"birmingham" poems
There once was a black man... Old at heart, he fought verbally and accordingly with bold words, which abbreviated and arbitrated great art! He spoke of activism. Not just racial, and economic racism. He fought against demonic injustices for you, yes, made me see. He stood for principles of non-violence. Acknowledged corrupt government
mileage, European knowledge and college. A philosopher, teacher
and preacher as well as a civil rights leader. When he spoke his words of fire indeed chiseled and inspired. Causing some to conspire and also perspire! Born January 15th 1929 in Atlanta, Georgia. Named in honor of the German protestant Martin Luther. Bachelor of Arts
degree in sociology. Making a mark in doctoral studies, systematic theology. June 5th 1955 This King married Corretta Scott in Heiberger,
Alabama for many to see. Proceeding with four children: Yolanda, Martin Luther the 3rd to be! Dexter Scott and Bernice to increase the peace. Despite the European police, the movements and stressed
protests, the silence, ****** and racial violence. The segregation and interrogations in force, instead of integration of course. Black mishaps, lack of differences in relapse perhaps! Plagiarized and slandered, demised by some of the wise. Accused of communistic ties. Blinded
by others’ eyes and of our world’s twisted lies. Montgomery, Georgia
bus boycott, 1955 was the year. However, forever in disguise, our fear of tears was apparently adhered. From here to near, also all those dear. Mere letters he wrote, from Birmingham jail I quote! From the slums, some of sums, hail and prevail! A creation prevailing into a deriving and thriving nation. Mr. King’s vision of a dream, mission,
opposition, optimism and truism, on our wars, welfare and more. I suppose this sounds honest and fair. Mr. King’s theories and worries in emotionalism, evangelism, humanitarianism, racism and socialism. Nobel Peace Prize won in 1964. Regretfully, you may have heard of this before. Government conspiracies and indecencies. Assassination
and discrimination, allegedly, by James Earl Ray. On April 4th, I
almost choke, because for him, his blood did soak. Some thought this **** was a thrill or forced by will. Others still procrastinate in hate! However, forever Martin Luther King was and still is one of the late greats.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
My Country Tis of Thee,
Sweet land of liberty-
Or so we sing.
Land where my fathers died-
But my forefathers died in a battle
Trying to keep their slaves;
My fathers killed your fathers
For trying to run away;
My fathers **** your fathers
Cause it's late at night, and
He's reaching for his gun-no, wait,
His ID?
Land of the pilgrim's pride-
But so often we leave out of history
How if it weren't for a Native American,
The pilgrims would've died.
From every mountainside-
Like Stone Mountain in Georgia,
Where Rebel Generals are memorialized,
Where the **** was revived-
God, help me, I can't hear freedom's ring;
I can only hear white-washed history.
From every mountainside-
But these days, the mountain is in my chest,
And liberty's ring sounds a lot different,
And a lot of folks don't like it.
Let freedom ring-
And I want to fight for freedom for all-
#BlackLivesMatter-
I want to help-
HANDS UP, DON'T SHOOT!
But-
I
Can't
Breathe.
Let freedom ring!-
But peaceful protests turn into
Bloodbaths as those who have sworn
To serve and protect are sniped down.
Let freedom ring!-
I try to educate myself
On the side of history not taught-
I've always felt that Nat Turner was the bad guy,
But these days I'm questioning it.
I read "The Meaning of Fourth of July for the *****
by Frederick Douglass
And I read "Bury Me in a Free Land"
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
and I read "Sympathy"
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
and I read "Letters from Birmingham Jail",
"The Mountaintop Speech", and
"I Have a Dream"
by Dr. King.
When I was younger,
I'd research Dr. King & his colleagues
For fun.
I'd wonder, "If I lived in the Civil Rights era,
What would I have done?"
But when I turned seventeen,
I realized, "I live in a Civil Rights era;
What am I going to do?
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC
The City of Derby holds her breath amidst the crisis of historical ramblings and talkative expressions of inhibition.
Do not be deceived. Roaches are not mere insects, but are also three-course celebrations of haunting and religious engagements. There are Peaks which lie beyond the stratospheres of Leek.
Although the parameters of yesteryear project their own splendour, let us acknowledge the silver hair which drips with eternal statements of antagonistic adoration in Curzon Street.
Oh, rose of Sharon, in my sheer lack of understanding, I do not invalidate those instructions to depart from Birmingham New Street.
I have deeply immersed myself in Welsh pools of genuine loss, and have found a precious commodity which I had never beheld in former lifetimes.
