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[blackpoetry]

The Things in Black Men's Closets

on the top shelf of the closet is the hat my father wears on special occasions it rests next to the large jar he saves pennies in his head is always bare when i see him walking in the street i once sat in his bedroom watching him search between sweaters and suits looking for something missing a tie perhaps then he stopped and slowly walked to the closet took the hat from the shelf i sat on the bed studying his back waiting for him to turn and tell me who died

Written by E. Ethelbert Miller Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/eemiller.html

[blackpoetry]

The Colorist

God is an Indian---He loves gay color so... Red, yellow, purple, oranges and blue Are in the sky at the sunset, at the sunrise, too. God is Irish--He likes green color best. All the trees and grasses in green garments oft-times dress. God is Saxon, stern and cold. For snow is white and ice is cold. The downy clouds are white. And a White moon peeks when lovers pledge their troth. Cotton is white and snowy lambkin's fleece.

God is African---for night is robed in black. The twinkling stars are black men's eyes, The black clouds, tempests tell. While little seeds of flowers birthed are Tans and browns and black....

Written by Anita Scott Coleman Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/anitacoleman.html

[blackpoetry]

The Perfect Ease of Grain

The perfect ease of grain Time enough to spill The flavor of a woman carried through the rain. Honey-talk tongues Down home dreams A rushed by shapely prayer. Evening lips part to hush Questions raised at dawn. The melon yields another slice. Fingers understand. Ecstasy becomes us all. Red cherries become jam. Deep juvenile sleep A whistle trace White shorelines in green air. Welcome doors held open When goodbye is "So long." The perfect poise of grain Time enough to spill The flavor of a woman remembered on a train. Written by Toni Morrison

Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/tonimorrison.html

[blackpoetry]

the candy lady

On Fridays, our grandfather takes us to the candy lady's house, even though our grandmother worries he's going to be the cause of our teeth rotting right out of our heads. But my grandfather just laughs, makes us open our mouths to show the strong Irby teeth we've inherited from his side of the family. The three of us stand there, our mouths open wide, strong white teeth inside, and my grandmother has to nod, has to say, They're lucky before sending us on our way. The candy lady's small living room is filled with shelves and shelves of chocolate bars and gumdrops, Good & Plenty and Jujubes, Moon Pies and Necco Wafers, lollipops and long red licorice strings. So much candy that it's hard to choose until our grandfather says, Get what you want but I'm getting myself some ice cream. Then the candy lady, who is gray-haired and never smiles, disappears into another room and returns a few minutes later with a wafer cone, pale yellow lemon-chiffon ice cream dripping from it. Outside, even this late in the afternoon, the sun is beating down and the idea of lemon-chiffon ice cream cooling us, even for a few minutes, makes us all start saying at once-Me, too, Daddy. Me, too, Daddy. Me, too. The walk home from the candy lady's house is a quiet one except for the sound of melting ice cream being slurped up fast, before it slides past our wrists, on down our arms and onto the hot, dry road.

Written by Jacqueline Woodson Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/jacquelinewoodson.html

[blackpoetry]

WE WRITE

Our hands splay toward some Hazy & far-flung happiness & we cleave open for some fragile Non-evil, no matter how brief: To touch, To meet, To human Again; a scatter of non-particular Wonders to be revisited. All these unutterable blessings we forfeited- Hugs, hope, heart- Finally beloved by all & belittled by none. It will take a whole fleet Of words to return. * * * Then comes the thrust of our throats: There is no more revenge We shall boast, no matter How heavily bladed in our fingers. Change is made of choices, & choices are made of character. Cling to whatever brings us to begin, Even if it is formless as foam. We keep hoping For no reason at all. For every reason we share.

It is loss, as well as logic, When we cry: May those laid to rest never leave us,         But lead us to rise. We lived. & that was more than we asked for. We, too, must howl ourselves ablaze. * * * We write Because you might listen. We write because We are lost & lonely, & you, like us, Are looking & learning.

