"A Well-Worn Story" by Dorothy Parker

In April, in April,
My one love came along,
And I ran the slope of my high hill
To follow a thread of song.

His eyes were as hard as porphyry
With looking on cruel lands;
His voice went slipping over me
Like terrible silver hands.

Together we trod the secret lane
And walked the muttering town.
I wore my heart like a wet, red stain
On the breast of a velvet gown.

In April, in April,
My love went whistling by,
And I stumbled here to my high hill
Along the way of a lie.

Now what should i do in this place
But sit and count the chimes,
And splash cold water on my face
And spoil a page with rhymes?

Bitterness

I listen to these poems

I watch the news

I listen to this music

I hear the conversation

And what I gain from them is bitterness

The taste not-so-sweet

The taste of the feet of marches upon protests

Upon Slave-dress

That bitter

I write a poem about whites, the blacks get bitter

A poem about blacks, the whites get bitter

A poem about gays, the straights get bitter

A poem about straights, the gays they shiver

A poem about Jews, anti-Semites cringe

A poem about terrorism, Muslims don’t win

A poem about abortion

A poem about slavery

A poem about melanin

No one will be pleased

Someone will take offense

And someone will hoot and holler in agreement but the problem will continue

Intolerance will exist

And your verse

And that slur

And your opinion is only bitterness

Like I said before no one will be pleased

See there will always be a minority

There will always be a bias against you

And yes it’s sad

And yes its cruel but that is human

That is nature

That is the world, sick as it is, we live in

Very few sweet things come of it

And your tongue tastes bitterness

I could write a poem about God

But bitter people will assume religion

I’m only spitting to bring to light your bitterness

See he’s the only sweet thing I’ve tasted and unbiased thing I’ve seen

And yes you can preach about how he hates

The whites for twisting his book

Hates the gays for loving same

Hates the people of other faiths and beliefs

You can preach about how he caused this bitterness

To swell inside you

And how you now have cause to be defiant

Mind you my dear persecuted girl

What are you persecuted for?

Your skin? Your orientation? Your religion? Your slavery?

We are all slaves to sin

But we tend to forget that part of the story

We tend to forget Adam and eve

We tend to neglect that God came down

That God dwelled among the crooks and gays

That God walked with prostitutes and slaves

And that God died for the White man’s hate

We focus on our issue

Make ourselves victims

Take that infertile soil and spread it across our tongue

Ingest it with our bread

And call ourselves righteous for having a cause

To “fight” for

See man, is not gracious

Man, is not accepting

Man, is not loving

Man is not God

And whoever your God might be

Just know I respect you but my God is greater

My God is creator

My persecution is temporary

And my burdens are light

My skin is black

My hair is naps

My faith is hated

But I know in my heart

And I taste on my tongue the sweetness of heaven

I am who God created me to be

And I know not everyone will accept me

I know not everyone will want to associate with me

Or allow me to certain human “rights”

Because of where I come from or what I look like

But my only rights come from God all mighty and

No man or woman can make me feel like

I am not loved

You are loved

You are accepted

You are beautiful and perfect and worth it

In the eyes of God our father

And he wants you to see you through his eyes

And believe me once you do

All the haters, all the politicians, all those against you

Won’t matter

Oddly enough you’ll learn to love them

And see them how God sees them

And let them not affect you

And the bitterness will slowly slip off your tongue

And the burden will be lifted away

And the scars will fade

Life won’t get easier, but it’ll sure taste a lot sweeter.

Slowly Drifting "January 2015"

Sandy shore
Shining stars
Rustling wind
Wave after wave

"slowly driftin"

City lights
fireworks
Sparkling reflection
Glistening ocean

slowly driftin

Sweet kisses
Serenades
Promenades
Promiscuity

slowly driftin

Perfect pleasure
Immeasurable
But irreplaceable
Dispensable

slowly driftin

and weve drifted.

The Average Black Girl

Ernestine Johnson Performs 'The Average Black Girl' on Arsenio Hall Show: http://youtu.be/2tN4Zulagb8

a stroke here

a smudge there

splashes of color 

that fade to gray

lively lilting--

legible

worn and wilting--

tangible

this Monet that is 

you and i

from afar we make sense 

up close we are a mess,

a Michelangelo gone mad,

a tarnished Sistine ceiling

where beauty peeks through

and through each moment spent with you

i am forever confused--

forever falling

flailing

fawning 

fearing over the fact

that you may not fully be mine

I find this composition

to be concerning,

this painting 

to be painful,

yet wonderful at the same time

I cannot complete what is not finished.

I cannot see what is not in focus.

Opinion on American Sniper

What i have learned in recent months is that
lives are disposable
millions die each day
and replaced by millions born
each life has a story
each person their own belief
individuals, but disposable ones

i refuse to believe that
refuse to support that in any way
but we all do it subconsciously
that is no crime

what is crime
what should be tried in court
and judged in the heavens
is the conscious effort to
devalue one's life

War does this.
a way for man-made entities to play games
back and forth
who can gain the most

oil,
money,
exceptionalism,
nationalism.
Completely selfish
We are all human
but war takes away humanity

and for some reason
people praise that
people praise a sniper
who killed iranian men
women and children
in the name of

what?

America, God, his family?
No as i read
as i heard
as i saw
it was fun
it was a game
it was the "time of his life"

sickening
absolutely so

to see a trigger as a toy
and a dead person as points gained
disgusting

war is horrid
war should be a last resort
and an event to be mourned

"Tus Pies" por Pablo Neruda

 

Cuando no puedo mirar tu cara

miro tus pies.

 

Tus pies de hueso arqueado,

tus pequeños pies duros.

 

Yo sé que te sostienen,

y que tu dulce peso

sobre ellos se levanta.

 

Tu cintura y tus pechos,

la duplicada púrpura de tus pezones,

la caja de tus ojos que recién han volado,

tu ancha boca de fruta,

tu cabellera roja,

pequeña torre mía.

 

Pero no amo tus pies

sino porque anduvieron

sobre la tierra y sobre

el viento y sobre el agua,

hasta que me encontraron.