Tag Archives: #spokenword

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 story in haiku

I.
After the fall storm
comes a rainbow and the smiles
stay / don’t hide from us

II.
Laugh at what they taught
hear my verbs and protect us
be father to all.

III.
Stop gambling your seeds
for a night to feel human
let divineness shine.

IV.
Open / not enter
love your womb and its’ future
don’t be forgotten.

V.
I preserve my world
in journals so my children
can eat without me.

nikki skies

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.

tiresome tuesday

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
punch it
or break her back
or dig in dem guts
It won’t hurt
Her.

_____________________________
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.

TDcoveronly

PURCHASE AT The Town Dance Paperback and Kindle

flavor for your ears

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When I seriously began to consider taking my art full-time, I collaborated with some amazing artists and created a poetry cd, “moody”.  Some poems are to music and others are acapella.  This project was complete right before I moved from Los Angeles to Atlanta and I toured with it and my poetry book, “Pocket H

oney, Wind & Hips” for almost two years.

I came across a few copies the other day and decided to share with you.  So, take a listen!  You may find some words/poetic story that you enjoy.

Listen to some tracks on Soundcloud

Here is “moody” on iTunes

or, be a wonderful person and support indie artist and get your autographed copy directly from me

you know me as a Poet…

I mainly use this blog for my poetry.  Every so often I use it for blogs about family, etc but mainly I express my art that is poetry here.  I have been, and will return, to a huge poetic presence for my blog during the creation of She Chronicles (March) and When We Arrived (April).

I am a full time artist so I have to write, perform, submit for festivals, sell books, facilitate workshops, speak on literacy, etc.  I have tried other jobs and honestly… I didn’t give my all.  I didn’t commit nor did I care as much as I do when I am creating art.  So forgive me for not being as present as I have been in the past… I’ve been writing!

As you know, I wrote a novel that is doing AMAZING!  I have book signings lined up for it.  I wrote a play that was 1 of 40 chosen from a selection of 332.  It will be produced November of this year which now gives me the title of Professional Playwright.  And now I have compiled a book of poetry and prose entitled, “yardwork” that is available now in paperback and available for pre-order on Kindle.  “yardwork” is  a compilation of writings from mid 2009 to now.  And I hope you will grab a copy and enjoy 🙂

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