"Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful" ~Rita Dove
Free Verse
"The Art of Drowning" by Billy Collins
I wonder how it all got started, this business
about seeing your life flash before your eyes
while you drown, as if panic, or the act of submergence,
could startle time into such compression, crushing
decades in the vice of your desperate, final seconds.
After falling off a steamship or being swept away
in a rush of floodwaters, wouldn't you hope
for a more leisurely review, an invisible hand
turning the pages of an album of photographs-
you up on a pony or blowing out candles in a conic hat.
How about a short animated film, a slide presentation?
Your life expressed in an essay, or in one model photograph?
Wouldn't any form be better than this sudden flash?
Your whole existence going off in your face
in an eyebrow-singeing explosion of biography-
nothing like the three large volumes you envisioned.
Survivors would have us believe in a brilliance
here, some bolt of truth forking across the water,
an ultimate Light before all the lights go out,
dawning on you with all its megalithic tonnage.
But if something does flash before your eyes
as you go under, it will probably be a fish,
a quick blur of curved silver darting away,
having nothing to do with your life or your death.
The tide will take you, or the lake will accept it all
as you sink toward the weedy disarray of the bottom,
leaving behind what you have already forgotten,
the surface, now overrun with the high travel of clouds.
about seeing your life flash before your eyes
while you drown, as if panic, or the act of submergence,
could startle time into such compression, crushing
decades in the vice of your desperate, final seconds.
After falling off a steamship or being swept away
in a rush of floodwaters, wouldn't you hope
for a more leisurely review, an invisible hand
turning the pages of an album of photographs-
you up on a pony or blowing out candles in a conic hat.
How about a short animated film, a slide presentation?
Your life expressed in an essay, or in one model photograph?
Wouldn't any form be better than this sudden flash?
Your whole existence going off in your face
in an eyebrow-singeing explosion of biography-
nothing like the three large volumes you envisioned.
Survivors would have us believe in a brilliance
here, some bolt of truth forking across the water,
an ultimate Light before all the lights go out,
dawning on you with all its megalithic tonnage.
But if something does flash before your eyes
as you go under, it will probably be a fish,
a quick blur of curved silver darting away,
having nothing to do with your life or your death.
The tide will take you, or the lake will accept it all
as you sink toward the weedy disarray of the bottom,
leaving behind what you have already forgotten,
the surface, now overrun with the high travel of clouds.
Elegy
Strange Fruit performed by Billie Holiday in 1939 (Hear it here.)
Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swingin' in the Southern breeze
Strange fruit hangin' from the poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant South
The bulgin' eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolias sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burnin' flesh
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather
For the wind to suck
For the sun to rot
For the tree to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swingin' in the Southern breeze
Strange fruit hangin' from the poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant South
The bulgin' eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolias sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burnin' flesh
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather
For the wind to suck
For the sun to rot
For the tree to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop
Pastiche
ORIGINAL POEM:
How It Feels to be Colored Me - Zora Neal Hurston
But I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who holds that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all but about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more of less.
No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible struggle that made me an American out of a potential slave said "On the line!" The Reconstruction said "Get set!" and the generation before said "Go!" I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the stretch to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. It is a bully adventure and worth all that I have paid through my ancestors for it. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think--to know that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the spectators not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.
The position of my white neighbor is much more difficult. No brown specter pulls up a chair beside me when I sit down to eat. No dark ghost thrusts its leg against mine in bed. The game of keeping what one has is never so exciting as the game of getting.
I do not always feel colored. Even now? I often achieve the unconscious Zora of Eatonville before the Hegira. I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background. For instance at Barnard. "Beside the waters of the Hudson" I feel my race. Among the thousand white persons, I am a dark rock surged upon, and overswept, but through it all, I remain myself. When covered by the waters, I am; and the ebb but reveals me again.
