Dad gives me a crew cut...
6/8/2019 - Poetry form: Free Verse - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
hair locked in natural curls
deep brown eyes
from head to toe
melanin on 100
o ma gawd
this young woman
is the black Queen
o ma gawd
why is she standing
from the curves
in her waist and thighs
to the curve
in her smiling cheeks
she knows she's beautiful
she knows why they say
o ma gawd
A natural woman with ***** curls and so much style
His hair so rich and thick
Spiraling upward higher and higher
Voluminous in appearance
Bold in its statement
Copious curls demanding attention
Natural, beautiful and free flowing
Standing tall to whomever it encounters
Sunlight beaming into its brown hue
It tells a story of bloodline and culture
Narrates history, prejudice, acceptance
Perseverant by nature
Resilient against criticism
I worship his hair from a distance
Yearning to feel it in between my fingers
Kiss his strands one by one
Inhale its scent like aromatherapy
There's history in my hair please don't touch, handle with care.
It's the same as this perfect pigment,
this melanin I wear
Richly rooted in my blood
Whether dark or fair
Sun kissed and kinked in bliss
More love for my 'rough n tough Afro puff'
She shines like the Sahara sun
She smells like the salt of the Gold coast sea.
Theres a hint of the bittersweet seed of the cocoa tree.
Feels like the pillow that holds all your dreams with the dry Harmattan wind brushing against your cheek
She'll whisper secrets of the motherland.... If you get close enough
She holds like Mina
Curls with pride
Falls with grace and integrity.
Stubborn like the struggle of the ones before me.
Gravity defying masterpiece that's just a single piece of me, a reminder of my ancestry.
It's my glory, my covering
Don't take it lightly, don't misunderstand, I'm a work of art so please peep but just don't touch.
© Raphaela Israel Öbeñg
Words are meaningless
Feelings are fleeting
Presents get old and worn out
from friends to strangers
And change is inevitable
Nothing remains the same
Letting go means you're stronger than you think.
there is attitude as strong as my own in these kinks and these coils,
my Afro has a mind of its own.
she stands tall when she wants,
shrivel up when she’s cold.
she is not a people person.
my Afro only communicates with other Afros.
she ain’t stingy but she **** sure don’t like to be touched.
don’t you try to sweet talk her
when she’s in a rush.
only like a wash & oils.
sometimes gel and finger coils.
i love my twa.
So many strange fruits,
In the streets.
Black bodies living in the sewers
Africans hanging from the apple trees,
Used needles on concrete,
Blood has a new home build with tears,
It's sad to say,
It's sad to say,
Children are born here.
They wonder why life became so rotten.
I sit with my afro, tall and round like the trees
I sit with my afro between my mother's knees
And I cry.
She thinks it's because she pulled my hair
I let her feel guilty but really that's not fair
Because it's you.
So as my mother glides the comb through my onyx curls
Your web of lies begins to unfurl
And all at once you were my world
But now you're nothing.
My mother's hands twist my hair into braids
Partings in more ways than one have been made
Memories like my brother's fade
But not for you.
Yours are stronger than my mother's hands
Yet as soft as my Indian strands
And how I wish I could get the clippers and shave
my head and watch my memories of you fall away
But I can't.
So as my mother braids my hair down my back
I remember you and try to forget the fact
That you ran your hands through this Raven hair
Shielded my now tear streaked face from the frozen air
Forget that you loved the coarse strands
As much as the Indian; soft in your hands
So I lock away these memories with each braid
And try to prove to myself that I'm more afraid
Of losing my afro than losing you.
I tell myself that it's my mother pulling that makes me cry
But you and I,
Know that's not true.
So different, unique
But decadent and meek
Peek through the deficit
Kneel to the exorcist
Some throw bones
to the wise Voodoo priest
Come throw clone dice
on the Buntu streets
An Angel inside hell
an Ancient Scribe to tell…
Your mind is a treasure that I'd love to discover
An abyss of thoughts and logarithms only you can translate
Your mind makes love better than the body can
It's a dopamine high I can't resist
So as I sit here, I **** on your words as if they were a pair of lips
I sip on your wisdom for it is the finest wine.