If you could talk to one person from the past/present for one hour, who would it be?
I would take just one hour with you, Dad.
and memorize your knuckles
and count the pace between your jokes
look at the stance of your earlobes
allow the electricity to race through my veins as we touch hands
and allow my eyes to connect your pores that capture your
favorite after shave
attach the scent of your breath
have you explain.
ask you the really tough questions
in this softly short period of time
tell you why I chose this place. next to this tree. I love silver dollar trees.
answer more. give me more detail. this is when you’ll see yourself. and know I am so much of your explosive hustle.
and then I’d let you see me cry for the first time ever. for two straight minutes. until your eyes that are mine meet again.
henna tatoos decorate the stretch marks
across her chest
from loving many ways.
and they like ’em like that
scratchin’ hipbones with no itch
they like ’em searchin’
glossy lipped and eyed
Nike “just do it” wearin’
county children raisin’
they like ’em like that.
I forgave my ancestors for not defending the shoreline
and I occupy their transgressions consciously
and I know the tears of disclosure from the Creator
so I sit beside you all night and won’t speak
in fear you’ll find me out
or laugh at the songs that escape my vagina and armpits
but I do love you.
Blame it on the trees if you thought
I’d continue to campaign for his dreams
and live off his land of fear verbed chatter.
Cause he’s not what he should be after all these seasons
point the finger at the sidewalk leaves
and stormed cracked branches
that allow me to conceive a
Soloman like thirst for honesty.
Blame it on the trees
the bare December influenced branches that carries
everybody’s voiceless intentions
to a generation searching for a
She said all it would take is $10
to sense the spirits around me
and read my future.
But I tried to tell her it wasn’t me I was worried about
my prayers are blown to the
sunset gray ridden waves
that have washed my wishes and haunts
my prayers are for the
street prophets freestylin’
thinking they showed me love and let me slide
ignorant to the active place of genocide
in his backyard and her bosom.
I pray for abandoned children with two parents
I pray so long sometimes I fall asleep
and dream of the ancestors
I dream of heaven
I pray for women with deep
that only her missing child can scratch.
I pray poets with purpose
plant potent seeds for
progression with poise
I pray the baroque docks
so other poets can simply stop.
I pray this teaches those that know
that they don’t
so we can hold each other.
The incense hypnotized the seconds
as she checked her clock
she ended up
giving me $20.
nikki skies for National Poetry Month
My words come like a muffled organ /cornered
in a country side church.
I pray one reaches you clear
flattened forever between verses of the New Testament.
Ain’t nobody talking about it
the strong black woman is tired by Tuesday.
and on Thursday,
She buries another virtue so Friday morning can be a
She goes for unavailable men
cause of Her father’s absence.
it’s your problem
cause your daughter plays with Her daughter
I need you,
To care for her.
nikki skies for National Poetry Month
The rally in his mouth no longer
His ante dotes no longer describe / how I feel
the flavor in his analogies offend me
cause he’s naked and happy,
I’m fully clothed and ready for another love war
I no longer desire the rhythm of his walk,
the gutsy bass of his laughter.
Our relationship is no longer melodic.
No more poetry.
We need to talk.
from the book, “Pocket Honey, Wind & Hips” – nikki skies
on the wall
sounds of hymns in the hall
dreams of heaven
fears of withdrawal
from praising his name
exhalted her a fighter to be acknowledged outside
defending on the forefront
braven with armor
she told a white man he was going to hell due to the lack of his belief
he said, ‘and you’ll be next to me / your crime, fear and ignorance. you were given your God during slavery.’
I did not defend her.
I let her fall / scream
held her hand / tearfully & prayerfully, hoped she’d
from the poetry book, yardwork