Written by Amanda Gorman Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/amandagorman.html

[blackpoetry]

Granny Granny Please Comb My Hair

Granny Granny please comb my hair you always take your time you always take such care

You put me on a cushion between your knees you rub a little coconut oil parting gentle as a breeze

Mummy Mummy she's always in a hurry-hurry rush she pulls my hair sometimes she tugs

But Granny you have all the time in the world and when you're finished you always turn my head and say, 'Now who's a nice girl?'

Written by Grace Nichols Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/gracenichols.html

[blackpoetry]

such a strong word

I HATE EVERY SINGLE FACE I SEE EVERYONE SITTING NEXT TO ME EVERY FACE STARING BACK AT ME I HATE MY EYES FOR BEING SO HEAVY

I HATE THE WAY THEY PRETEND UNTIL THEY THINK THEY'VE GOTTEN IN AND THEN ALL THE PRETENDING ENDS AND COMFORT, LAZINESS AND LACK OF FORESIGHT BEGINS

I HATE THE WAY THEY LOOK ACTING IMPORTANT I HATE THE WAY THEY KNOW NOTHING AT ALL AND ACT LIKE THEY KNOW IT ALL I HATE THE WAY THAT I DESPISE THE LOOK IN THEIR EYES I HATE HOW MY HEART CRIES AND I HAVE NO ONE TO TELL

I HATE BEING LIKE A MACHINE I HATE FEELING ALL MEAN I HATE FEELING DIRTY BUT I CAN'T COME CLEAN

I HATE THEM STANDING NEXT TO ME SHADOWING MY EVERY MOVE

I HATE THE WAY THEIR VOICES SOUND I HATE SEEING THE SAME FACES I HATE THE WAY THEY TRAIL ME TO EVERY PLACE I HATE THEM TAKING UP SPACE

I HATE CARING SO MUCH WHEN NO ONE SEEMS TO CARE I HATE SEEING DOLLAR SIGNS EVERYWHERE I HATE THAT I HAVE NO MORE PATIENCE TO SPARE I HATE THAT SHIT AIN'T FAIR

. . .

I HATE ALL THESE SOUNDS IN MY HEAD I DON'T WANNA DIE I HATE FEELING DEAD THIS FEELING OF DREAD I DREAD THE FEELING I HATE ALL THE THINGS UNSAID I HATE JUST DEALING

I'M EXHAUSTED BUT I CAN'T SLEEP I HATE FEELING THIS HATE SO DEEP

I JUST WANNA SMILE BUT I HATE BEING FAKE FEELING LIKE I'M ABOUT TO BREAK I HATE PEOPLE THAT ONLY SEE ME AS CAKE TRY TO CAKE UP ON ME, NOW THAT'S A MISTAKE THEY'RE ALL SNAKES IN ONE WAY OR ANOTHER

Written by Alicia Keys Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/aliciakeys.html

[blackpoetry]

Untitled #2 (for MTV Black History Month 2001)

Can't do that dance anymore It doesn't fit my size, never did I'm too big to do that dance Always was too pretty Won't shuck and jive Not gonna coon Not I Too many ancestors' tear stains on my face Too many claps and hallelujahs under my belt Not for anybody's enjoyment Not for anybody's money Green or long Pound or euro Not for you Not I I don't have time to do that dance There aren't libraries in my baby's school Playgrounds filled with glass Teachers who are waiting for me to show up And I will . on time

You won't catch me doing that dance Not in this honey dwelling I live here My mother and God designed this for me Just enough cinnamon (blow a kiss) Just enough nutmeg (blow a kiss) Stirred me in a pot Listened for the timing bell Ring and I am ready Bite me when I'm cool

Bite me again when I'm not Bite me all you want because I've got more and some more and some more And I will not do that dance Not for you Not for you Too much to do that dance And I am way too pretty

Written by Jill Scott Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/jillscott.html

[blackpoetry]

