Tag Archives: #motherhood

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.

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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.

At The River, from the poetry cd “Moody”

“She received the fruit of the rain at the beginning of God’s mouth
and rubbed her belly for a sense of serendipity
you can’t tell me she ain’t fierce the way she always
embarrass you with the truth.”

“Women of warrior blood
a ritual of stares for superiority
and one word never needs to be spoken

It’s in her eyes
that reflect a promised lake of fire
to toss her divided soul
that pulls at her like a chariot with two head strong horses.”

bang, bang (a poem by Nikki Skies for “Rebel Yell”)

Bang!
Yellow plus blue makes green
Like blood on blue makes
mean
times in these streets

even meaner when the oath
is covered and smothered to protect promotions and pension plans
instead of people’s freedom and hard worked land
bang!

You can get a round of drinks from co-workers
faster than the truth
or you might have better luck tracing my family tree
before the start of slavery
and that is practically impossible
so you keep asking
you keep tracing
you keep pacing with the sun’s shadows
and euphoric mist
while these bodies keep transitioning
bang!
energy moving on
but the control and power staying the same
I remain
ssssstuck on justice
a yearning that repeats like a speech impediment.
Got me  / living life like a suicide note found
every morning at 7a.m.
bang! bang!
can’t remember anything else but staying steady,
ready / like mother’s equipping
their children with breakfast bars   backpacks    and  dash cams

bang! bang! bang! bang!

statue of liberty standing pretty holding a flame
that’s never lit my community
liberty bell never rang loud enough to level the playing field
So I’ll keep my ear to the streets and listen for the drums.
read the sweaty faces of over-worked people like /maps
interpret the colors in the swaying skirts
and the signals from framed smoke flowing from barbq pits

grant me the serenity to courageously stand oak tree tall and the wisdom to put a plan into action
I’m getting the last word!
Me against the world

bang!

Yellow plus blue makes green.
Like blood on blue makes /
mean
times in these streets.

bang, bang

2017-04-25-22-13-31

(performed by Danielle Mone Truitt of “Rebel“)

Click here for the full video performance of “bang, bang” on BET.com

Tune in Tuesday at 10pm EST for an all new episode of REBEL.

SHE CHRONICLES: “For Mamas Who Have Considered Suicide While Loving Daughters With Open Wounds” a poem by Crystal Tennille Irby

If I could rename her, I would call her Oya.  She brought the rain/the storm/the thunder and lightening my heart needed.

I thought my womb would stretch/hips expand/body open for all my children to breath life.

I never imagined my teacher would come to me, age 11/a reflection of my brokenness/an unrelenting stare/unyielding hunger to be whole.

There was no escaping.  A time to heal had come, and so began the cycle of faith and fear.

I never imagined my daughter as a savior.  There would be nothing immaculate about her conception.  How I became a mother would be by birth.  But here she is, no marks to prove my body made room for her/to prove to my soul was given time to prepare for her. But she is here, breathing in all of my dreams as if I whispered them to her as she tossed and turned in my body.

She is a sphinx.  The fire burns but never destroys.  I have witnessed her sift through her own ashes at least three times.  For that, I do not take credit.  I am only here to remind her she has been resurrected before.

I relish in every raindrop/vigilant through every storm/faithful when the lightening strikes because I know rebirth is on the other side.  She has taught me to bury the dead/to forgive myself.  It is her grace I am most grateful for/her willingness to allow me to grow/to always allow me to hold her.  Even in the darkest hours, when our arms can’t seem to stretch around our bodies, I hold her in my heart/in my prayers.  I carry her like child in womb in my soul.

Continue reading SHE CHRONICLES: “For Mamas Who Have Considered Suicide While Loving Daughters With Open Wounds” a poem by Crystal Tennille Irby