings.
Since bombings.
Since killings.
Since marching.
Since pleading.
Since penitentiaries.
Since existing.
Life ain’t been so easy.
Dedicated to: There’s a difference between living, and existing.
A RocDeeRay Production
Silence Speaks
THIS POEM IS DEDICATED TO, AND WRITTEN FOR MY DEAREST SISTER: Minister Diane Bennett…I love you sister.
Silence speaks through
the core of wisdom.
Silence speaks volume;
when volume can’t speak.
Silence speaks to harsh voices;
whilst paying close attention, as she listens.
Silence speaks. Although, ambiguous,
She’s used deliberately. Nonetheless, she still speaks.
Silence speaks
in the rainforest through the “Trees’.”
Silence really speaks through typed-keys,
when one refuses to hear “Thee, and thee.”
Absence of sound.
Let them who have an ear; hEAR silence ROAR at her loudest,
out loud! Silent now…
Dedicated to: My dearest sister, and friend, Minister Diane Bennett…A season-Shhhhhhh…
A RocDeeRay Production
the core of wisdom.
Silence speaks volume;
when volume can’t speak.
Silence speaks to harsh voices;
whilst paying close attention, as she listens.
Silence speaks. Although, ambiguous,
She’s used deliberately. Nonetheless, she still speaks.
Silence speaks
in the rainforest through the “Trees’.”
Silence really speaks through typed-keys,
when one refuses to hear “Thee, and thee.”
Absence of sound.
Let them who have an ear; hEAR silence ROAR at her loudest,
out loud! Silent now…
Dedicated to: My dearest sister, and friend, Minister Diane Bennett…A season-Shhhhhhh…
A RocDeeRay Production
Play That Funky Music White ‘Boyz!
I wonder, wonder, wonder, wonder who
sangs to the sad, sad truth that dirty lowdown…
Oh my bad! Its you Boz Scaggs…
Just you Boz Scaggs…
Yes indeedy, that be you.
Play that funky music white boy.
Ur’yday, Average White Band. Faithfully, quarter til 4:00.
I waited till ‘urybody ‘wuz long gone,
and me and my boombox
was ‘justa spinnin like a helter-skelter
while I belted out your soulful-sangin-songs.
‘Justa school-gal-crush (I’m ‘guessin)
inna-playground,
hoping get to know each other if we can (that’s all).
STRUNG OUT!
Play that funky music white ‘boyz.
Bobby Caldwell,
We’re still wondering where you came from
with your soulful musicality (and all)
and I guess your wondering were we’ve been
as we search to find your soul within.
Just came back to let you know
we gotta thang fo your music, that we’ll never let go…
Play that funky music white boy.
Daryl Hall & John Oates, you sang to us
“Baby hair with a woman’s eyes.”
You said, you felt me ‘watchin in the night…
Well my name wasn’t-hardly Sarah (who smiled)
but one on one, you sure did made me cry.
Play that funky music white ‘boyz.
Paul Wall, I’m no rapper (you see),
but I’ve certainly
eavesdropped on ‘summa your-conversation
tween you, Nelly, Kyjuan, Ali, and Murphy Lee…
Remember dat Air Force One ft.,
Oh, my bad, Ice man,
wrong video. Y’all robbed dat jewelry stow,
and told ‘em
“Make me a grill.”
I heard, 20 karats, 30 stacks letting us know
you’z fo-real (killed it)!
Rap that funky music white boy.
Holdin back the years;
thinkin of the fears. Nothin had the chance to be good
Simply Red. Cept, your soulful voice.
So, we’ll keep holdin on…waistin all our tears.
Play that funky music white boy.
We ain’t forgot bout your “Fame,” David Bowie.
Making us all think things ov’r
putting us right there where things were hollow.
Fame, fame, fame, faaaame.
Please don’t reject us first cause what “we get,” is no tomorrow.
And were still left thinkin things ov’r
So, while on your new journey Bowie…
Play that funky music white boy.
Teena Marie and Rickie Lee Jones
I ain’t hardly forgot bout your sAngs
I’ll get to you, soul-sangin-sistahs
in another poem on another day.
Play that funky music white ‘galz!
I remember all these funky SANGERS.
And just when they hit us on the one,
(like Bootsy, and Parliament-Funkadelics…EverythAngs on the one…)
Wild Cherry had us all turnin-round shoutin:
“Play That Funky Music White ‘Boyz,”
lay down that boogie and “SANG” that soulful music to us
til you die!
Dedicated to:
“Our” white soul “SANGERS” whom we love, and embrace. I wonder, wonder, wonder, wonder who?
Note* An unfinished poem that artist will be added to.
A RocDeeRay Production
sangs to the sad, sad truth that dirty lowdown…
Oh my bad! Its you Boz Scaggs…
Just you Boz Scaggs…
Yes indeedy, that be you.
Play that funky music white boy.
Ur’yday, Average White Band. Faithfully, quarter til 4:00.
