love poems: rivers and trees (for alton)

i think i love a ghostor a manor a man who may be ghost tomorrowthat is to sayi love he whose skin is worth its weightit is gold. it is black.or maybe his skin is the grim reaper's shadowmaybe i am in love with death's shadowand i just want to love him under the sunsometimes you are a riversometimes they make you a riversometimes they make your blood flow red, like a riverAlton, you are a river nowmaybe now they will call you by namethey will have to call you Mississippi or maybe Atchafalayathey can no longer call you felonyou, river, are mighty and vastthey cannot contain youmaybe you will take rootmaybe you will become a treeand they will eat from youthey've always liked to pick us before we are ripeor leave us, hanginghow much black flesh rots in white bellies, tonight?how much strange fruit rots in white bellies, tonight?have we not been served on silver platters, silver bulletsare they not full yet?is it a god complexthat makes them want to turn us into rivers and trees?is it not the seventh day? will they not take rest?are flowers just the ashes of forgotten gold black people?maybe this is what it means when it was writtenof earth you were made and to it you shall returnwill they turn my lover into a river or tree?will i have to learn how to swim or climb to be near him?if i sit under his shade, is it just the grim reaper following me?i just want to love him under the sun.

love poems: tilted crown

oneblack boys rap about their dick sizehow they'll bust this pussy wide openlike the .45 that killed his best friendskull bust wide openbrain matter on grounda mind is a terrible thing to wastehard to get out of concretehe can't sleep at nightvisions of it haunt himsees himself in the morguewhite sheets and coffinseveryday he prepares for battleso his dick becomes his gunand he don't shoot no blank shotssays he wants to put a baby in me'cause he don't think he'll last longwhere he's from, black boys don't last longand black girls lay on our backsspread our legs for these boysspread ourselves for these boyslet them slide inside of uswhile they try to find their way homethey think it makes them men when they comebackshotsso they write rap songs about how they'll kill this pussy'cause, there's a war in the streets, ya know?twohave you ever tried to love a man who thinks that death is chasing him?have him weep between your breasts and ask you to pray for him?i haveand it feels like the darkest night and the sweetest dawnto watch the phoenix right before he rises from the ashand we sit here and break our bones for youwe beat our chests in grief for the men you have becomelost boys of blacknesswho wander through the ruins of the kingdom that you foundtitled crown, how does it feel to have lost it all?titled crown, how does it feel to have lost it all?and he says to me,'bitch don't tell me 'bout no kingdomjust let me kill this pussy'cause there's a war in the streets, ya know?

love poems: amuzu (part one)

friends, neighbors, countrymenlend me your eardrumsthis is the story of my fathermay his life be longpart onemy father is a street boynever had shitgrew up in voodolandwill put a hex on youthirty-six siblings because his fatherliked to spread his seed. this is what farmers doremember, my father is the son of a farmerso he learned to spread his seed toowas seven when Ghana freed herselfblack star shines foreverread by candlelight to learn the white man's gamethey call it capitalismyou have to winand if you losethey will call it third worldbut we call it homestreet boy grewhis hustle did too. all he knows is hustlerode train to Liberiagot a little bit of moneygold chains to show he's got itall gold everything because the streetsneed to see him shinestreet boy is a motherless childmeets girl who is the ghost of his motherthis will be the only time he rememberswhat love looks likehe will love no otherexcept the streetscause you can't take the street out the boyno matter how well he learns to play the gamewill dodge rebel bulletsdon't give a damn about your street gangsyour bloods or your cripsall his friends died with their throats slithe will follow the trail of their blood to americathey will call him refugee because the land he came fromcracked open and tried to swallow him wholebut he came up from the cracksand the prayer of the street boy is,"G-d, don't ever let me go back"so he hustledbrought his girl to foreign landher belly swollen with childLady Liberty looked upon them and said"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddle masses,unless it is black, unless you call it African,there is no freedom here for you."

James Harrison: Untitled

[wpvideo yxqjg7oc] What I love most about working with the younger generation is being able to learn from their honest and earnest perspectives. Listen to James as he questions color politics and understanding history within the black community.Untitled:this is supposed to be our monthbut why do we have to celebrate our historyonce a month, once a year at one timeand that's only for the ones that noticei never wanted to come off offensivebut blacks need more than just one monthto be rememberedthis is just compensationfor the one twelfth of the yearbecause we were three fifths of a personnow is that fair?i never wanted to be national tragedyor neither a national treasuryi just want to be able to lookthrough the history books andsee what we did rightbecause February isn't justnational black history monthit's national minority montha month for confederates to say,"oops, we'll do better next time."the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juicethe darker the flesh the deeper the rootsbut how far do we date back when the blackwas forced to mix with the whiteand didn't make fifty shades of greybut the next generation of house slvesand now a hard history filled with cotton ballescovering rock spires not knowingthere's a deeper meaning behind what we saylike #lightskin #darkskin wars on social mediabut really mean #houseslave vs. #fieldslaveeven rap and hip-hop is corruptedwith images of black bodiescommitting all the bank robberiescause corporate America's scandalousthat's why they still can't handle usliquor straight to my livahignorance just might kill yahpoverty just might hit chahwhile walking home from the riverit's racismbecause we are constantly being force fed liesof how one shade of slave is better than the nextbecause after two-hundred years of overflowing hatredif we don't know our rootsthen why did we leave the plantation?

