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Philomena Sep 2021
I seek refuge from my womanhood I run into the dark corners of what is feminism and found no solace, equality does not belong to my skin, sisterhood extended out of pity as if any love could erase the past, at times i wonder if i am just a way to ease their shame, if the kindness is a payment to my ancestors whose screams i can still hear as their womanhood is defiled, i often get caught between hate and the truth neither make me feel any better, and both can't be denied ,
p.W.
Valentine Okolo Oct 2020
This is not poetry. They are my words handcuffed and carried away in black Marias by men who play gods with guns. And wearing the official uniforms given to them by those who rule, in order  to protect the people. Yet, they choose not to protect the people. Instead, they extort money from them and have them locked up on ******* up charges, written on statements of air.

This is not poetry. It is the rage of wasted years. Of youths, considered useless by a system which murders their visions. And buries them in a graveyard of lost dreams. A system which leaves the youths to wander in the wilderness of uncertainty, unsure of tomorrow. Because for many of them, tomorrow might never come.

This is not poetry. It is the cry of the molested and the *****. The detained, and the sold. And the forgotten faces of  those killed in regional genocides,  without names and buried in anonymous tombs. Those whose names might never ring a tune. Because they are poor. And the poor are the first to be forgotten in conflicts. Because they have no money and no fame attached to their names.

This is not poetry. It is a memorial. For those murdered at the Gates of Blood. For those who came before us. And  those who would come this way again. It is a memorial for all of us. For the living as well as the fallen. It is a collection of all our rage, hopes and fears. It is a memorial of what we are and what we choose not to be.

These are not pretty words. They are the truth. Unadulterated by years of fermented lies and deceit. These are the words whispered in married couples bedrooms. And shouted in bars by men who drown their troubles in bottles of drink. These are the words raised up in protests by those who refuse to be intimidated by bullets. And whose voices cannot be silenced.
Spoken Word Poetry on bad governance and police brutality
Frannie Feb 2021
Dear Morgan,

Hey Tink, I just want to be able to give you the world. I want to give you all of the opportunities I was never given. I want to hold you in my arms and protect you forever. I just want to see you smile every time I am in your presence. You, my dear are chosen, you are destined to be great. You will go on yo do incredible things, we just have to be strong and have patience. You are filled with such curiosity, creativity and compassion. My life before you was pretty simple, but life without you, I couldn’t imagine. I wish I could solve all of your problems before life throws them your way. But *** is impossible to avoid life’s obstacles so be sure to paint many rainbows for times when your skies are grey. Life is a balance of both good and bad and I witness this every day. I promise to always listen to you, even when I can’t take your pain away.

Love,
Mommy

          P.S. Be Brave, Be Fearless, Take Risk
Frannie Feb 2021
From the moment I first heard your heart beat, I knew my life would be forever changed!

From the moment I felt your little flutters, I knew that our connection had been perfectly arranged!

The first time I held you in my arms I felt a love like never before.

The first time my eyes connected with yours I knew that my heart had been chanced at the core.

You have shared my life in many ways that I would have never imagined.

You have helped me to refocus my hopes and dreams by helping me find my passion.

From the start, I was a frightened young girl just waiting to conquer the world.

But you have taught me how to be brave and how to take on the world unfurled.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe that God trusted me with someone so precious and pure.

But with my life, I promise to love you, nurture you and keep you secure.
Earl Cooper Feb 2019
beautiful as God’s favorite portrait,
as romantic as true loves first kiss,
why do you grow from earth and not my heart,
my love,
my sunshine,
my flower on Sunday morning.
Earl Cooper Feb 2019
very subtle,
the morning allows these past 8 hours to be welcomed with sunshine,
Oh....my precious sunshine,
dose thou not inhale it’s own magnificence,
the radiance of your glow,
to the warmth of your waves,
you are home,
in so many ways. .
Jason Harris Nov 2016
In the gray light of this late autumn morning
a young mother with holiday bags on her arms
and another set underneath her eyes, carries on
– assuming with positive intent – the American
tradition of some overweight man crawling
through chimneys. Stepping out unscathed by soot.
Her son, barely three and giddy with trust, hungrily
eats this up like a peaceful Thanksgiving meal.
These lies that we carry cautiously like gifts
and pass onto our children like genes who
then pass them onto his or her friends always
(in the end) come back unpleasantly to hurt us.

— The End —