Love Poems: And His Name Was a Promise to God (Wallah and Other Stories)

when you think of a man who willrub your back and speak ofwhat Garvey saidwho will have known you for lifetimesand recognized you yesterdaywho will learn to eat with his right handbecause that is the way of your peopleand your people have become his bloodevery word will be poetrythe sound of your namefrom his mouth willsound like holy scriptures andsacred chantsyou will tremble at the thoughtof his touchbrown fingers on thesmall of your backkisses on thenape of your neckqueen, how long have youknelt before kings without crowns?arise, arise and lift your headyour king has come

Love Poems: Monrovia on Wednesday

we who come from nothingwhose heirlooms are buriedin mass graves underAfrican skieswe do not hear our grandmother's voiceand cannot kiss her handswhile we sit under trees to praywe come from placeswhere bullets spraythey do not carehe is your brotherthey are not movedby your weepinghold it in and be stillthat is the African waythe world does not pityblack sufferanceour death does not shake themwe are rotting corpses and open woundscharity cases dyingon rich soil whose fruit we do not reapthey wear our blood on their necks and fingersbut how can you not see our soul?it is the thing that keeps usit is the thing we carry

Love Poems: They Will Make a Muse of You

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

Love Poems: Ghost Man of Him a Lay Us

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)

Love Poems: Spilt Milk

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.

Love Poems: When They Come With Machetes in Their Mouths

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)

Love Poems: Milk and Honey

8.6.2014do not slip your tongue into the mouths of menwho see your beauty when lights are dimthey do not know youdo not lay underneath men who thrust themselves inside of youbut do not ask for your mother's namethey will not love youdo not hide yourself from men whoask you to staythose who allow you to rest your weary souldid you not prayfor that milk and honey kind of love?