Furthermore, I lament the loss of such generational integrity.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
My Mamma cried
When she'd heard what I'd done
My Daddy went back inside
And he grabbed his gun
I'd met a girl on the other side of town
Of course I am white and of course she is brown
I don't rightly care cause we're both in love
And I ain't gonna let her suffer none
We's from Birmingham
Down South Birmingham Alabama you see
If'n you must know the year
I'd say a shameful 1963
There was unrest amongst the people
Which was bad enough
But it was doubly troublesome
On our taboo love
Deep segregation kept our worlds apart
Something the youth of the day couldn't see
Outside color don't matter, it's what's in the heart
That's the hold she has over me
Not really sure things have changed all that much
Though it's our nature to want to pretend
I'm not much into caring what others might think
Sometimes you gotta stand up like a man
I'm telling this tale from my front porch swing
As I listen to my Grandchildren's playful screams
While holding hands rocking back and forth
My lovely brown skinned beauty and me
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
Oh Mr Sentinel ***** you *** with the bullwhip and echo tongue
For four hundred years they had your fathers and mothers
toiling the sugar and cotton fields no better than oxen and horses
They were all beasts together without rights or gain
All you knew was what Babylonians put in your heads
Your perceptions are nothing but that of a slave
As bright as those of the oxen and *****
That were your mates
Now you sit here thinking you're Bob Marley without stringed guitar
you may have a pen in hand but nothing much has changed
what you call a brain is just a dusty mirror from ***** in the Plantation mansion
you are just the *** overseer who gives your *** to ***** at night
payment for echoing his words and ******* a **** on Saturday
Who are you really but a mindless carcass with no class
Your momentum comes from ***** and is *****
it's 21st century and you are still a Sentinel on the cotton fields
You come cracking your bullwhip talking trash
your ****** *** still has a ten dollar price tag hanging off it
the mixed blood of your ancestors fight for dominance in vain
four hundred years of slavery and you're still in chains mind asleep
there's freedom in the sun whether in tropics or in snow town
freedom is a mind unchained to massa's bulls and stunted ****
Show me the freedom of a ******* Sentinel the mottafucker chicken
Go find your ******** radicals and do your worst, how did your pimping go in Liverpool.
or where you too busy spinning your **** in Birmingham Alabama.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 9:25 PM UTC
I was of the South
Born in my ways I could not control
My path of rocks and stickerbriars
Led no where , I had no where to go
"I'm going back to Selma !. . . Selma !
And I had no reason just before
I'm going to Selma ! . . . Selma !
And I just don't know what for"
Do I really have the courage ?
Maybe love is a broken window
With cold air blowing in
Maybe salvation is just a desire
And it will be there at the end
Do I really know ?
Losing love is just the other part
And how do I depart
In Selma what is there to find ?
I'm sure it can't be kind
Take U S 80 , between I -20 and I -65
If I leave now I can be sure
To be there to see the sunrise
From the Edmund Pettus Bridge
****** Sunday , March 7 , 1965
Beaten trying to cross the bridge
God's rights marching upon trampled sights
Home to take back from the giver
Easy to forget Selma 1965
All to easy to forget the hate
Leading to Memphis April 4 , 1968
And to more than a simple mistake
Will the shooting ever end ?
January 20 , 2013 Jackson , Mississippi
Blackman shot , MLK celebration parade
The blood flows from Birmingham , to Selma
To Memphis and Mississippi's charade
Still I'm going to Selma .
"I'm going back to Selma ! . . . Selma !
But I have no reason why
I'm going back to Selma ! . . . Selma !
I think it will be just to cry"
written January 20 , 2013
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
Barefooted teenager
Sliding D&G; watches
Into a bag filled with
Addidas shoes.
It's bonfire night in the cities
Of England. Come out, children,
To the heart of the city and
Bleed it dry.
Betray your hunger,
The greed that consumes you
And the indifference bred into
Your marrow.
Bred by despair and shiny
Baubles in window displays
And worn by all those
Stars in those glossy mags.
It's a consumer's world; it's about
Instant gratification, not hard work -
Even if work could be found.
But why work if you can steal?
Bonfire night. Like when we burn that
Guy. Fawkes? He tried to destroy Parliament
But teenage angst and thugs could do in a few nights
What his barrels of gunpowder couldn't.
Alcohol and **** to last a
Short lifetime. Shopkeepers in the way
Should know better; You can't fight
Irrationality. It has no conscience.
****** loot, burn like in those
Movies about war, Grand Theft Auto,
And a million other games. Just keep
Moving so you never have to actually think.
But just in case, let's blame someone else:
Let's blame race, the Met, politicians,
The schools, the economy, parents -
Society.
Burn, London. Burn, Birmingham,
Burn, Manchester, Burn Liverpool.
Burn, Gloucester. Burn, burn, burn,
But let tomorrow be just another day.
Bonfire night. Every night.
