When they were kids they threw ‘dirtballs’ in acts of war,

their way of showing the offensive and winning battles.

There was a visit that year from Northern Ireland. Belfast

was sending children to freedom’s roots, a symbolic gesture.

my the stories they told,

living in a war zone,

surviving while playing

with molotov cocktails.

we announced a dirtball fight at the construction yard

picked our teams and built our walls, stacking bundles

of clustered clay ***** nearby our home ground.

The Irish kids as we called them sort of stood nearby,

a little laughter, and perhaps

some polite mock surprise.

A reaction to the fear and cry

of one of our eyes being hit by

dirt

pain

limbs

blood

shattered glass that remained remnants

outside her bedroom window as she went

to sleep on any given day. She always

wondered whether this might be the day,

brother lost earlier,

parents always tired,

the streets a war zone

the streets a war zone.

Today, children in markets with suicide bombs,

young girls running frightened to their detonation,

This is a new generation of pain and fear,

Pakistan, Nigeria, and Paris, under the lights.

We are the reason for this,

our human personality,

we didn’t just suddenly

become a violent species.

We’ve spent centuries in vicious practice

learning just how far our evil can seek bliss.

When on a crisp morning, her blush in daylight

speaks to me in silence, suggestive sweep

of eyes scan notice looks, smiles, select

moments for admirer to choose chance.

~

First touch is hair, fingertips enter,

while soft languor covets skin,

just this, enough to arouse eyes,

hands feel blessed teasing love.

~

lips drawn toward a meet

of anticipation, smiles become

ready form to grace each other,

eager, anxious delight begins.

~

Your taste while I look inside

sultry eyes, saying go, go

draw my hips against yours

hands slide and shoulders …

~

While now tongues play

gasps and fever arise

my need to taste all of you

begins, soft lips, just love.

~

Our bodies now connect,

I feel your ******* as we

begin to breathe in one

another’s *** – *******.

~

a blouse began my passion

that now slides along my chest

feeling your ******* draw to

my waist, I’m eager, eyes close.

~

Will you please unlatch my …

yes, as zipper falls and finger-

tips touch inside sliding sweet

lips delve into a grasp of me …

~

I lean back against today’s wall.

The instructor said,

    Go home and write
    a page tonight.
    And let that page come out of you--
    Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

I am at battle,

have you noticed at all,

when walking down a hallway,

the barren expression that turns to a smile,

when interactions are needed.

It works for brief minutes,

like getaways,

a descending reality that never … lands,

keeps me suspended,

so I can survive,

so I can make it through the day.

Please don’t look for me alone,

let that peace remain a facade,

my marble castle,

my wax paper offering a translucent

image whom defines how I might need to appear;

satisfied,

content,

confident,

moving forward, always moving toward

the next goal,

that opportunity that allows my life

to have some identity.

Have I told anyone I am in a constant battle?

I really don't understand any of the trends here ... poetry yes, but ... anyone?

An Oklahoma politician
wants to outlaw hoodies
in the hood

It's true, it must be
I read it in Fox News  :)

I'd sooner be in Missouri or Cleveland
or New York City where you don't have to
wear a hoody or raise your hands to get shot


There are other things more pressing
than hoodies in the hood
that don't need ironing

like hoods in suits
and the elephant in the room
that needs shooting.

We were tested today, is word allowed

to speak in utterances, scream aloud

our freedoms, our ability to breathe

in energy evils presently seethe.

Remember as a child when first we learned

civic responsibilities, speech earned.

Tomorrow, next week, again, we honor

human lives. We must destroy dishonor.

‘War’ donned my Stop signs across the city

we wanted to speak out loud our pity.

In order to be heard we took a chance

some laughed, calling it spoken elegance.

12 dead, more wounded, violent release

the freedom of words, belittled, sweet peace