Bills Dollar bills do not fly over distances         like bright green birds         perched momentarily         to mimic a song. Dollars float down         like leaves         not far from trees. My father squeezed dollar bills in a wallet thick with IDs and papers to give the appearance of wealth, a flock of green birds rustling inside to get out for some extravagance (Baldwin's ice cream for each of us!), but inside were dry leaves pressed together cramped as the pages of the Bible he did not need to read to pray with his tight fists. Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/angelajackson.html

[blackpoetry]

God don't like ugly. And He ain't too fond of pretty. Is what this world is made of. But it sure is pretty as my child the way the trees stand alone like the cheese in a child's song. And do they all go back home? To the earth. To blue heaven, wide open as the Conqueror's eyes. Everywhere above, blue eye where used to be soft berries' stain, the spirit of crushed blue flowers. Some people who could fly flew back from the whip and the shackle to tell the story of kidnap-no-ransom, high hell-ships, all weeping for fields, all enduring until they flew. Do I go back home with Miss Boney MaRoney or with my wishbone mended And come true?

Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/angelajackson.html

[blackpoetry]

FOR FRECKLE-FACED GERALD

Now you take ol Rufus. He beat drums, was free and funky under the arms, fucked white girls, jumped off a bridge (and thought nothing of the sacrilege), he copped out-and he was over twenty-one.

Take Gerald. Sixteen years hadn't even done a good job on his voice. He didn't even know how to talk tough, or how to hide the glow of life before he was thrown in as "pigmeat" for the buzzards to eat.

Gerald, who had no memory or hope of copper hot lips- of firm upthrusting thighs to reinforce his flow, let tall walls and buzzards change the course of his river from south to north.

(No safety in numbers, like back on the block: two's aplenty. three? definitely not. four? "you're all muslims." five? "you were planning a race riot." plus, Gerald could never quite win with his precise speech and innocent grin the trust and fists of the young black cats.)

Gerald, sun-kissed ten thousand times on the nose and cheeks, didn't stand a chance, didn't even know that the loss of his balls had been plotted years in advance by wiser and bigger buzzards than those who now hover above his track and at night light upon his back. Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/etheridgeknight.html

[blackpoetry]

FOR BLACK POETS WHO THINK OF SUICIDE

Black Poets should live-not leap From steel bridges (like the white boys do). Black Poets should live-not lay Their necks on railroad tracks (like the white boys do). Black Poets should seek-but not search too much In sweet dark caves, nor hunt for snipe Down psychic trails (like the white boys do).

For Black Poets belong to Black People. Are The Flutes of Black Lovers. Are The Organs of Black Sorrows. Are The Trumpets of Black Warriors. Let All Black Poets die as Trumpets, And be buried in the dust of marching feet. Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/etheridgeknight.html

[blackpoetry]

When Black Men Drown Their Daughters

When black, men drown. They spend their whole lifetimes justifying the gall of springing the trap, the inconvenience of slouched denim, of coupling beyond romance or aim. All the while, the rising murk edges toward their chins. Hurriedly, someone crafts another scientific tome, a giddy exploration of the curious dysfunction identifying black men first as possible, then as necessary. Elegant equations succumb to a river that blurs quotient and theory, rendering them unreadable, and the overwhelm easily disappears the men, their wiry heads glistening, then gulped. All that's left is the fathers' last wisdom, soaked wreckage on silver: Girl, that water ain't nothing but wet. I'm gon' be alright.

When black men drown, their daughters turn to their mothers and ask What should I do with this misnamed shiver in my left shoulder? How should I dress in public? They are weary of standing at the shore, hands shading their eyes, trying to make out their own fathers among the thousands bobbing in the current. The mothers mumble and point to any flailing that seems familiar. Mostly, they're wrong. Buoyed by church moans and comfort food of meat and cream, the daughters try on other names that sound oddly broken when pressed against the dank syllables of the fathers'. Drained, with just forward in mind, they walk using the hip of only one parent. They scratch in their sleep. Black water wells up in the wound.