Till they put out the fires,
Tend the wounded and
Bury the dead.
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
1374
A Saucer holds a Cup
In sordid human Life
But in a Squirrel’s estimate
A Saucer hold a Loaf.
A Table of a Tree
Demands the little King
And every Breeze that run along
His Dining Room do swing.
His Cutlery—he keeps
Within his Russer Lips—
To see it flashing when he dines
Do Birmingham eclipse—
Convicted—could we be
Of our Minutiae
The smallest Citizen that flies
Is heartier than we—
2.4k
Take me back to when top hats were like business suits
When the white moths had become black with filth
When the Thames was brown like the rotted teeth of beggars
And not just because of the mud
When the Irish and the Slavic were exotic
When London was Birmingham
When Birmingham was Liverpool
When Liverpool was a country village
When there were millions
And yet they were still so innocently oblivious
Take me to the city clothed in black
For there was always a funeral somewhere
London
The noisy factories
And crowded slums
The fear that the cold brings
The pain that disease brings
The real London
The honest London
The dark, deadly London of my nightmares
Every narrow, dimly-lit alleyway dripping with **** and blood
Full of criminals and drunks
Ominous dark brown bricks
The suffocating stink that follows you wherever you go
Cursing, begging
Lifting, cuffing, gaffing, looting, nicking, pinching, swiping, thieving, pilfering, pillaging
Hundreds of words for stealing
Where the poor are painfully poor
Where every woman that smiles at you is a **********
Corpses lying in the streets
Next to gas lamps
The only beacons of light
People packed into bedrooms like chickens
Sleeping on the string
Highly disturbing
But it's best not to interfere
For someone else will deal with it
Industry and decency will save us all
There is no trace of that now
Except the noble stone buildings
Commissioned by the corrupt
This is my fear and obsession
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
Out my window
the same world
different day, day after day
I want to grab my bolt bag
tie a red bandana
around my sweet mutt's neck
hop a train, act sane
for a change
Georgia's down the tracks a spell
and Birmingham's half-way to hell
New Orleans in September
sounds pretty good
Woof and me
living free
no cares to carry on our backs
singing clickety-clack, clickety-clack.
r ~ 8/13/14
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
Soulful Mention
Beautiful white women I’m asking you to stand down this time your well noted in the cool cats book of
Love you electrify and defy all true description as all magic does and native American woman copperas
Skinned you bend and lend yourself to the exotic natural wonders your long black hair moves along the
Prairie grass up over the foot hills into the mountain wilds with a sight that is spellbinding you go so far
And when you can go no higher than the powerful eagle carries you aloft where sight is lost and you
Cause faith to enter because otherwise it’s unbelievable the effect you have on me no this is for the
Ones that their voice was first heard among the lions roar who else could have the power and courage
To endure such injustice and burdens dark like your ebony skin it would take men like Sam Cook and
Otis Redding with raw emotion and deep soul to travel out of Georgia through the dark store fronts and
Neon club lights of Harlem flow through the big Easy take your current at flood stage through
Birmingham Mobile the projects of St Louis on through the gateway to the west Kansas City where you
Pick up speed and the drawl is covered by the sprawl through it all your name is being called slow down
Baby turn and stop within those songs and voices your glory is resounding your life goes unbounded the
Honey drops it causes all males to stop you’re in the presence of true ladies they can be soft as cotton
Candy or have an edge that is smoky bluesy best referred to as a trumpet blast that can also smolder
Drift down city streets the horn is sounding oh how appealing the girl has got her groove on listen your
Being called by the most brilliant voices of our time Zelma heard and for a time lived an immortal dream
The transference of sorrow would extend extol these women into heartfelt heroes you truly can’t
Create such ignorance and grim circumstance without creating the rarest black Rose stone walls laden
Fields plantations was their birth place they are the one point that our race has been raised to
Exemplary Character
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing
Now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips like a puff of summer wind
Without notice, our dear love can escape our doting embrace
Sing our songs among the stars and and walk our dances across the face of the moon
In the instant we learn that Michael is gone we know nothing
No clocks can tell our time and no oceans can rush our tides
With the abrupt absence of our treasure
Though we our many, each of us is achingly alone
Piercingly alone
Only when we confess our confusion can we remember that he was a gift to us and we did have him
He came to us from the Creator, trailing creativity in abundance
Despite the anguish of life he was sheathed in mother love and family love and survived and did more than that
He thrived with passion and compassion, humor and style
We had him
Whether we knew who he was or did not know, he was ours and we were his
We had him
Beautiful, delighting our eyes
He raked his hat slant over his brow and took a pose on his toes for all of us and we laughed and stomped our feet for him
We were enchanted with his passion because he held nothing
He gave us all he had been given
Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana's Blackstar Square, in Johannesburg, in Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama and Birmingham England, we are missing Michael Jackson
But we do know that we had him
And we are the world.