love poems: gold dust

my body is Africamen want to discover their rootsthrough my watersso they tell me,'girl, i'll make you weep for me.''girl, i'll make you wet for me.'they want to colonize my bodybut my flesh is my ownmy soul belongs to memy mouth is full of diamondsuse your hands to dig into my earthyour hands were meant to dig into my earthyou will fight to say you belong to mewear me on fingers and necks and teethcannot lick lips without tasting mei make these niggas remember they're kings(i make these boys remember they're kings)i burn incense at night when i praydance myself cleanbreasts and thighs tremble like thunderthat calls out to me in lucid dreamsmy hair grows wild and freelike the heart of memy people have seen some crazy shitLiberia's refugeesso pardon me and my iniquitiesit seems i have inherited the family geneof women who carry wounds that are heavier than weso i call myself strong and not breakingbut my God am i breakingi am crumblingthis is how gold dust is mademy life has been a graveyardmy family tree a weeping willowblack menfathers and brothers and lovers of mesit beneath these leavestake cover from my lightshade themselves from my needsmy hips bend and curve like river streamthey all want to drink from memy cup runneth over, they are quenchedi bring lifei have given them lifethey are birthed of me

Love Poems: Mango

[embed]https://soundcloud.com/blackloveprjct/mango[/embed]i wrote this while i ate a mango with my right handi licked the juices that ran down my armmy mouth was full of yellow fruitand i imagined this is how your skin would tasteif i brushed my lips against ithow sweet it isi bite deeper into the flesh,peel the skin with my teeththis is how my mother taught meto eat a mango. this is how her mothertaught her to eat a mango. this is howLiberia taught us to eat a mango.to the bone. sitting down. close to earth.did you know that i see the weather in your eyes?we are in drought, my loveyou have not cried in yearsi want to know the things you've seenshow me your bonestell me real Richmond talesblack kinghow strange it must beto live in a world that does not bow at your feetthey have made a slave of youthey have made a slave of youthey have made a slave of you, my godthey have changed your name from man to niggaand sometimes you've answeredyour world is littered with black bodies searchingsearching for something better than thissearching for a way outsearching for a place to call homethis land of the free wants nothing to do with your freedomit wants you to die a thousand deaths in one dayit wants your sweat and blood and silenceit is the thing this country is made ofblack silence. black sufferance.white houses built by black hands upon red bonesthey have made a slave of youand every day is anotherchance at liberationbaby, get freefind that kingdom that rests inside your headand in the darkest of nightsas the world turns on your shouldersknow that my love is with youit is heavy and aching and patientto the bone. for the soul. close to God.this is how my mother taught me to love a man.this is how her mother taught her to love a man.this is how our bloodlines taught us to love a man. 

Love Poems: For the Women We Don't March For

[embed]https://soundcloud.com/blackloveprjct/love-poems-for-the-women-we-dont-march-for[/embed]sisteri call your name three timesto let the ancestors know they should make room for youyou are coming homeyou have become another picturethat will be added to our altars of griefwe will pray to you and ask what this life is forblack woman, you gave birth to this worldand is it not the African way to carry our children on our backs?how do you not break with so much weight?how much more of your blood will they ask for?how much of your pain will they ignore?your body has been both mother and muleblack men hold their stiffness from across the streetand call you bitch.they have not yet forgiven themselves for being angry with their motherswho could not make their fathers stayyou will love them anyway. you will fight for them anyway.white men salivate at the way your body curvesthey will call you exotic and ask where you are fromthey want to know if black pussy is as sweet as brown sugarthe rolling stones told them sothey will not invite you home to meet their parentsthey cannot bear that shamewhite women will ask to touch your hairpet youthey will call themselves feministsfighting for the right to show their bodiesthen will hire your mother to scrub their floors and raise their childrenoh my sisterthis life is not an easy onethis thing you created is not an easy oneblessed melaninno one weeps for you, they shed no tearsthe earth returns unto itself a thousand times in one dayat night when you weep in heavy solitudeand in the morning when your flowers open themselves to another day