Was a man named
Baby Juke
With roots in Rhymington
The village where chiren
Hollered at the moon
And wrote letters to messiah

Askin why
Dem rivers always ran dry
Thru Rhymington...

Askin why  
Tears be flowin
But still dem rivers be runnin dry
Thru Rhymington...

Baby Juke played a mean flute
Blowin cool water over
hearts achin
And spirits brakin
Thirsting for salvation...

When you're born
On Juke's side o' town

When the only life you know
Is brown, black
And blue

When daddy's dead
And broken
By thirty-two

And there's nothing Mammy can do
But cry
And try to carry on
In Rhymington

And there's nothing you can do
But cry
And play your flute
And try to blow your blues
Out of Rhymington

You become
Baby Juke

You become somebody
Every black boy and girl
Wanna be

You blaze a trail
Out of poverty

Out of Rhymington
To stardom
And notoriety

Only to find
Dem rivers run dry there too
For the likes of you

And brown, black
And blue
Is all you'll ever be

Even if you are a musical genius

Even if you are legendary

Like Baby Juke....

AYO

~ P

did you see
the lady from sierra leone
dancing on the sand...

ebony hands clapping
here;
ebony feet tapping
there;
bronzed and bare
daring your pious eyes
to stare...

crimson crown
blissfully wrapped
in grace and rapture
with matching lips,
a furtive kiss
away
from your skipping heart.

did you hear
the malipenga in her voice
spilling tribal promises
into your cup
of longing....

did you feel
her exotic muse,
timeless and pure,
daring you
to sin...

and curse those blessed hymns
that blinded you
from the secular...

and kept you holier than thou...

until now

ayo

~ P

This throwback dime
Was dropped on Hulu
by a dame with 80 or more
Revolutions around the Sun
Who happened to be black;
Many shades shy of spades,
Actually.

Race ambiguity
Was the theme of her storied life...

She played her rights card
White through Jim Crow
And segregation
Hiding in plain sight
On the lighter side of town
Where strange-fruit hung
On Sundays,
A stone's throw from
Her White Sulphur Baptist church.

But Laura Nelson's tongue
Called her out
Bleeding guilt and doubt
Through her Southern belle cover.

"You know I'm Black, right?"
She finally told the white vendor
Trying to peddle
A piece of Laura.

"Yeah and I'm Harriet Tubman."
Quipped Sally,
Cackling through missing teeth,
Beady eyes gleaming,
Eager to close the deal.

"I fixed it good with formalin.
Be worth a fortune
At the Clan Rally
In June..."

50 revolutions or so
Ago
A poorly-made woman
Found her soul.

And she's been loudly
Black
Ever since.

AYO

~ P

The dream.
The sky.
The Do or Die.
The zeal and muscle
And steel in your eyes.

Unyielding.

Resolute.

You've seen the future before
And, like air,
It feeds your fire...

Leaping from rem of slumber
Into odd chambers
Of the few
Who thrive in dark solitude;
Like thunder;
Like lightning bolts of disruption...

Convention shuddered.
Oaks of resistance
Snapped like toothpicks
After generations stuck
In teeth of the morbidly obtuse...

Yet they prevailed.

Where did your dream go?

What happened to 'do or die'?

What happened to that zeal and muscle
And steel in your eyes?

Your purse had no strings.

Your fingers had no rings.

Your palace in the sky had no King...


Only a dreamer.

AYO

~ P

The wooden stairs creaked
Then and now,
Crackling years later
In the scorched fury of flames
Fanned by fate.

Sometimes it's too late
To do more than we did
And tragic remorse
Fuels our resolve
To do better...

When next
Our aging and infirm beckon
from across the sea...

Heed the call
In haste
Lest the fires of fate
Fill that void of neglect...

Scorching the wooden stairs
That once creaked
As your happy hopeful feet
Hustled with furious refrain
To meet your aging and infirm...

Scorching the wooden home
Of cherished childhood treasures...

Scorching the happy hopeful face
That always smiled
Like sunshine...

To ashes.

~ P

I gots a bunch o' poems
On my iPhone;
This ode came to me
Last eve
As the moon raged
And I watched Quincy Jones
Wax nostalgic on Netflix...

Music, like poetry,
Is Art;
And the great musicians,
The great artists
Like Quincy,
I've learned
As I watched and listened
To Quincy, on Netflix,
Drop lyrical dimes
By the dozen
off the proverbial cuff
with measured cadence,
Rhythm,
Clarity,
And wisdom...

I heard  
Tupac
As I watched and listened to Quincy...

I heard
Maya
As I watched and listened to Quincy...

I heard
Ray
As I watched and listened to Quincy...

I heard
Sinatra
As I watched and listened to Quincy...

I heard
Mandela
As I watched and listened to Quincy...

As I watched and listened to Quincy
On Netflix...

I heard
Cryptic insight in verse...

I heard
The voice of God...

I heard
Poetry.

AYO

~ P

Everybody's looking for something;
Chasing our rainbow
Through the rain.

Like birds
We fly from tree
To blooming tree.

A dove
An eagle
A bee

Hunting and preying
And wild
As Nature intended;
In The Beginning
And
Until The End.

We
The children,
The Chosen Ones
Who flew to The Moon
And f*ck'd  The Earth;

And The Bee

And The Blooming Tree...

They gave us clues
But we
Missed the signs...

We
The children,
The Chosen Ones
Who hunt and gather still...

As Nature intended
In The Beginning
And

Until The End.

AYO
~P