IMITATION, or PASTICHE POEM:
How It Feels to be Eccentric Me - delmetria "ms. d." millener
But I am not tragically eccentric. I'm who I’ve become. A smart, keep-it-real, loving, caring, napfrocentric, flip-flops in the winter wearing, conflicted-feminist vibing, leaf-chewing, semi-conscious, doing-life-my-way, writing my ass off intellect. They call me red. They call me thawriter. They call me…d. I am here to look, listen, learn then leave.
No, I do not weep at the world—I do me, which sometimes require that I do normal things like normal people when all I want to do is just be—free—be me. Many say I’m an enigma, a rebel, that I walk to the beat of my own drum. Do I care? Let me think…Nope. I live my life in a bubble. In my head. I despise hum-drum. So, I keep thriving. And I create. I write. And the rhythm of it all makes me feel high as a kite.
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me just how eccentric I am. But what is it they think they see? Is it my innate curiosity to always want to learn new things? My transparency? That’s all I know to be. When I’m conflicted or confused, I sneak off to spend time with Jah. The Buddha. Jesus. My Consciousness. My Muse. There’s a long streak of fire deep down in me to live free. Like the incense I burn when I’m searching for peace. I crave it. Long for it. And haters. You say I’m fickle? In order to get to know me (a little), you need to get to know me. A little.
The position of my eccentricity is simple: Daily, I self-medicate with new words, new potions. I flow with the Universe. I’m easy. Slow motion. I love as hard as I work. I work as hard as I love. I don’t look for signs from above. I make the signs myself, to be sure of—my passion about life (when it doesn’t pose me strife). I'm a natural, vegan, chemical-free environmentalist with a dry sense of humor. I have a monotone laugh and my heart couldn’t be truer. True-her: I am earth. I am wind. I am fire. I am water. I am d. Always and all ways—I am she.
I do not always feel eccentric. But I always keep it real. I’m authentic. Folk say I have an addiction. They say it’s my affliction. I cheat on my family every day with words, puzzles, and readers who make predictions. I’m addicted to nouns, adjectives, verbs and other words. I’ll skip celebrations and vacations to spend time with books, essays, and my higher vibrations. I've starved myself on language; binged on literature, poetry, and writing. My veins bleed ink onto the notebook pages in which I write—it makes me feel mighty. My fingertips blister from the puzzle pieces called letters on laptop keyboards that I embroider into words. I’m a nerd. I need reprieve. So I get my pencil and I WRITE for the very reason I breathe.
How It Feels to be Colored Me - Zora Neal Hurston
But I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who holds that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all but about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more of less.
No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible struggle that made me an American out of a potential slave said "On the line!" The Reconstruction said "Get set!" and the generation before said "Go!" I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the stretch to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. It is a bully adventure and worth all that I have paid through my ancestors for it. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think--to know that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the spectators not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.
The position of my white neighbor is much more difficult. No brown specter pulls up a chair beside me when I sit down to eat. No dark ghost thrusts its leg against mine in bed. The game of keeping what one has is never so exciting as the game of getting.
I do not always feel colored. Even now? I often achieve the unconscious Zora of Eatonville before the Hegira. I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background. For instance at Barnard. "Beside the waters of the Hudson" I feel my race. Among the thousand white persons, I am a dark rock surged upon, and overswept, but through it all, I remain myself. When covered by the waters, I am; and the ebb but reveals me again.
IMITATION, or PASTICHE POEM:
How It Feels to be Eccentric Me - delmetria "ms. d." millener
But I am not tragically eccentric. I'm who I’ve become. A smart, keep-it-real, loving, caring, napfrocentric, flip-flops in the winter wearing, conflicted-feminist vibing, leaf-chewing, semi-conscious, doing-life-my-way, writing my ass off intellect. They call me red. They call me thawriter. They call me…d. I am here to look, listen, learn then leave.
No, I do not weep at the world—I do me, which sometimes require that I do normal things like normal people when all I want to do is just be—free—be me. Many say I’m an enigma, a rebel, that I walk to the beat of my own drum. Do I care? Let me think…Nope. I live my life in a bubble. In my head. I despise hum-drum. So, I keep thriving. And I create. I write. And the rhythm of it all makes me feel high as a kite.
