POETRY: 'Bow Tie Friday' by Trinity

It was a Friday evening

when I went walking

in the early September sun,

being young and free,

letting my hair blow

this way and that,

with my headphones loud

so my hips can swing,

when a young cat

stepped to me and said,

“Excuse me, Sister…”

I thought to myself,

“Sister?

Homie, is trippin’

with nowhere to unpack.”

“Excuse me, Sister,

 I couldn’t help but notice your swagger.

It’s not your style that caught my eye

because it’s rather simple,

but with radiance like yours,

you wouldn’t need any help to stand out.

I was stunned by the confidence in your step.

You don’t have the strides of a goddess,

but you demand respect.

How do I know?

I can tell by the way you cock

your right hip to the side

because you feel that I have crossed the line

somewhere in my dissertation already,

but please rest assure

that I have no intentions of offending you,

not even with titles.

I would never call my chick or even my boo;

there’s so much more in a name,

there’s so much more to you.”

If I had heard anything he said so far

it was that last part,

but I couldn’t let him know that he was on to something.

“Mhmm,” I said.

He chuckled.

“What’s funny?” I asked.

“You’re cute, even when you front.

Sister…”

 I shifted from the right hip to the left.

“Oh, you don’t like that.

I call you sister

because I have some kind of connection with you.

But I’d rather feel this connection

emotionally,

physically…”

He clears his throat…

“…and sexually.”

I know he knows that this conversation

could go one of two ways…

“That would be incest.”

He smirks at me

and I smile back.

I can overlook a little forwardness

from a gentle,

young man,

it just shows he’s willing to take chances,

he speaks his mind,

and he is eloquent.

He said,

“Ooh, and she’s quick witted.

So, can I assume that you’re natural?”

“Natural?”

“Real.

I see the gaze in your chinky eyes,

your high cheek bones rise

when you are truly impressed,

the red undertone

in your almond silk skin

flushes through when you’re flattered,

like now,

and all of that is complimented by

the beautiful curls in YOUR hair,

emphasis on your.

And though black is beautiful,

that isn’t the only ethnicity

that has contributed to such a

pretty face on a pretty frame.

Ooh child,

somebody help a Sister!

I’m not sure

if I’m more impressed by him

or the fact that he dresses with dignity.

I can respect an intelligent,

young black man

who wears a navy blue cardigan

over a solid,

collared,

white shirt.

His jeans are around his waist,

waves on swim,

and his hat tilted to the side.

He was staring at me,

I had my nostrils opened wide

breathing in his cologne

as the wind blew it my way

as if God wanted me

basking in his ambiance.

Couldn’t even vocalize

what I visualized,

he had my body paralyzed

as he smiled at me.

It felt good.

I didn’t know if it should,

by why wouldn’t it

if this brother of the night

was reciting his blues to me

as if my name was Nina?

I don’t mean to sound too cliché,

but I was digging his poetry

like a grave.

“You seem like a half way decent guy,

what’s wrong with you then?”

“What’s wrong is that

I’m only half way decent.” 

I blushed again.

We continued talking

but I’m not sure

what made me hand over my digits.

Was it his smooth,

Mississippi-brown skin

with an evenly blended

beard and goatee?

No, I see that every day.

As I turn to leave I stop and say,

“I never got your name.”

“I know”.

“Soo…

what am I supposed to call you then?”

He gently strokes my chin

with his left fore finger and says,

“Ya man”,

and walks away. 

I’m not sure why,

but that name satisfied me

even more

than his real name would have.

There were so many things

to reminisce over on my way home,

but I couldn’t remember everything

or even his whole face.

The only image

that had been permanently imprinted

was that I met

a  half decent guy

wearing a red bow tie

on a Friday.

*The bolded section is a quote from Destiny's Child - Apple Pie La Mode 

POETRY: 'Nakedness of Humanity" by Trinity

We have been exposed.

Our sins trail behind us,

showing where we’ve been,

and they lay before us,

showing where we are headed.

Lines are being erased

so we can say we never crossed them,

and being moved up

so that the space “Outside the box”

becomes big enough

to justify alternative lifestyles

outside of moral ones…

all in the name of progress.

Our “progress” causes for incurable diseases

that we can’t say,

for sure,

where they came from;

all we know is

“it can only be treated”.

YOLO!

But living only once doesn’t matter

when you’re spending your last few years

dying from the bug.

 

What then?

“After death,

the judgment”.

We’ll live once to die twice?

 

What’s done in the dark comes to the light.

We are individuals,

and can do whatever we will with our bodies,

but ladies,

if it’s not a baby

then you were never pregnant.

To pretty faced men

“claiming that they’re the big men,

 you need to take care of your three or four kids, man.”

If fornication is what you have to submit to

then be willing to PAY for the consequences. 

Y’all like to play roles,

punks that are so quick to shoot the scene,

but it’s time to stop acting like boys

and be men.

 

It’s funny

because we’ll deny the truth

in order not to deny ourselves.

If even the righteous man

comes before God as filthy rags,

then what do you stand before Him as?

Forgiveness is only granted to the saved,

but people aren’t willing to deny themselves

because you only live once.

You’re willing to die twice

to live once. 

Hell is way too hot

and eternity is way too long

to throw today away.

You walk in darkness

because you are too blind to see

that there is only light,

God sees all.

 

The few selected have been rejected.

Better yet,

truth has been rejected

because you’ve been programmed to fear it.