When black men drown, their daughters are fascinated with the politics of water, how gorgeously a surface breaks to receive, how it weeps so sanely shut. And the thrashing of hands, shrieking of names: I was Otis, I was Willie Earl, they called me Catfish. Obsessed by the waltzing of tides, the daughters remember their fathers-the scorch of beard electrifying the once-in-a-while kiss, the welts in thick arms, eyes wearied with so many of the same days wedged behind them. When black men drown, their daughters memorize all the steps involved in the deluge. They know how long it takes for a weakened man to dissolve. A muted light, in the shape of a little girl, used to be enough to light a daddy's way home.

When black men drown, their daughters drag the water's floor with rotting nets, pull in whatever still breathes. They insist their still-dripping daddies sit down for cups of insanely sweetened tea, sniffs of rotgut, tangled dinners based on improbable swine. The girls hope to reacquaint their drowned fathers with the concept of body, but outlines slosh in drift and retreat. The men can't get dry. Parched, they scrub flooded hollows and weep for water to give them name and measure as mere blood once did. Knocking over those spindly-legged dinette chairs, they interrupt the failed feast and mutter Baby girl, gotta go, baby gotta go, their eyes misted with their own murders. Grabbing their girls, they spit out love in reverse and stumble toward the banks of some river.

When black men drown their daughters, the rash act is the only plausible response to the brain's tenacious mouth and its dare: Yes, yes, open your ashed hands and release that wingless child. Note the arc of the sun-drenched nosedive, the first syllable of the child's name unwilling from the man's mouth, the melody of billow that begins as blessed clutch. Someone crouching inside the father waits impatiently for the shutting, the lethargic envelop, and wonders if the daughter's wide and realizing eye will ever close to loose him. It never will, and the man and his child and the daughter and her father gaze calmly into the wrecked science of each other's lives. The sun struggles to spit a perfect gold upon the quieting splash. The river pulses stylish circles of its filth around the swallow. Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/patriciasmith.html

[blackpoetry]

When I Die

when i die i hope no one who ever hurt me cries and if they cry i hope their eyes fall out and a million maggots that had made up their brains crawl from the empty holes and devour the flesh that covered the evil that passed itself off as a person that i probably tried to love Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/nikkigiovanni.html

[blackpoetry]

is it insane?

Is it insane? My life's in your love's hands Is it insane? How you've got a hold on me.

When you're near all of me trembles slightest touch and I'm no good and when you walk out of my door I want you more.

Is it insane? I was the one who called them fools for being blinded by love now it's me who can't break free.

Even though you're with her I still feel you in me and I know when you kiss her you're wishing that it was me.

Is it insane? Thought you'd be my king I'd be your queen it would be complete with a wedding ring was that just me imagining?

Now I cry like I'm your widow without you I can't contain this is my soul's last refrain and you're the one that I blame.

She can have you now I just want to fade away sacrifice my life to relieve this pain so much pain.

Lord! Take away the pain!!

Is it insane? Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/aliciakeys.html

[blackpoetry]

THE UNORDINARY WORLD

The worst is over, Depending on who you ask. This time, we are alone, Not by command, But because all we've ever desired Is a second of our own, To be still & seeing, Remote but non-distant, Like a moon orbiting The globe it's most fond of.

Now that the best has begun, Depending on who you ask, We will be no worm, Shrinking from all that shines. Our future is a sea Flooded with sun, Our souls, so solar & soldiering. There is a cut of that burning in us all. Who are we, if not What we make of the dark. Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/amandagorman.html

[blackpoetry]

For Poets

Stay beautiful but don't stay down underground too long Dont turn into a mole or a worm or a root or a stone Come on out into the sunlight Breathe in trees Knock out mountains Commune with snakes & be the very hero of birds

Don't forget to poke your head up & blink Think Walk all around Swim upstream

Dont forget to fly Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/alyoung.html