"althea" poems
I read about Martin.
I read about Malcolm.
I read about Rosa.
I read about Muhammad Ali.
The people that started a revolution to solve a resolution.
I read about Harriet.
I read about Charles Drew.
I read about Nat Turner.
I read about George Washington, Carver.
Some many still re unaware of to this day.
I read about Sojourn Truth.
I know of Thurgood Marshall.
I read about the Count, the Duke, that's Ellington.
And Aretha and James Brown too.
All apart of the movement of African Americans fight.
All faced injustice for trying to do things right.
I read about Althea Gibson.
And the Civil Rights protesters fighting against fools.
Some, we see still operating like they still trying to rule.
I hope those reading this has learned something too.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
Under the train station from across the road
one musty midnight after a late dinner, I saw him.
He was alone. He watched jeepneys pass by. He
stared at the road. He remained still when
the other workers walked past him.
He held a 7-up or maybe a Mountain Dew
by the bottleneck & brought it to his lips to drink.
He was sitting on a stool too small for him
& so his legs were spread open.
He put his free hand on his knee, in between
fingers an almost finished cigarette.
His work suspenders glowed under the
plastic fluorescent light of Althea’s burger shop,
& beneath he wore a red shirt that
fastened his torso tight. When it was time to
ride my jeepney home, I looked at him for a moment
before getting on, & it could be that
he looked right back. When we
moved forward I tried looking again
but saw he was looking somewhere else.
Manila, 2018
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
along the way of the journey,
you held my hand and kissed me.
we walked till our feet were planted blisters,
just two people stuck together.
the long distance we have taken,
made me see you again.
and in a shining new light i feel you,
as the walk gets harder to go through.
early in the morning one day,
the sun pointed at you with its ray.
you shined so bright,
and i knew that it felt right— you felt right.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 1:34 PM UTC
From the blood on your wrist.
You draw a door in the mist.
In the small town far from New York.
Where there are trees and trees and trees some more.
In the small town far from New York.
It only works if they let you in.
The ones who have finished their stories choose to open the door with a twisted grin.
They always have a purpose to let you win.
But you never win, you can tell in their twisted grins.
At least 2 must be there.
One to go there and one to go nowhere.
The one to go in must be ready for nightmares.
The one to go nowhere must but be ready for pain they can't bare.
There are bridges in the form of certain people instead.
But don't think you're a tourist and think you can leave when you want to go home and it's time for bed.
You can visit a bar and ask for information ahead
But if you can't find a bridge, you're stuck, mess with the stories and you're dead.
But this is where you get stuck.
Unless you have intense good luck.
Althea lives all the way.
She's old and crazy but the spinner won't let her die anyways.
Travel like Alice it'll only be a day.
A day in the halfway
is 2 days in the real world okay?
Don't go seeking fairyland
Because you will age immensely in that magical dark woodland.
Don't go seeking fairyland
Because you won't be able to leave until the spinner says you can.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 2:05 AM UTC