“How can we show up for

an invisible war

preoccupied with a shadow

or making love to a whore?”

 

They say I’m narrow minded,

well,

“the broad way leads to destruction”.

Just saying…

POETRY: "Upon Finding my 6th Grade Agenda" by George Abraham

Upon Finding my 6th Grade Agenda

By George Abraham

 

I remember it clear as crystal;
the unfamiliar halls beckoning for exploration;
the trite optimism of pre-teen youth;
the air of mystery over what the future will hold;
the reckless naivety of a brain lacking plasticity;
the natural awkwardness accompanied by this
transition.

For, that’s all life is, right?
A string of transitions
whether it’s day to night,
or Sunday to Monday,
or this week to that week,
or July to August,
or 2006 to 2007,
or 20th to 21st century,
or childhood to adult,
or adult to beyond.

But I live for now,
and if there’s one thing that’s certain,
it’s that everything is uncertain.
6 years have passed, and
I gaze at this tattered, worn book-
the very symbol of transition-
upon the brink of another transition
only to realize that my crystal-clear memory
occurred just yesterday,
for it is still crystal-clear to me.

It’s the truth I haven’t come to face:
that time flows in rogue waves-

subtlety. subtlety.
calm.
allured.

break.

Copyright 2012|George Abraham

POETRY: "Ido, pero nunca lo olvidaremos" By Cheryl A. Baldwin

         

I can remember every day                                                                                                                 when I use to sit alone at this new school,                                                                                   without knowing a word to say                                                                                                    afraid, to let this “New World” get to know the true me                                                                                             …Until you came along.                                               

It still hasn’t set in yet,                                                                                                                                                                   my mind still hasn’t come to the realization that you are gone but not forgotten.  I still walk the same paths of the past everyday anticipating that welcoming, “Hey Cheryl.”

And not a day goes by that I don’t regret hugging you that last day,                                                                         And not a day goes by that I don’t pray that God would turn back the hands of time and bring you back into our lives. You may be gone, but not forgotten.                                                                                                          

Gone but not forgotten                                                                                                                                                But these tears just are not  stoppin’                                                        
This pain has got my mind lockin’                                                                                 And every time I think of you my knees start droppin’                                                                                                                          cuz I can’t help but to pray the Lord to heal                                                                                                                                 our aching souls.                                                                                                                                                                                      Held these tears in so  long                                                                                                                                         But we gotta be Strong!                                                                                                                                                                                                                We gotta be strong…

We have to live the ways of life that you once lived,                                                                                                                            Bring forth that wisdom and courage that you spread upon us                                                                                                                                  and unite as one                                                                                                                                                                in your honor.

And “Family,” our hearts cry out to you                                                                                                                      Promising that we will do all we can to help.

You may have left this world my friend but you will forever stay in our hearts.

You were an Angel with us here on earth, and now you’re watching over us                                                                                                                                       -R.I.P. JaNay

POETRY: 'Crushed Ice' by Trinity

Burning coal used to ignite and keep my heart lit with an imperishable fire.

But as the seasons changed

so did the temperature and form of my flames.

Time allotted our love to grow older…

I mean grow old,

slow

and tired.

 

How is it that I can maintain a love so strong for someone who hates me...

I mean, who doesn’t care?

 

See, that’s where you’ve all been wrong.

The opposite of love is not hate,

 it’s apathy.

For at least with hate there is a sense of emotion;

a part of you resides with them in their hearts;

you’d make their hearts burn with some kind of fire for you.

But since he no longer cares

that means that my actions are neither here nor there,

I am just air

and space for his nostrils to breathe in

and then exhale,

and that burns more than anything.

 

My heart has smelted…

I mean my heart has hardened…

No, I mean, my heart has been melted to stone…  

My heart has melted to stone but it’s not hard…

I mean, it’s not hard enough to be marble or granite;

it’s too brittle…

too fragile to be that strong…

to be strong enough to let go.

Too brittle…

too fragile…

like ice.

Yes, like ice.

 

Even in my weaker state

I tried to love you,

but you trampled over me

and my attempts to spark a flame.

Sparking a flame with ice…

how desperate.

But nevertheless

I have been rejected

and am crushed.

 

I loved you with a fire red,

but now it’s turning blue

as the seasons change…

My heart’s inferno refreezes

over and over

every time you turn a cold shoulder…

which seems like every day.

Now every day

is just another cold day…

I mean, just another cold day in hell.

POETRY: 'A Reflection' by Kabriel Moorehead

A Reflection
By Kabriel Moorehead

After the party has ended and the confetti has dropped

A moment of reflection is necessary

To recognize where we are in this place in time

Who would have ever gazed into the stars one night

And dreamed a fantasy as lucid as this one?

Once in a lifetime experiences have become a daily occurrence

As our destinies now rest in our own palms

The world has become dough that we mold in our own favor

Obstacles have become nothing more than dirt under our feet,

Imperfections that soil our standing without impeding our march

But in a time where hardship is minimized

How can character be built?

When struggle is the true teacher of strength

How can a precipitous fall from the top of the mountain

Down to the ground where the confetti rests be averted?

Only by a accepting a simple truth,

Complacency is the root of all falls

The route to greatness has no destination,

It is a continuous journey that we all must continue to strive towards

So as the confetti drops,

And we stop for a moment to reflect upon on past accomplishments

The most important idea to remember

Is that the best is yet to come 

Copyright 2012| Kabriel Moorehead