Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
He is Fire
Fire like mine

Fire I could have been
Fire I should have been

Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda

He didn’t waste time
He didn’t waste his fire

looking for love
in clubs
in gyms
on-line
Everywhere in-between

He didn’t waste time
He didn’t waste his fire

getting his heart broken
getting cheated on
deferring his dreams for a fantasy crafted by others

He let his fire shine and burn
I hid mine away
the only heat felt from mine was by proximity
the only light that shone from mine was in comparison to shadow

He would never be like me
His fire is not like mine

He is smart enough to not bother with things that would take away
He is smart enough to protect his fire from the water
He would never fall in love with it

He is
not me

His fire is
not mine

His fire is
Better

His fire is not as hot as mine
He can selectively burn with his
mine can only be contained by that which would try to destroy it

I don’t regret me
I don’t regret my fire
that is not the point

I want to protect
him
his fire

The way no one protected
me
my fire

© Christopher F. Brown 2018
Sam Mar 2018
Lost in her mind,
I confide in her greatness.
A tongue that can topple empires.
She talks empowerment,
as rain kisses off the cobbled stone.
Transfixed in her paradigm.
I stare in awe.
Makeup contoured,
hugs her face like powdered gold.
A brown empress,
her majesty.
Mehndi spirals down her tapestry.
Skin coloured saffron,
the brightest spice in the pantry.
Quick Sonnet
Don Bouchard Mar 2018
Rowdy girls laughing over dinner,
A thousand miles from home,
Joking about their families,
Their mothers and their dads,
Unwinding after the hard work
Of righting some of Harvey's mess.
Time to celebrate through laughter....

I noticed her brown study stare,
Gazing toward the open court,
And she was tired,
Far from home,
The stress of travel and ***** work behind,
Stress levels coming down,
And she was letting down.
I knew there was more,
And I waved a hand,
And she came back from where she'd been,
Sad smile in her eyes.

I knew she' been contemplating life,
Thoughts of her father, gone two years,
Who'd traveled the aisle silently,
Taken before he saw the woman she'd become,
The nurse she'd be, things most parents live to see.

I saw all these things in her far-away gaze,
I empathized and prayed.

May Jesus comfort her;
May He give her life chock-full of joy.
May His Spirit bring her those who see her heart,
And cherish her for who she is.
May the Father reassure her of His love...,
Some day reunite her with the father she still loves.

I know that she was tired; her gaze was fleeting.
I hope she pardons me an open book for reading.
Never been to Mars
Never allowed myself to loiter
On A street I did not belong

Seems Ive only ever met
The many multitudes of grown boys
children really
Claiming to be men

They are good for
Were good for
Childish things

What else can a child do but think of games
What else can a child do but play
What else should a child do but think of themselves

I think I'd like to go to Mars
Hell
Maybe even the Moon

Any place

Seems like it would be better than this street I live on
It sometimes seems like an adult playground
All the children around here
Pretending
Pretentious

Never seen Mars
Maybe the Moon

© Christopher F. Brown 2018
If the Messiah they need is a woman
Convince them only men are holy.

If the Messiah they need is black
Convince them only white is holy

If the Messiah they need is same gender loving or non-binary
Convince them only heterosexual is holy

If the Messiah they need is proud
Convince them only humility is holy

If the Messiah they need holds knowledge in their left hand
Convince them the right hand is holy

If the Messiah they need has a ten point plan of righteously defending one's self
Convince them that the only holy answer is nonviolence.

If they ever one day happen to believe that they can define:
Self
By Self
Through Self
Of Self
Convince them that holiness is only attainable through a message and belief of:
Holy and selective Prosperity
Holy and selective Favoritism
Holy and selective
Elitism

If they ever happen to look in the mirror and one day love all that they see
Convince them that the holy standards of beauty deems every and all that makes them what they are ugly

If they ever happened to one day realize that the Messiah that they need is within all of them as a United People
Convince them that the holy Messiah can only lay in one person per generation and then publicly assassinate the person that they believe
Or you have chosen
To be their
Messiah.

