"amiri" poems
I looked at the beggarman
Wrapped in a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
With a royal smirk on his face
As his eyes pierced mine
For the second or less
It took to wander by
His space of rest,
His makeshift nest
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...
Today he laid
On his side,
Knees slightly bent,
A blue Bic gripped loosely
In his right fist,
Notepad white
In his right...
What does a beggarman write
From his sanctuary
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
I wondered?
Could it be a sign,
A plea for a penny
Or a piece of bread?
Or was the beggarman
A thespian well-read
With a tale or two
Trapped in his troubled head....
As he was,
In his bastille
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...
A Danielle Steele
Undiscovered....
An Amiri Baraka
Reborn...
A literary genius trapped
In a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt
With a royal smirk on his face.
~ P
(#TheBeggarman)
2/28/2014
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
There is no encore only a final curtain
For my former self, June 23rd 2015
Recently, I've been feeling this wave of nostalgia
As the rain caresses my skin and the wind howls past my ears
Every time I walk the streets to university,
Or watching the squirrels play around
The oak tree in the morning...
It feels like only yesterday.
And I count my blessings,
And I know how lucky I am to be alive.
And I look at a picture in this photo album of a younger me,
As I fake a smile to hide my pain.
I will never forget my former self.
And in my dreams, I am dying
I wake up screaming and shivering
With no one beside me, and when I close
My eyes again, there I am...
Stood on the bridge, drunk on starvation
Counting down from five to jump.
© Sia Jane
See Amiri Baraka "Preface to a twenty volume suicide note"
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
Black Matter is a potent drug an induced state of existence omit the lives and the possessive of matter and meaning what you find is a body black in phenotype detrimental maybe even dangerous to the self or a world in which porcelain dominates every form of the masses easily influenced.
THE BLACK BODY IS DOOMED TO DISINTEGRATE.
Death automatically consumes its soul because it was destined out of the womb.
When I die, the consciousness I carry I will to black people,
when I die I pray that God takes our souls to his kingdom- reviving us of our natural death, on the deadliest land an exact clone of hell in its purest form. Will we find heaven? Or will we find ourselves burning too?
The black body must know hell before heaven, has known peril before redemption, has known...
Blood: lift and drop; a sudden breeze.
Bone: the other was looking at —
Bone: cradled to catch drips
Has known policing of the body and has always known “forgiveness”.
Beware
Beware
But do not be weary
“Let us see the bodies,” they say.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 8:28 PM UTC