RENEE DRUMMOND-BROWN - POEMS

​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!

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

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

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

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

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

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