© Christopher F. Brown 2018
The voice Mar 2018
I couldn’t wait for my class to end so I could run outside and find
el carrito (Stand)
I fell in love with the feeling and the taste before I even knew what love was.
I stood outside holding my mother’s hand waiting for her to ask
the times she did not ask I would pull on her plaid, decently long skirt and looked over towards the man selling raspados

She knew what I wanted and she knew how much I wanted it.
I focused on ...
el carrito
as if looking at it would be enough to call the gods of raspados to have mercy over me

They cost $1.50. My mother gives me the money
I run over
The man says

te faltan, no es suficiente (not enough)

I was devastated, I began to take step back slowly, I dared to not look at my mother with this disappointment.
I barely noticed the lady standing behind the man, she was the boss

I noticed she was looking towards my mother
Maybe she saw in my mother’s face something convincing, or maybe my confusion triggered a mother instinct
Whatever it was, it was enough

As I walked away slowly with my first heart break,
the lady behind says,

tiene antojo, tu daselo (She has a craving, give it to her)

I thanked her with my smile and with a slight flitter in my heart of happiness and even more with my taste buds having a celebration just by looking at how this raspado was being made

The beautiful sound of the mountain man, holding a metal, rectangular shaver of ice
containing it all inside until it was ready to be placed in the cup. The small stones pile one by one when crushed
Just big enough to hold shape and small enough to enjoy

Then the miel con sabor a tamarindo  being delicately set on top, like a creamy blanket in liquid form

Si, con limon y sal, porfavor, y poquito chile (add salt and lemon, and a bit of spice... Please)
because my mom taught me how to be polite
and then, to my surprise the actual fruit
tamarindo on top, a light brown coloring with a soft cover on the hardened seed inside

It decorated with grace and delight, the treat awaiting for me
I felt the richness


There I learned my first lesson of kindness
It is part of a longer piece... It is Nonfiction.
Raspados are similar to icecones but very Hispanic. I suggest trying one. They vary in flavors (guava, pineapple, lime, mango, etc...)
You've found that hole in your soul
Nothing fills it

The smallest things
Seem smaller

The largest things
Seem smaller still

Why won't anything fit
Why won't anything fill

You've found that hole in your soul
Nothing fits it

Its not like its a predator
The things it consumes
You've already forgotten about

Silently it exist
Taking only what you've sacrificed through neglect
Taking only what you've left to languish

It would be better if it was a hunter
If it was taking
Then you could remember
Then you could


© Christopher F. Brown 2018
Wicked Mar 2018
As an artist I should love all colors.
As a boy I cannot love them all.
Browns
Blues
Purples
are colors I know too well.
They're the colors of bad days
And long nights.
They lead to tear stained pillows
and sleepless nights.
They’re the imprints of his rings against my skin
and his slurred words in my ears.
They’re a reminder that my father
isn’t a dad.
Rap was my first love
Rap will always hold my fire

Hip Hop will always have my heart
Hip Hop will always be the one I come home too

We started together
Even when she is on some *******
Mumbling around town with technicolor hair
Crunch berry grills
looking like a cartoon villain
I get it

Rock was cool
sometimes we all need to scream
need to be sad and different
sometimes we don’t need words
just a guitar
just a bass
just a drum

It’s a funny thing to say:

The Blues made me laugh
laugh hard too
That’s why she said she left me
she said she was done.

I got so lost in Jazz
When I thought I left I realized
I’m still here

When I thought I had seen all that there is to see
When I thought I rounded the final corner
It turned out to be a street named Lombard  
The light shone on me in notes of blue
With the blessing of The Sun and Ra

I realized
off beat is the beat

Jazz
She’s like Hip Hop
I may go away
but I’ll never leave.


© Christopher F. Brown 2018
Next page