You call me angry
But you, have a million ways to hate me
So this isn’t anger / this is my confused face.
these lines on my forehead are
glass ceilings / eulogies / sexism and sermons
these lines are 400 year old collection notices
these lines are me not wanting to compete for every corner of my existence
this isn’t anger.
this is proper placement privilege
this is / been here done that and steady grinding
this is you mistaking me swallowing whole fruit for breasts
this is my lipstick protecting my smile when I kiss the moon at night
it’s not magical all days
sometimes I can’t abracadabra away feeling… “other”
sometimes it’s real survival tactics needed
these lines remind me where I hid bail money
where I’m safe to unbraid my fears and wash my past
this is an emotion you can’t repeat
cause you damn sure duplicate everything else about me
but this isn’t anger.
this is for my pushed back knuckles from
fighting traffic, hunting for low gas prices, scrimmaging through too ripe produce in my local grocery store, you know / regular stuff
this isn’t anger
this is me demanding you stop displaying to the world there are exceptions to me being human
being woman / being protected / be-ing loving / be-ing loved.
this is I don’t want the crime solved 30 years from now when the killer is probably in my breathing space
I’m not supposed to be offended when you call me angry?
But you, -have a million ways to hate me
this isn’t anger.
this is my stay ready face. – by Nikki Skies for “Rebel Yell” on BET.com
“There is no fire next time, you should be on fire right now!”
This poem is from my new collection of poetry/prose, yardwork, available on Amazon or you can order an autographed copy.
When warriors / raise daughters
We don’t pass her a Baton / tell her to run /
We pass her a Machete / tell her to grip it / firm and steady/
let it be an extension / of your hand / plant your feet / bend your knees /
if you raise your arm / do not speak /with eyes at your feet
/ spot neck in your periphery / with strength and precision/ cut long, hard and deep
This is your life / live it / defend it
/ whatever comes for you / be ready
Jolivette Anderson-Douoning is an Educator and Poet from Shreveport, LA. Her research is focused on Race, Space and Place. It explores the psyche of African Americans in the United States and how their existence has been negotiated according to the racial history of the nation. Anderson-Douoning is a 4th year PhD student at Purdue University where she is studying American Studies/Curriculum and Instruction. She currently lives in Indiana with her daughter.
She has four recordings of poetry and prose: Love and Revolution Underground, At the End of a Rope in Mississippi, Jolivette Live: A Bluesy Funk Life Cycle, and She Energy.
For bookings and additional information email@example.com or DrJolly2015@gmail.com
I can make cars slow down and eyes glance out of side windows.
I can make a man’s mind wonder the contents of my thoughts.
I can make you want to kiss my hand and not even have a reason.
I am woman, the object of your desire.
I can make 12 tasks mold into one without breaking a sweat.
I can manage and supervise a group of people without them feeling inferior.I may not change the entire world but my world is organized, stylish and complete.
I am woman, the master of my success.
I can understand anyone through the content of my emotions.I can quickly tell a liar from the flicker of sarcasm in the eyes.
I can see right through a fake smile or a kiss with no feeling.
I am woman, my heart is more valued than gold.
I can be royalty to the man I’ve chosen to be my king.
I can be everything to those who are worth my time.
I am always aware of the infinite power of my femininity.
It is up to you to take notice and give the ultimate respect.
Bio Information Here
It landed on the kitchen table next to the watermelon. Like a Sunday newspaper on Thursday. Set aside for recycling. Or an abandoned spoon after dessert. It sat there foreign but familiar. Like an African American in America.
The carousel sang loudly. Drowned out the relief of parental duties. Playful screams resonated the atmosphere. Cotton candy decorated white faces pink and blue. Mustard stains on white t-shirts. Scraped knees caused by unattended shoelaces. The day was glee and the night carefree, as flying gravel spun under running feet.
Her bladder was full of miles like her mother’s. She watered the ground with chocolate auburn. The spices enticed the clouds to cry and capture the streets. She met him where the sun sat in the fire pit. He kissed her hand to summons a feather so she wouldn’t doubt his words. His eyes were complete like the turn of an owl’s head. The preacher announced their commitment where roads met corners with mirrors. He hung their picture in a birdcage to catch time. He told them not to be afraid.
The first season spread the hours like a bridge. He supplied water to dry, fallen branches daily. Believers of the unseen. She carried unicorns in her pockets. They wore audacious yellows and greens in a black and white world. Demanded freedom like 8 a.m. school bells. Unbalanced as thick as unjust. At night she placed sweet onions on his eyelids. He remained rooted. His tongue poignant from the aroma.
Dog’s were death’s best friend. Hydrants absent from fires. Hoses present at protests. Tilted buses full of spiritual songs. Northern boys with fresh fists. Southern boys with patched will. Northern girls with golden intuition. Southern girls with ancient maps. Laughter extinct. Spit like rain. Freedom rides. Spirits flew. Red summer. Blue years. Freedom wide. Hatred tall. Black bodies hung/ burned/ mutilated. Daylight tardy.
Soprano saxophone accompanied her screams. Vibrato in her hands. His head in her lap. His eyes meeting her’s was the prize. “Sit me up, turn me loose.” Abandoned from forever. She sat him up. Erect as pillars. Baroque rocked. Down. She sipped tea in China.
Scores for his name. His verses rhymed her forward. Her passion sweet as fruit. Seasoned. Made days wet cement. For imprints. Slops. Hills. Concrete with purpose. His remembrances sleep at our feet.
a prose from the book,
Autographed copies available here
“When does laughing at my name become part of the curriculum?… my name is not yours to edit.”
How black can a panther get?
How high is serious set?
Know melanin and let
Evolve / I then bet
Set the panther inside loose
then serious you’ve met.
He said, “as sure as I’m sitting here / I shouldn’t be”
Playing on the devil’s playground / He had 3 bullets with my name on it
1 still in me
scratching his goatee & lifting his chin / he said he know why he’s still here
And it was because of something higher than the roof of that burrito joint
It was higher than the lamp post that shone on us through the tinted windows
It was higher than the billboard telling us what to drink to enjoy our evening
It was higher than the ghetto bird shining on it all
Higher than his weekly 3 g salary
Even higher than the overpopulated heaves of black men that are now angels
It was high enough to take away his foul ways of breath & pump his blood pure enough to unite with his original
Now he knows what being a G is all about.
tired of waking up tired / after 8 hours of sleep
up all night fighting somebody / even though I live alone
in a white dress / she came to me and said my peace would
come with pain / my peace was letting go of everything that I
believed keeps me sane.
I was naked / but not stripped, like before / misunderstood &
confused with this spiraling in my spine / I gave it all away.
I snored that night / I was so tired.
She say for her family
she do what she can
when in reality it be for her
man / who wants a mother like her son
so she wipe both they asses and then her tears cause it be from the same shit
Too tired more/more tired than her mother who taught her how to stay
who lived and died the same way
the palm reader etched on her palm
now that she know/she can remain calm
when he come to bed smelling like fuck nut
and dried saliva.
He’ll say it’s all in her head
so she have nightmares of
forever being a fool.
from the book,
Copies available here