I waited till ‘urybody ‘wuz long gone,
and me and my boombox
was ‘justa spinnin like a helter-skelter
while I belted out your soulful-sangin-songs.
‘Justa school-gal-crush (I’m ‘guessin)
inna-playground,
hoping get to know each other if we can (that’s all).
STRUNG OUT!
Play that funky music white ‘boyz.
Bobby Caldwell,
We’re still wondering where you came from
with your soulful musicality (and all)
and I guess your wondering were we’ve been
as we search to find your soul within.
Just came back to let you know
we gotta thang fo your music, that we’ll never let go…
Play that funky music white boy.
Daryl Hall & John Oates, you sang to us
“Baby hair with a woman’s eyes.”
You said, you felt me ‘watchin in the night…
Well my name wasn’t-hardly Sarah (who smiled)
but one on one, you sure did made me cry.
Play that funky music white ‘boyz.
Paul Wall, I’m no rapper (you see),
but I’ve certainly
eavesdropped on ‘summa your-conversation
tween you, Nelly, Kyjuan, Ali, and Murphy Lee…
Remember dat Air Force One ft.,
Oh, my bad, Ice man,
wrong video. Y’all robbed dat jewelry stow,
and told ‘em
“Make me a grill.”
I heard, 20 karats, 30 stacks letting us know
you’z fo-real (killed it)!
Rap that funky music white boy.
Holdin back the years;
thinkin of the fears. Nothin had the chance to be good
Simply Red. Cept, your soulful voice.
So, we’ll keep holdin on…waistin all our tears.
Play that funky music white boy.
We ain’t forgot bout your “Fame,” David Bowie.
Making us all think things ov’r
putting us right there where things were hollow.
Fame, fame, fame, faaaame.
Please don’t reject us first cause what “we get,” is no tomorrow.
And were still left thinkin things ov’r
So, while on your new journey Bowie…
Play that funky music white boy.
Teena Marie and Rickie Lee Jones
I ain’t hardly forgot bout your sAngs
I’ll get to you, soul-sangin-sistahs
in another poem on another day.
Play that funky music white ‘galz!
I remember all these funky SANGERS.
And just when they hit us on the one,
(like Bootsy, and Parliament-Funkadelics…EverythAngs on the one…)
Wild Cherry had us all turnin-round shoutin:
“Play That Funky Music White ‘Boyz,”
lay down that boogie and “SANG” that soulful music to us
til you die!
Dedicated to:
“Our” white soul “SANGERS” whom we love, and embrace. I wonder, wonder, wonder, wonder who?
Note* An unfinished poem that artist will be added to.
A RocDeeRay Production
Dirt Poor
They ov’r-looked her.
Nev’r saw her ‘comin.
Thought they were better than.
Upside-down-brown.
Dirt poor.
She cried “Lord! Lord!”
He heard.
He came.
He gave her pride.
She conquers her fear.
Now it is them
who cries.
Dedicated to: It’s a low-down dirty shame.
A RocDeeRay Production
Nev’r saw her ‘comin.
Thought they were better than.
Upside-down-brown.
Dirt poor.
She cried “Lord! Lord!”
He heard.
He came.
He gave her pride.
She conquers her fear.
Now it is them
who cries.
Dedicated to: It’s a low-down dirty shame.
A RocDeeRay Production
Penny Wilson is a freelance writer who writes in several genres. She has written articles for WOW Women on Writing. Her poetry has been published in online journals, such as Ariel Chart, Spill Words Press and the Poppy Road Review. Penny is a member of the Austin Poetry Society. Her poetry has been featured in the publication America's Emerging Poets 2018 & 2019 by Z Publishing, Poets Quarterly and Dual Coast Magazine published by Prolific Press. You can find more of her writings on her blog at https://pennywilsonwrites.com/ and follow her on Twitter @pennywilson123.
The Fortress--
The walls are high
and built to withstand the harshest
assaults.
They were pieced together
over the years
using
scars
as mortar.
I’ve paid the price
for this fortress
with bits of my soul.
Although my heart
is protected,
my spirit
has suffocated
behind these walls.
Throwing back the curtains,
I slowly open the door.
Through the crack
I see the light
of a new day.
The promise of tomorrow
beyond the horizon.
and built to withstand the harshest
assaults.
They were pieced together
over the years
using
scars
as mortar.
I’ve paid the price
for this fortress
with bits of my soul.
Although my heart
is protected,
my spirit
has suffocated
behind these walls.
Throwing back the curtains,
I slowly open the door.
Through the crack
I see the light
of a new day.
The promise of tomorrow
beyond the horizon.
