http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ewYQhUwRN0 From August 1-5, I traveled home to Atlanta to compete at the National Poetry Slam as a member of Eclectic Truth National Team, Baton Rouge. Amir Safi, Chibbi Orduña and Christopher Diaz of Write About Now were gracious enough to host an after hours cypher. More than 40 poets performed and yours truly was one of them. Check it out!
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.
the wars you've faced have neverbeen of the flesh, you say.of course,you only sound the trumpetfor matters of the soul.you were still fighting your battle with heron the day you said you loved me.i saw your armorbut only thought of you as kingi did not know that i'd met you on the front lineshow was i to know this was a war zone?you are like a haunted housethe way you sleep with ghosts of lovers pastshe haunts your dreamsyet, you say that i imagine her presencedon't you know that i too see spirits?you've left to chase phantoms who call out to youfrom the shadows of harlemyou've been waiting on herwhile selling me sweet dreams to bide your timei do not blame you, for i bought them gladlyshe is your Siren and you have heard her singingyou rush to her shores and your destructionone in the the sameand only look back to tell me not to wait
they will use the word inspirewhen they speak of what you do to themyou will make them want to be better menbetter than the fathersthey do not knowthey will come to you for magicdicks rock hardas they stare at you and lick lipsthey do not ask questionsonly speak of themselvesand how their dreams will get them farhow their dreams will get them paidhow their dreams will make them somebodyhow your thick thighswould look wrapped around themand how sliding inside of you would be artthey will find poetryin the woman who feels God in the breezetwists trees tightlyand belongs to no one but herselfsongs will be made in your honormeasured in sixteen barsand syncopated rhythmsthey will immortalize your namethey will make a muse of youand use youand maybe love you
Oh Mr. Renaissance ManSo full of talents and qualitiesWisdom beyond this ageYou travel across seas to understand your artistryYou perform to healYou write to releaseAnd I get itFor I travel across landsI write to healI perform to releaseI understand youMr. RenaissanceYour artistic sensibilitiesYour passionate reflectionsWhat beautiful creationsto be moldedif we joined forcesRenaissance woman and Renaissance mancreating andfeelingand lovingoh yes lovingwhere our wordsinterlock and changepeople's hearts and mindsbeginning with usfor we would mold and changeeach other dailyyet this unionis just a fantasysuch sensitive artistic soulscan't pairfor we too oftensearch for somethingsomething to fill usand i would love to say we couldfill that for each otherMr. Renaissanceyet i'm scared to trythe renaissance woman i amjust keeps silentso we find other compatible counterpartsthat are just enough to appease usbut can never fullygrasp our beautybut the beauty lives insideand maybe one daywhen your travels across seasmeet my travels across landswe'll seethe renaissancereborn- Bridgette Burton (Stone Mountain, Georgia)
4.6.11broken men do not see their cracksbut women do.and we think our grace sufficientto fill the imperfections.so we pour ourselves intotheir chipped vesselsand wonderwhy they do not cry over our spilt milk.
I am not superwoman. My mother is not superwoman. My mother’s mother is not superwoman.I am, we are, soft. Can shatter. Crumble in your hands.Our survival does not mean we prosper. We are like other women but unlike them.So do not tell us we can handle anything.We only seem like superwoman, a figment of your imagination,because you have forced our lives to be perpetual labor with only seconds of relief.If we carry the world on our shoulders and the children on our backs,what are we but your glorified mules slapped withguilt praises of perseverance and strength.Our bones and our blood and our sweat have built the wealth of nations.Our burial should not be the first time we rest.- Yasmin Mohamed Yonis (Mogadishu, Somalia)