December 0

Blog Archive

Thu, 24.09.2009

THE SEEKER by Abmos Zu-Bolton II.

blackjack moses
returning from the war,
returned to seek the fugitive freedom which hides in bright & open light,

talks with tangents tied to his tongue:
nothing is believable, the light lies, at least in this reality,
for the same old songs are sung.

blackjack hates
the fact that he cannot completely hate
& in this there is rage.
he cannot face the night the moon the stars
seem to plot against him,
there are very few shadows to hide in, & all the faces frown.
but for blackjack
there is no fear here, & sleep is possible.

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Thu, 24.09.2009

LOVE YOUR ENEMY by Yusef Iman.

brought here in slave ships and pitched overboard.
Love your enemy
language taken away, culture taken away
Love your enemy
work from sun up to sun down
Love your enemy
Last hired first fired
Love your enemy
Rape your mother
Love your enemy
Lynch your father
Love your enemy
Bomb your churches
Love your enemy
Kill your children
Love your enemy
Forced to fight his Wars
Love your enemy
Pay the highest rent
Love your enemy
Sell you rotten food
Love your enemy
Forced to live in slums
Love your enemy
Dilapidated schools
Love your enemy
Puts you in jail
Love your enemy
Bitt

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Thu, 24.09.2009

AIN’T NO SPRING CHICKEN by Abmos Zu-Bolton II.

I am as old as sin quiet as it’s kept
As ancient as an exorcism from paradise
I used to swing by my feet,
make a dance out of trees catching me,
I used to stand on my hands and throw huge rocks
with the bow of my legs
I used to outrun daylight
home to a woman dressed in nightfall
older than the blues older than the grace of sitting years
later on the porch of a rocking chair poem
I used to turn my eyes insideout
and cure a headache,
in a time before color 3D TV
in a time before footprints on the moon
in a time before the wheel

-2-

let me tell you of a time long befor

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New Poem Each Day

Poetry Corner

I have just seen a most beautiful thing Slim and still Against a gold, gold sky, A straight black cypress, Sensitive, Exquisite, A black finger Pointing upwards. Why, beautiful still finger, are you black? And why are you... THE BLACK FINGER by Angelina Weld Grimke’.
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