The Shell--
There was a crack
in the shell that I
built around myself
It's a funny thing
about shells
They not only keep the
bad things out
they keep the good things out
too
I had nowhere else to turn
I could no longer stand
on my own
So I fell
to my knees
in the shell that I
built around myself
It's a funny thing
about shells
They not only keep the
bad things out
they keep the good things out
too
I had nowhere else to turn
I could no longer stand
on my own
So I fell
to my knees
Halo--
Your touch
nourishment
to this thirsty soul
You forgot your halo
It’s still lying here
Just slightly tarnished.
nourishment
to this thirsty soul
You forgot your halo
It’s still lying here
Just slightly tarnished.
 | Alan Berger has two films on Netflix etc that he wrote and directed. He has had over 50 short stories and poem published since 2018 in five different publications, Before the writing and directed he was a feature casting director for Ivan Reitman and Howard Zieff. He also acts in commercials and just did two episodes of,:Baskets". |
HELP
I have not done anything wrong
Then again, my memory
Ain’t that long
A walk in the sunny park
Has become a stroll in quicksand
In the dark
I watch the news
And search to see
Who has got it worse?
It does not help
It doesn’t remove my curse
I should not complain
But I do
I should keep in the race
Even if I think I’m through
It’s not like I have a choice
My alone time in the wilderness
Is not the only voice
And if the answers are only
That humans are a mistake
Find a big eraser
For the future and past steps
You may take
I think I’ll stay in the saddle
And enjoy the battle
Then again, my memory
Ain’t that long
A walk in the sunny park
Has become a stroll in quicksand
In the dark
I watch the news
And search to see
Who has got it worse?
It does not help
It doesn’t remove my curse
I should not complain
But I do
I should keep in the race
Even if I think I’m through
It’s not like I have a choice
My alone time in the wilderness
Is not the only voice
And if the answers are only
That humans are a mistake
Find a big eraser
For the future and past steps
You may take
I think I’ll stay in the saddle
And enjoy the battle
WHISKERS AND WHISPERS
My little baby
My little dear
You’ve lost so much weight
Soon you’ll disappear
We been together for so long
Yet it seems like only yesterday
We both were born
You can’t feel anything except my kisses
You can’t hear a thing no more
Except my whispers
If cats and dogs lived as long as humans
And I do mean to disparage
There would certainly be no need for marriage
Remember when that Racoon tried to eat me through the window?
You stayed by my side instead of running solo
Sooner or later we’ll both be in the sky
You can meet Grandma and Grandpa
And my first cat with one eye
There is no one left anyway except for us
And on this trip we won’t need a carrying case
Or the need of a senior discounted bus
Only thing left to say
Is that in a world full of barn feed
You’ve been a prime rib fillet
My little dear
You’ve lost so much weight
Soon you’ll disappear
We been together for so long
Yet it seems like only yesterday
We both were born
You can’t feel anything except my kisses
You can’t hear a thing no more
Except my whispers
If cats and dogs lived as long as humans
And I do mean to disparage
There would certainly be no need for marriage
Remember when that Racoon tried to eat me through the window?
You stayed by my side instead of running solo
Sooner or later we’ll both be in the sky
You can meet Grandma and Grandpa
And my first cat with one eye
There is no one left anyway except for us
And on this trip we won’t need a carrying case
Or the need of a senior discounted bus
Only thing left to say
Is that in a world full of barn feed
You’ve been a prime rib fillet
 | PERSONALITY OF JAMMU,INDIA, Sahaj Sabharwal loves writing poems and thoughts. He lives in Jammu city, Jammu and Kashmir, India. He is 17 years old now a young poet . He has been awarded many awards in poem writing at State level, National and international level. He was also selected to be invited for the INTERNATIONAL WRITERS MEETING IN TARIJA and HUNGARY,EUROPE. He was awarded with the INTERNATIONAL DIPLOMA IN WRITING and INTERNATIONAL MERIT CERTIFICATE IN WRITING and was PUBLISHED BY THE YOUNG WRITERS ASSOCIATION IN UK and RECIEVED "CERTIFICATE OF PUBLICATION FROM UK". |
TEACHER - Our Future Maker
Giving us knowledge of something is a teacher,
Having an inbuilt experience feature.
A good teacher teaches us by heart,
And prays God for our peart.
A teacher helps us in developing our mind,
In such a way that is very kind.
A teacher teaches us tricks to achieve our goal,
And warns us to remain careful to avoid any thole.
Without the help of a teacher, we cant work rife,
And many difficulties will appear in our life.
In this vast world, they are teachers and parents only ,on whom we can rely,
They always keep on us their eye.
And we are confident that they never tell a lie,
They gives us blessings so that we can fly high.
That's why , Parents are our caretaker,
And teachers are our future maker.
Having an inbuilt experience feature.
A good teacher teaches us by heart,
And prays God for our peart.
A teacher helps us in developing our mind,
In such a way that is very kind.
A teacher teaches us tricks to achieve our goal,
And warns us to remain careful to avoid any thole.
Without the help of a teacher, we cant work rife,
And many difficulties will appear in our life.
In this vast world, they are teachers and parents only ,on whom we can rely,
They always keep on us their eye.
And we are confident that they never tell a lie,
They gives us blessings so that we can fly high.
That's why , Parents are our caretaker,
And teachers are our future maker.
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