Get your copy of my new collection of poetry/prose, yardwork, today.
applaud Her broken heart poetry
then pass Her a notepad and fresh ink
She dies when rape is spoken of so desensitized.
Like a chipped fingernail or
wrecked car She can call and get
a claim number for
It doesn’t get renewed!
She just let it get used and disown its’ power
so next time he wants to
or break her back
or dig in dem guts
It won’t hurt
She chose to be one of the “unreported” stats.
I confronted my homophobia.
I re-defined my definitions of rape.
15 years later, I wrote The Town Dance.
PURCHASE AT The Town Dance Paperback and Kindle
There’s something intensely intimate about cooking a meal for a man
then having him hold your hand across the table and say / grace.
In between the “I love you’s”
this is how we reconnect:
I straddle and clutch on to him
for my dear life and he /
recharges himself inside of me with all I have to offer / then
me and my man we go out and change
from the poetry book, Pocket Honey, Wind & Hips
sky readers / moon believers
before the sunrise prayers
Wisdom Born Mamas sew star, sun, earth, heart shaped
quilts to warm babies
and free souls
hearing from the wind when to hang ’em
high on the clothes line
Before rooster crow / before master know
patterns on quilts mapped out which way to go
to wade in the water
Missing Rifle / Missing Woman.
**Dedicated to the courage of Harriet Tubman and the slaves and quakers that made quilts and hung them to slyly map the way to freedom**
It’s a poem if the words can live without you.
If the allegory can make blinding light shine from tombs
breathe them back to – reality.
It’s a poem if,
there are possibilities for similies linking people
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
directly into the sun
That’s a poem.
She left this morning.
conveniently smooth like tap water /
Promises taped to her right palm for her to befriend the wild with food
She just wanted to be great.
Capsize time and defend her sister and brother
Look her father in the eye with familiar
Write down her Grandmother’s genius words
Learn the earth at the expense of her Grandfather’s back
She came. / throttled tone with soprano cheeks
social as corners
Intimately speaking is how she preferred things
but stories pierced her earlobes
diamonds to shine / hoops to dangle
pages to escape poverty
Like you / she survived through chances
stand offs against never and silence
She left this morning
after a cup of coffee
but prepared these words for you.
After the fall storm
comes a rainbow and the smiles
stay / don’t hide from us
Laugh at what they taught
hear my verbs and protect us
be father to all.
Stop gambling your seeds
for a night to feel human
let divineness shine.
Open / not enter
love your womb and its’ future
don’t be forgotten.
I preserve my world
in journals so my children
can eat without me.
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
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
The poem, Being Woke, by Nikki Skies for Rebel on BET.