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me just how eccentric I am. But what is it they think they see? Is it my innate curiosity to always want to learn new things? My transparency? That’s all I know to be. When I’m conflicted or confused, I sneak off to spend time with Jah. The Buddha. Jesus. My Consciousness. My Muse. There’s a long streak of fire deep down in me to live free. Like the incense I burn when I’m searching for peace. I crave it. Long for it. And haters. You say I’m fickle? In order to get to know me (a little), you need to get to know me. A little.
The position of my eccentricity is simple: Daily, I self-medicate with new words, new potions. I flow with the Universe. I’m easy. Slow motion. I love as hard as I work. I work as hard as I love. I don’t look for signs from above. I make the signs myself, to be sure of—my passion about life (when it doesn’t pose me strife). I'm a natural, vegan, chemical-free environmentalist with a dry sense of humor. I have a monotone laugh and my heart couldn’t be truer. True-her: I am earth. I am wind. I am fire. I am water. I am d. Always and all ways—I am she.
I do not always feel eccentric. But I always keep it real. I’m authentic. Folk say I have an addiction. They say it’s my affliction. I cheat on my family every day with words, puzzles, and readers who make predictions. I’m addicted to nouns, adjectives, verbs and other words. I’ll skip celebrations and vacations to spend time with books, essays, and my higher vibrations. I've starved myself on language; binged on literature, poetry, and writing. My veins bleed ink onto the notebook pages in which I write—it makes me feel mighty. My fingertips blister from the puzzle pieces called letters on laptop keyboards that I embroider into words. I’m a nerd. I need reprieve. So I get my pencil and I WRITE for the very reason I breathe.
Pantoum
I'm About to Be Late - delmetria millener
I'm about to be late
My students can't wait
To drill me about grades
Thought they had it made
My students can't wait
Didn't rise to the task
Thought they had it made
Now they finish last
Thought they had it made
To drill me about grades
Now they finish last
I'm about to be late
I'm about to be late
My students can't wait
To drill me about grades
Thought they had it made
My students can't wait
Didn't rise to the task
Thought they had it made
Now they finish last
Thought they had it made
To drill me about grades
Now they finish last
I'm about to be late
Haiku
Rhythm - delmetria millener
You beat, I belt…song
We soar, we roar…breathe…music
We reached our peak...jammed
You beat, I belt…song
We soar, we roar…breathe…music
We reached our peak...jammed
Anaphora
I Am! - delmetria millener
I am Buddhist JUST because the world says no.
I am vegan JUST because the world says no.
I am naturally nappy JUST because the world says no.
I am chemical-free JUST because the world says no.
I am smart as expletive JUST because the world says no.
I am freelance, serial-entrepreneur JUST because the world says no.
I am eccentric JUST because the world says no.
I am free to do me JUST because the world says no.
I am with short, beige and not-quite-right instead of tall, dark and well-put-together JUST because the world says no.
I EXIST, JUST because the world says no.
Spirit-raping church-going, meat-eating, perm-wearing, pill-popping, no mind of your own follow the leader playing, dead-end job-having, uncultured, chains-on-the-brain shackled, bland coffee with no cream, vanilla with no swirl eating—YOU exist because I say, no.
I am Buddhist JUST because the world says no.
I am vegan JUST because the world says no.
I am naturally nappy JUST because the world says no.
I am chemical-free JUST because the world says no.
I am smart as expletive JUST because the world says no.
I am freelance, serial-entrepreneur JUST because the world says no.
I am eccentric JUST because the world says no.
I am free to do me JUST because the world says no.
I am with short, beige and not-quite-right instead of tall, dark and well-put-together JUST because the world says no.
I EXIST, JUST because the world says no.
