Can't fight the good fight on the streets,
cannot make a difference with fists alone.

Doesn't matter much to elevate it with a gun,
only to end the same as it always was?

Won't stop the damage just because you feel it...
...only action, becomes an insurance against the wave.




tincture your eyes

blacklivesmatter

The corner story-yeller
held her eye to eye
and told her with a cry
"If it's worth telling,
then it's worth yelling

and if it's worth yelling,
then it's worth having
a listen.
So listen, why don't yer!
This is the moral of life:

If yer don't look after yer feet
then yer feet won't look after yoo."

And with a throaty 'harumph'
the story-yeller limped away
dismissing her audience
with a spit and a sigh
ready to launch
at the next passerby.

London has colour. And noise on each street corner.

I learned to read and write at school.
I educated myself during my traveling and adventures .
I learned to swim well but it was in life's whirlpool
From thugs in the streets I got my lectures
Life provided me with the courses
My Failures harden my resolves
I got taught by my personal experiences
To get my bread I had to join pack like the wolves .
My tests were my challenges ,help came from no connection.
I failed a few courses and had to do remainders .
Yet through it all , I persevered grace to my street education ,
I was promoted to the class of those called breadwinners .

Somehow I knew my only way out was to hustle
So I set out to find myself but missed my way many times
I ate grass ,lighted trees ,ran the streets to beat the struggle
From the streets I learned to calculate my nickles and dimes .
I discovered poetry from the greatest book called the Bible ,
Written by the author and finisher of my faith , Jah most high
After writing my first poetry thru prayers ,I knew I was able
Thank God for the school of life ,I know everything will be aight !


twitter @ivanclappers
#vanguardpoetry23
#IvanBrookspoetry

Life is a school that teaches many things beyond reading and writing .
Poetic T Jan 3

I'll never be  alone as long as you
keep the darkness away from the
streets of my heart. I was sullen in
the home of my feelings.

But you lit every moment towards me,
letting me venture beyond my own confides,
and I walked beyond myself  and then I
found you lighting me further on.

I look at every street light as its
fuelled by the essence of your rhythm,
my was heart secluded till you lit me
beyond me reach and I followed you.

And now I dance on every street lamp,
feeling the luminosity, and I know I'm
safe following  every burnished shade.
my every avenue towards my love.

Dovey Dec 2017

Toes dipping into liquid cement, without any hesitation
I leave behind my pitiful reality, to meet this one with fascination
The dusk air playfully greets me by tussling my curls
I in turn greet the wind, with my twists, leaps, and whirls


Now I am this, now I am that
I’m a formless thing, where am I at?
Legs flying and flying as I whisk through barely black
Moons on wheels chase, but I wont ever ever look back


I teeter on the line as my feet languidly trace intervals
Or I spin dizzily on the asphalt, for it’s my favorite thing of all
I collapse in giggles on the road, limbs of mine all splayed
Would watching me dance be your favorite thing? I wonder as I lay

Clouds gently drag themselves across a lovely violet-indigo
No stars pollute the sky, but the moon and streetlights glow
Did you know? The streetlights guide my marching around
This world is my own kingdom, and the sidewalk my playground


Wandering unfamiliarly warped paths, all in a lucid daze
Don’t break the spell, so let my tongue mute and your eyes glaze
Let’s waltz in the street! Let’s waltz the entirety with no purpose
I wonder though... could I really walk across the world’s surface?

Have you ever danced in the road? Ever just laid in the middle of it? Its nice.

I stopped.
My feet rested on the cool cement, and I listened.
Every tree, every bush, was whispering.
It started as a murmur, and grew.
Soon it was as if every forest in the world was talking, talking, whispering, whispering.
The voices faded for a moment, but it was not silent, for someone else was speaking.
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.
The rain was speaking to me.
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.
No, it was not speaking, it was singing.
Drip. Drop. Drip. Whizz.
Drip. Drop. Drip. Whizz.
Drip. Drop. Whizz. Drip. Drop. Whizz.
All around me it was swirling and falling and rising again to continue the song.
The trees had joined the song again.
Now it was as if they shouted their song with the rain.
Drip. Drop. Whisper. Whizz.
Drip. Drop. Whisper. Whizz.
Then, in a moment, the heavens broke open and a downpour of music flooded the earth where I stood.
The music ran.
It danced.
It rushed under my feet and all around me it sang.
I looked down at my feet and saw they were moving.
I looked up and the world swirled around me again and again.
I was dancing.
The rhythm of the music moved me with the waters and I flew with it.
I whirled around and around and around.
My heart flew with the music.
Through the whispering trees, through the rain in the air.
I danced and danced, unashamed and unaware of the world around me.
And then, as quickly as it had started, it began to stop.
Drip. Drop. Whisper. Whizz.
Drip. Drop. Whisper. Whizz.
Drip. Drop. Drip. Whizz.
Drip. Drop. Drip. Whizz.
Drip. Drop.
Drip. Drop.

Rebecca Y Dec 2017

here’s to the taxi drivers returning home late at night,
to the man on his bicycle who just finished his shift,
to the truck drivers still on the road,
to the designated drivers and the heavy-lidded back seat passengers,
and to those at home lying awake watching the cars pass,
lost in thoughts.

Allá en la calle del olvido
se escuchan voces de vidas lejanas
dicen que el tiempo se detiene
y otros dicen que vieron espectros.

Allá en la calle del olvido
La citas son de 6 a 12
cuando la tarde llega
y se queda la noche.

Allá en la calle del olvido
me saludo una vieja amiga
venia contenta a verme
y nunca dejo de platicar.

Allá en la calle del olvido
la invite a un café
se quedo hasta tarde
pues me dijo con sus ojos
lo que el tiempo a olvidado.

Sí, fue allá en la calle
del olvido donde los
fantasmas se despiden
y otros como yo...
ya saben...  nos despedimos.

lostboy Nov 2017

Whilst slipping out of the main street,
I reach for the feel of torn paper.
Fiddling a small ball of blu tac
that is squeezed into a round circle.

Make sure no one sees me.
For I have my way of putting up
a sophisticated form of graffiti;
Poetry.

In one glide of effort,
the black ink that is a poem
contrasts well with the white paper
and now a brick wall.

can't afford spray can
true story tho
nothing's Amiss Nov 2017

We're disingenuous riff-raff,
leaden eyelids at half-mast --
Leggy and skirted,
we're skirting scraped knees
and toting battle-axes.

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