Thank you Lord for saving my yesterday,

and for saving my today if I make it to tomorrow,

but if I fall on the battle field today

who will offer You my thanks when the sun rises tomorrow



All I have been constructed into

is like a seeing a building being built

while some of the stones were crumbling,

You are the Mighty Creator, moving towards completion



All the earth declares Your marvelous wonder,

and so oh Lord how can You be mindful of a small voice

that professes in it's own language, it's own weary gladness,

again, make the singer's song sweet to his own ears



Mighty Lord Your majesty contains all things,

and so the honorable sons of God declare

that all the earth should exalt the name of the Lord,

thanking Him with singing and dancing because they too are the blessed property of a Holy King



Let not my thanks fall into the abyss of woe,

Let not those who stand against Your Glory see me silent,

Let not the earth be scorched any longer,

but let your people honor You, carry those who thank You to your Holy Mountain Top Kingdom

I’m lending Trayvon Martin my pen

because it might be enough to clear the static,

because it may be enough to point straight through

the thick smoggy thoughts of society and law.


If I was a young black man, which “I" am

I’d be a little upset that someone killed

my brother. Never mind my other dead brothers,

or the other cases I see of police treating

people like me with inequality.


Should Trayvon have surrendered himself to

Zimmerman. Should young black men have to

be passive to stay alive. Do we allow

people to shoot shots in

the chests of most resistance.


What should black men do? It seems best

to cry, but I don’t feel tears coming.

What should any man do, expect think

clearly enough to know when something

is wrong. As for Zimmerman he is not

evil, but he is a killer, and his brothers

blood is on his hands. He should at least

cry, or try to feel the tears coming.


The only voice that speaks is the

word of the law. Even Trayvon is silent,

the dead hold no grudges, and gunmen

go dumb under the cries of spilt blood,

I keep telling myself justice is process

making better days from dark ones,

but it seems like every bright generation

has to step aside for the tears coming.

That single leaf

looks as if it has some grey in it's green

because the clouds in the sky are obscuring the sun

overcast days polish the sun white

and the dusty leaf hangs

looking like it will last

it would be cool to the touch

and bitter on the tongue

it's transpiration

those sweaty lungs

there are a thousand

a few bunches orange

a few brown still hanging from the branches

there are four thousand fallen

crunchy like baked chips

breathing no more

leaves number 997, 998, 999

hang from branch number 8

during the 4th hour of a day in the second millennium of man

a dark night spins dreams simultaneously

and a single dream leaf contains a record of eternity past

like an old friend who suddenly knows magic

and reads shakespeare

leaf 998 is a streak of ink

on the pages of life

like a glorious ray of sunshine

peeking it's head

into the future, heaven

like slipping between the curtains of the present

breathing for tree 700,237,112

Yesterday I raced to get to the air pregnant,

awoke early to get to the starting line,

vacant pavement.

Today I wanted a new beginning,

to be awake finally,

to the erasure of all things,

precedents, that make desires incredible.

The sun gives light,

like fresh batteries.

Who did fashion who,

sun fashion man,

did man fashion sun,

did man work himself to get grace from the sun,

did sun work sun to be good for man,

or did air work both sun and man,

to be it's good children.

The fashions do change,

but one thing remains the same,

man is in a world well suited

for new beginnings.

I wish that I

could fly from here to heaven

with golden wings

my ears full of cups of feathers

I want to sleep

but sleep denies me as it's brother

I cannot weep

for I am experiencing the joy of life

I wish that I could

fly from here to heaven

with enlarged eagle's wings at my back

my soul chiseled out of marble

placed on a silver pedestal

hewn from a constant gaze from your eyes

I want to say that I can love

for you to be the love

you are like a day

once come and gone

with me busy moving

from past to future

I wish that I could swim

for a thousand miles

and never tire against the waves

cut through tempests

evade lightning strikes

and drink a spirit stronger than mine

from your lips

I wish that I could breathe

and feel the wind

and breathe again

I miss my first love
like a train I was supposed to catch years ago
I've made my home on the station platform
because now I'd rather just watch the trains go by
I miss my first love
like an appointment with a doctor
that could have diagnosed me with the early stages of loneliness
and cured me right then and there
instead the illness settled in
and every day I'm treating the symptoms while I search for a cure
I miss my fist love
like the bullseye on a dart board
I don't even feel like playing the game anymore
and my throws are getting more and more wild
getting stuck in the wall and the floor
I miss my first love
and the way I loved when I didn't know what love was
no tricks, no strategies
just me, and her, and whatever that was when we were

Do my poems have special meaning

to people with skin like mine

do the lines

call to black blood

do the stanzas call themselves nigerian

does the punctuation long for Africa

when caucasion men read my poems

do they wonder why their

skin prickles

are the words more apt

to line the dreams of young african women

laying in bed

happy to have found

their ancestral home

within the pages of

of my metaphysic constructions




kinyopoetry.com