Spirit-raping church-going, meat-eating, perm-wearing, pill-popping, no mind of your own follow the leader playing, dead-end job-having, uncultured, chains-on-the-brain shackled, bland coffee with no cream, vanilla with no swirl eating—YOU exist because I say, no.
Mood
A Sunday Picnic - delmetria millener
The cool breeze wraps itself around our golden faces
Fresh fruit in our basket from so many exotic places
We lay out on our blanket talking, laughing, thinking
The gentle rock of the day that soothes as we fall asleep
Still talking, laughing--only now we're dreaming
Wake up and sniff the air: ripe berries, melons and honeysuckle waft
Close our eyes, choose one. Bite. Juices running, tickling, made us laugh
The sweet taste of watermelon and berries cause a tango in my mouth
Suddenly I feel a sting. It's a small army of ants attacking us, OUCH!
Shoo them, gently but firm, then lean back against the tree, full as ticks
Our picnic basket empty from the attack we imposed, we're going to be sick
From today's sermon we engage in deep conversation
We discuss it all: the past, the present, the future and especially, the plight of our nation
The sun starts to dip, it's an orange dissolving into the shimmering lake
It's time to pack our picnic stuff, back at home, we reflect on such an easy, breezy picnic date
The cool breeze wraps itself around our golden faces
Fresh fruit in our basket from so many exotic places
We lay out on our blanket talking, laughing, thinking
The gentle rock of the day that soothes as we fall asleep
Still talking, laughing--only now we're dreaming
Wake up and sniff the air: ripe berries, melons and honeysuckle waft
Close our eyes, choose one. Bite. Juices running, tickling, made us laugh
The sweet taste of watermelon and berries cause a tango in my mouth
Suddenly I feel a sting. It's a small army of ants attacking us, OUCH!
Shoo them, gently but firm, then lean back against the tree, full as ticks
Our picnic basket empty from the attack we imposed, we're going to be sick
From today's sermon we engage in deep conversation
We discuss it all: the past, the present, the future and especially, the plight of our nation
The sun starts to dip, it's an orange dissolving into the shimmering lake
It's time to pack our picnic stuff, back at home, we reflect on such an easy, breezy picnic date
Ballad
Unbreak My Heart - Toni Braxton
Don't leave me in all this pain
Don't leave me out in the rain
Come back and bring back my smile
Come and take these tears away
I need your arms to hold me now
The nights are so unkind
Bring back those nights when I held you beside me
Un-break my heart
Say you'll love me again
Undo this hurt you caused
When you walked out the door
And walked out of my life
Un-cry these tears
I cried so many nights
Un-break my heart
My heart
Take back that sad word good-bye
Bring back the joy to my life
Don't leave me here with these tears
Come and kiss this pain away
I can't forget the day you left
Time is so unkind
And life is so cruel without you here beside me
Don't leave me in all this pain
Don't leave me out in the rain
Come back and bring back my smile
Come and take these tears away
I need your arms to hold me now
The nights are so unkind
Bring back those nights when I held you beside me
Un-break my heart
Say you'll love me again
Undo this hurt you caused
When you walked out the door
And walked out of my life
Un-cry these tears
I cried so many nights
Un-break my heart
My heart
Take back that sad word good-bye
Bring back the joy to my life
Don't leave me here with these tears
Come and kiss this pain away
I can't forget the day you left
Time is so unkind
And life is so cruel without you here beside me
Acrostic
Rainstorm (by Anonymous)
Raindrops drip drop on my shoes
And more drops fall in ones and twos
I think of all my friends inside
Not me, I think, I shall not hide
Stormy weather makes me run
To puddles outside, so much fun
On rainy days, I'll always be
Running around for all to see
Mud and splashes cover me!
Raindrops drip drop on my shoes
And more drops fall in ones and twos
I think of all my friends inside
Not me, I think, I shall not hide
Stormy weather makes me run
To puddles outside, so much fun
On rainy days, I'll always be
Running around for all to see
Mud and splashes cover me!
