Tag Archives: poems

A Poem

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It’s a poem if the words can live without you.

If the allegory can make blinding light shine from tombs
awaken memories
breathe them back to – reality.

It’s a poem if,
there are possibilities for similies linking people
universally
from fallen walls to picket signs
drawing scents of lemons
shake hands of farm girls to vegetarians
likening poetry to biblical days
with your comrades
logging different chapters
forcing the community for just one night
to look
directly into the sun
That’s a poem.

from the poetry book, Pocket Honey, Wind & Hips

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a Poem

Lyrics make it a song
Bars make it a rap
too long and too loud make it a theatrical monologue

unfortunately open mics don’t teach the difference

Poets make words jump from pages to dance
with whomever / even when they are not there

Poets can make water flow from their feet
for everyone to drink

Poetry makes people responsible
turns dreams prophetic

so discipline your ego and teach.
journalandpen

Sister SOS (Inspired by Kathleen Cleaver)

She’s heard more eulogies than poetry so I wrote this for her.

Amidst the sips of licorice tea, I asked her
“what would she do differently.”

She replied she’d “love as fearlessly as she fought
take more time,
soak the greens instead of rinse ’em”
research his heart as she did antiquity.

She truly believed that for years she had a melody
but never a song
no vibration
no balance
“conquer your souls duality” she told me
the world is depending on you to love
surrender, Sister.

kathleencleaver

Nikki Skies, ©2007 Published in anthology of “His Rib: Stories Poems & Essays by HER” by Penmanship Publishing Group

fear wrestling

The merlot on my tongue
won’t allow me to speak.

I stain my pillow with attached prayers of something
better
betwixt the Ghana of my mane.

Afraid,
I walk with a cane looped to my belt to beat a fall
design distance from cerebral lessons

fear wrestling.
I wear tight shoes to ensure carefully calculated steps
abandon spontaneity
and disavow chances and dances with love.

taken from the book:

PocketHoneyWindHips

Get your autographed copy here

 

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.

“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

rebelreverseopinionpoem

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.