single white woman raising a little black boy

Actually, I think they both already left
but still there for the little black boy
with fair skin.
Whose hair and lips tell the world who his daddy is

I hope someone is there to hold her
when her sons eyes go to a place she won’t be able to reach.
a depth she can’t fathom one humanly possible to survive
cause, she’s gonna’ leave the father.
he works sporadically
nothing reminiscent of her father
who bought home the steak and potatoes
he says / it kills his spirit
and she don’t understand that.
call him lazy.
they yell through the walls
she’s gonna’ leave
and live life as a single white woman raising a little black boy

he’ll / only believe the world stares at him
cause he looks exotic for so long
then he’ll feel cornered
and she’ll beat at the walls and tell him he’s free
until she’s blue in the face,
literally.
with coruscate eyes
he’ll look at her and tell her
something is killing his spirit
…she just don’t understand that
but she’ll dare not call him lazy or leave his side
so she yell at the walls

I hope someone is there to hold her
when her sons eyes go to a place she won’t be able to reach.

passion

We need passion for life
We need passion like ancestral sweat on jungle spring African violets
We need passion like the quieting of an infant’s cries for his mother’s nipples
like the drying desire to drink
let us do what we do best
Create.
detach from the world and all it has to offer
like the fall of sky tall pine trees
like a Muslim nauseous at the smell of swine
let us get away from here!
Like we did the first time
let us hungrily read Genesis to Revelation
and discover one another
let me be imperfect
not what the music and magazine say
but who I am this very second
the extent of me and you in divine disguise
the scent of me in heat for some passion
Like a 4th of July dog scratching against the screen door
We need passion for life.
We need passion like surrendering in a rain shower,
like the uncontrollable moans of a multiple orgasm
let me get this out!
let me get this out!
like the vulgar urges of bulimia
let me get this out!
I yearn this
I yearn this like Thursday evening paychecks
want me
want me like the smell of your mother’s kitchen on Sunday
protect me
protect me like a father holding his child’s hand
let us discover God together
We need passion
Like the heaving chest of a woman giving birth
Like the finger sore of BB strumming the blues
Like a poem with a thousand metaphors
Let us make love over and over and again
We need passion like, like, like…right now.

nothing to manage

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Saturday afternoon truth
told by thick brown hands,
stories of survival and struggle until both
sound like all the names of the black mamas in the neighborhood

Hymns and laughter
imparted in between sections of greased scalps
that smell like coconut or yesterday’s frying oil

Here, little girls get to disappear
feel their mother’s heart beat
as her fingertips massage away her little girl worries
of
not turning the jump rope fast enough
getting picked last during recess for dodge ball

on the floor between her mother’s legs
the little girl’s father appears in a new light
fresh and foul
like discounted gizzards
she learns why to save
why the pulled out back seat of her grandfather’s Cadillac is a
treasure in the garage

safe Saturday rituals become
sanctified Sunday religion
and all this from sitting in between her mother’s legs
getting her hair
did.

she’s called Phoenix

image

Many people will read this and immediately begin to think from a religious perspective and ignore the transformation that can be experienced from this mantra.

The politics of religion is about mind and crowd control, not freedom or spiritual growth.  And perhaps this is where the frustration begins.  Instead of viewing the glass as half empty people will view it as constantly starting over.

Those hard times are where you are burning to rise.  Where you should allow yourself to come undone.  Only to give birth to yourself again.  Think differently… think spiritually.

“Being Woke” a poem for REBEL

I must’ve mistaken breath for clouds /
my purpose for hand grenades
because, if this is not fire
I don’t know what living is.

If my hand isn’t in boiling water
or my thoughts at war
I don’t know a storm.
But somebody turned on the heat

And it’s not my jacket or coat
cause life has a way of
stripping away your fashion and
colorful bouquets of joy.
snatch your seat from under you
and make you stand
face to face with your past
toe to toe with love /
and as much as I want them both to be
the same,
they split me in half like mishandled glassware
make my sleep become / scattered marbles.

So I stay woke.
I see the cracks
I see the valleys
I feel the webs wrestle against
the satin of my face

I won’t take your hush money
or accept your violence as water
it doesn’t flow with the sunrise of my blues /
It ignored my SOS when I needed it most
so I will drive         I will push
I’m going to create furious thunder for the skies
blow rapids under the waves
I’m going to make you feel this bass pummel from my heart
not some timid toned treble
I heard you speak / I’m woke now,
what else would you expect from a

Rebel.

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The poem, Being Woke, by Nikki Skies for Rebel on BET.

“Reverse Opinions”, a poem

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Be sure to watch all the first season of REBEL this week on BET.com.  And check out the poetry for the series called REBEL YELL.  Here is the full video for the poem, Reverse Opinions.

I am a lover of perseverance. I am folklore. I am consistency and contradiction.

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