Ghazal (pronounced "guzzle")
Scorned Ghazal - delmetria millener
A forbidden mourn. You walk away from my heart. I feel scorned.
A hidden norm. Our parting was such sweet sorrow. Until tomorrow, you leave me real scorned.
Our bond was trusted. We were such a nice pair. For each other, we were born.
We laughed, we hugged, we kissed, and loved, until wee hours of the morn. Tell me. Ever left her scorned?
I don’t want us to be over. This cannot be our end. With my love you were adorned.
I want us to be more than friends. Don’t leave me torn—I’m a woman sir. Scorned!
Do you ever think about us? My heart feels withered. Worn. I do all the time and it leaves me forlorn.
Don’t you think we’re worth the fuss? I’m crushed like leaves. I don’t want to be scorned.
Your rejection feels almost offensive. Vulgar. A soul-tearing thorn.
My love for you is relentless. Strong. Everlasting. But you leave me very scorned.
— delmetria millener, author of the Teen Writer’s Reflection Journal and Identity Theft: In Search of Psychiatric Balance
A forbidden mourn. You walk away from my heart. I feel scorned.
A hidden norm. Our parting was such sweet sorrow. Until tomorrow, you leave me real scorned.
Our bond was trusted. We were such a nice pair. For each other, we were born.
We laughed, we hugged, we kissed, and loved, until wee hours of the morn. Tell me. Ever left her scorned?
I don’t want us to be over. This cannot be our end. With my love you were adorned.
I want us to be more than friends. Don’t leave me torn—I’m a woman sir. Scorned!
Do you ever think about us? My heart feels withered. Worn. I do all the time and it leaves me forlorn.
Don’t you think we’re worth the fuss? I’m crushed like leaves. I don’t want to be scorned.
Your rejection feels almost offensive. Vulgar. A soul-tearing thorn.
My love for you is relentless. Strong. Everlasting. But you leave me very scorned.
— delmetria millener, author of the Teen Writer’s Reflection Journal and Identity Theft: In Search of Psychiatric Balance
Sonnet
Sonnet 18 - Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st;
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Sonnet 73 - William Shakespeare
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth steal away,
Death’s second self, which seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Sunflower No. 2 - June Jordan
Supposing we could just go on and on as two
voracious in the days apart as well as when
we side by side (the many ways we do
that) well! I would consider then
perfection possible, or else worthwhile
to think about. Which is to say
I guess the costs of long term tend to pile
up, block and complicate, erase away
the accidental, temporary, near
thing/pulsebeat promises one makes
because the chance, the easy new, is there
in front of you. But still, perfection takes
some sacrifice of falling stars for rare.
And there are stars, but none of you, to spare.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st;
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Sonnet 73 - William Shakespeare
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth steal away,
Death’s second self, which seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Sunflower No. 2 - June Jordan
Supposing we could just go on and on as two
voracious in the days apart as well as when
we side by side (the many ways we do
that) well! I would consider then
perfection possible, or else worthwhile
to think about. Which is to say
I guess the costs of long term tend to pile
up, block and complicate, erase away
the accidental, temporary, near
thing/pulsebeat promises one makes
because the chance, the easy new, is there
in front of you. But still, perfection takes
some sacrifice of falling stars for rare.
And there are stars, but none of you, to spare.
Metaphor or Conceit
My Lyrical Life by Kenneth High (English I Pre-AP)
My life is made of lyrics
I got a voice and everyone should hear it
Fame is a ladder I climb
I swear I feel I'm getting near it
My mind is a cluttered mess
I need to loosen up and clear it
I wear a crown of problems
And I've got no way to solve them.
These haters are demons
I don't want their crap so I tellem keep walking
Imma never give it up
Because God says that this is my calling
And easily without doubt
I don't ever plan on falling.
I grew up off these streets
My care and love was torn to pieces
My life was a bag of demons
So I turned around and gave my life to Jesus.
My flow is pepper
I'm hot. I spit spice.
My life is made of lyrics
And Rhythm And Prose is my life.
My life is made of lyrics
I got a voice and everyone should hear it
Fame is a ladder I climb
I swear I feel I'm getting near it
My mind is a cluttered mess
I need to loosen up and clear it
I wear a crown of problems
And I've got no way to solve them.
These haters are demons
I don't want their crap so I tellem keep walking
Imma never give it up
Because God says that this is my calling
And easily without doubt
I don't ever plan on falling.
I grew up off these streets
My care and love was torn to pieces
My life was a bag of demons
So I turned around and gave my life to Jesus.
My flow is pepper
I'm hot. I spit spice.
My life is made of lyrics
And Rhythm And Prose is my life.
Respiration by Mos Def
1 The new moon rode high in the crown of the metropolis
Shinin', like who one top of this?
People was tusslin', arguin' and bustlin'
Gangstaz of Gotham hardcore hustlin' ...
The cops and the robbers, they both partners, they all heartless
5 With no conscience, back streets stay darkened
Where unbeliever hearts stay hardened ...
Like city lights stay throbbin'
You either make a way or stay sobbin', the shiny apple
Is bruised but sweet and if you choose to eat
10 You could lose your teeth, many crews retreat
Nightly news repeat, who got shot down and locked down
Spotlight to savages, NADSDAQ averages
My narrative, rose to explain this existence
Amidst the harbor lights which remain in the distance
15 So much on my mind that I can't recline
Blastin' holes in the night till she bled sunshine
Breathe in, inhale vapors from bright stars that shine
Breathe out, we smoke retrace the skyline
Heard the bass ride out like an ancient mating call
20 I can't take it y'all, I can feel the city breathin'
Chest heavin', against the flesh of the evening
Sigh before we die like the last train leavin' ...
1 The new moon rode high in the crown of the metropolis
Shinin', like who one top of this?
People was tusslin', arguin' and bustlin'
Gangstaz of Gotham hardcore hustlin' ...
The cops and the robbers, they both partners, they all heartless
5 With no conscience, back streets stay darkened
Where unbeliever hearts stay hardened ...
Like city lights stay throbbin'
You either make a way or stay sobbin', the shiny apple
Is bruised but sweet and if you choose to eat
10 You could lose your teeth, many crews retreat
Nightly news repeat, who got shot down and locked down
Spotlight to savages, NADSDAQ averages
My narrative, rose to explain this existence
Amidst the harbor lights which remain in the distance
15 So much on my mind that I can't recline
Blastin' holes in the night till she bled sunshine
Breathe in, inhale vapors from bright stars that shine
Breathe out, we smoke retrace the skyline
Heard the bass ride out like an ancient mating call
20 I can't take it y'all, I can feel the city breathin'
Chest heavin', against the flesh of the evening
Sigh before we die like the last train leavin' ...
Ekphrastic
She is My Muse
Unadulterated food of the gods …Unaffected by the woes of humanity …statuesque like a goddess ... brown eyes that glow like a vampire’s, day or night ...the strength of a lioness ... body with the suaveness of a jaguar ... unnerving mind of an elephant ... the power of her tongue that spews truth, wisdom …captivating lips that ease into a full, crooked smirk, then transform into a full beam of light ...intelligence ...wit ...compassion ...limitless sensuality and talent ...a woman’s only friend …the elegant class and charm of a debutante …it’s not science ...it’s her formula ...she’s black reign …she’s every man’s muse …she’s every woman’s challenge …the heaven’s seek her advice …Satan seeks her savvy …she’s unadulterated food of the gods …unaffected by the woes of humanity …we bow to her …we respect her …we want to live her …experience her …be loved by her …we want to be…her.
©2016 by dm writing as TJ
Unadulterated food of the gods …Unaffected by the woes of humanity …statuesque like a goddess ... brown eyes that glow like a vampire’s, day or night ...the strength of a lioness ... body with the suaveness of a jaguar ... unnerving mind of an elephant ... the power of her tongue that spews truth, wisdom …captivating lips that ease into a full, crooked smirk, then transform into a full beam of light ...intelligence ...wit ...compassion ...limitless sensuality and talent ...a woman’s only friend …the elegant class and charm of a debutante …it’s not science ...it’s her formula ...she’s black reign …she’s every man’s muse …she’s every woman’s challenge …the heaven’s seek her advice …Satan seeks her savvy …she’s unadulterated food of the gods …unaffected by the woes of humanity …we bow to her …we respect her …we want to live her …experience her …be loved by her …we want to be…her.
©2016 by dm writing as TJ
Epistolary
Letters to N.Y. by Elizabeth Bishop
In your next letter I wish you’d say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays, and after the plays
what other pleasures you’re pursuing:
taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road goes round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl
In your next letter I wish you’d say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays, and after the plays
what other pleasures you’re pursuing:
taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road goes round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl
Limerick
By Monica Sharman
Relentless, insatiable deadlines!
This manuscript's still full of red lines.
First I'll sweat through the edits
and check all the credits
then chill with my favorite red wine
Relentless, insatiable deadlines!
This manuscript's still full of red lines.
First I'll sweat through the edits
and check all the credits
then chill with my favorite red wine
Golden Shovel
Note:
- Take a line (or lines) from a poem you admire.
- Use each word in the line (or lines) as an end word in your poem.
- Keep the end words in order.
- Give credit to the poet who originally wrote the line (or lines).
- The new poem does not have to be about the same subject as the poem that offers the end words.
By Terrance Hayes
This poem is in the style of Gwendolyn Brooks' "We Real Cool." Each bolded word below is a line from the poem that you can read here.
I. 1981
When I am so small Da’s sock covers my arm, we
cruise at twilight until we find the place the real
men lean, bloodshot and translucent with cool.
His smile is a gold-plated incantation as we
drift by women on bar stools, with nothing left
in them but approachlessness. This is a school
I do not know yet. But the cue sticks mean we
are rubbed by light, smooth as wood, the lurk
of smoke thinned to song. We won’t be out late.
Standing in the middle of the street last night we
watched the moonlit lawns and a neighbor strike
his son in the face. A shadow knocked straight
Da promised to leave me everything: the shovel we
used to bury the dog, the words he loved to sing
his rusted pistol, his squeaky Bible, his sin.
The boy’s sneakers were light on the road. We
watched him run to us looking wounded and thin.
He’d been caught lying or drinking his father’s gin.
He’d been defending his ma, trying to be a man. We
stood in the road, and my father talked about jazz,
how sometimes a tune is born of outrage. By June
the boy would be locked upstate. That night we
got down on our knees in my room. If I should die
before I wake. Da said to me, it will be too soon.
This poem is in the style of Gwendolyn Brooks' "We Real Cool." Each bolded word below is a line from the poem that you can read here.
I. 1981
When I am so small Da’s sock covers my arm, we
cruise at twilight until we find the place the real
men lean, bloodshot and translucent with cool.
His smile is a gold-plated incantation as we
drift by women on bar stools, with nothing left
in them but approachlessness. This is a school
I do not know yet. But the cue sticks mean we
are rubbed by light, smooth as wood, the lurk
of smoke thinned to song. We won’t be out late.
Standing in the middle of the street last night we
watched the moonlit lawns and a neighbor strike
his son in the face. A shadow knocked straight
Da promised to leave me everything: the shovel we
used to bury the dog, the words he loved to sing
his rusted pistol, his squeaky Bible, his sin.
The boy’s sneakers were light on the road. We
watched him run to us looking wounded and thin.
He’d been caught lying or drinking his father’s gin.
He’d been defending his ma, trying to be a man. We
stood in the road, and my father talked about jazz,
how sometimes a tune is born of outrage. By June
the boy would be locked upstate. That night we
got down on our knees in my room. If I should die
before I wake. Da said to me, it will be too soon.