Jan 6, 2010
Jan 6, 2010 at 10:37 AM UTC
shot of whiskey
i shot my mouth off at a bible salesman
shot a man with a glass eye on a street corner
he shot me a mean streak
shot out a candy cane window
a king in a powder blue sedan shot down the turnpike
never had a shot with her in a red flannel shirt
shot a broke down dog at a fire hydrant in birmingham
he shot out of a lawn mower
shot towards some handshaking stranger
shot down some train tracks
shadows shot with arms upraised
being shot at by electric trains
i shot a mirror at the stars
they shot back with a voiceless gesture
she shot right through my heart
her hair shot gold to kingdom come
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
Old friends sat on their hands
Leaning forward
swinging their feet
like second grade
1313 Primrose Street
The first thing I ever memorized
Except for the hollow fear
of empty footsteps
following me from Texas
The sharks always fascinated me
Charged me with fear
and apprehension
Evil dark black eye of devotion
They were all maneaters
Her skin was sandpaper thin
She made me always bleed
She drank shark's liver oil
and made me always smile
She was a maneater
On a mountaintop
my love came alvalanching down
Even January's cold
was no match for what I was told
Drove back to Birmingham
with the thermostat stuck
But I didn't care
I couldn't be colder
frozen in my forlorn heart of despair
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
Thursday morning and I board
the Preston train, a dumpy DMU,
but less of a cattle-truck today.
Over the bridge or beneath
lines to Platform 5 to wait:
Branson's Scarlet Pendolino
will glide in soon bound
for Birmingham - wonder
who I shall meet and share
travelling moments with ?
At the caverns of New Street
I must wend to Moor Street
and a Chilterns train trundling
me south for Warwick's 1,100th.
birthday weekend and 100 years
since trains of Lancashire PALS
cattle-trucked themselves to
Flanders fields never to return.
(c) C J Heyworth June 2014
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
I know you haven't heard from me in years .
I thought I'd write just to let you know that Tommy Faulkner died , you know passed away . I didn't even know it until it was all over . Don't even know what he died from . Heidi told me . Oh , you don't know Heidi , my fist and third wife . She and Tommy were good friends . Last I heard about you , you were moving to North Carolina , your home by birth . But your home was always with us here on the Southside of Birmingham . Sigh !
I hoped you made a big splash back home when you arrived . Such a polar extreme . I kept your poems for years until Heidi threw out my box of poetry ,with yours included .
Also Steven Sedbury's . You remember him ? Last I heard about you , you had a brain tumor and you passed away . Now I stand alone with my ghosts and I have no address to send my posts .
Love Thomas
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
With another pointless crusade I stumble forwards,
Struggling for purpose or meaningful hurdles,
When the ending hour belies me,
I speak no grief and restore chi,
Living moments and memories devoid of reason,
Committing a million acts of hedonist treason,
Crave the new, despise what has already been,
I am wasted,
With no hint of experiences unseen,
No pursuit of self improvement,
Happiness must coincide with movement...
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 11:55 AM UTC
It was march
At the farmers market
Still kinda cold outside
There were people selling their odds and ends
And vendors selling fruit inside
At the back of the lot
Set an old taco truck
That sold tacos for a dollar a pop
I had 3 and a glass bottle coke
And wondered if I should buy
strawberries or not
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 5:22 PM UTC
They say absence makes the heart grow
fonder dear, fonder of the one who's gone.
So this is me wondering, has your heart grown?
Cause 6 weeks ago I might have held your hand
And 6 weeks ago I thought I'd understand
Where my heart would be but I think it's separate from me
It couldn't stand to leave ole' Birmingham
I'll tell myself I'm doing fine.
I'm doing fine but I'm writing rhymes
about your eyes and how they shine.
Do mine shine for you too?
Cause writing rhymes ain't anything,
I do about the ones that mean something.
You mean something to me.
Cause 6 weeks ago I might have held your hand
And 6 weeks ago I thought I'd understand
Where my heart would be but I think it's separate from me
It couldn't stand to leave ole' Birmingham
I guess time crept up on me and you did too.
Now I'm left feeling I'm wearing two left shoes.
Yes, yes I missed you.
They say absence makes the heart grow
fonder dear, fonder of the one who's gone.
So this is me wondering, has your heart grown?
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
Birmingham I am your first born Ex husband
Birmingham I am 3rd avenue north
Birmingham I am the hands of Vulcan
Birmingham I am an abandoned race course
Birmingham I am your Bob Dylan
Basquiat and Bukowski
Birmingham I am nothing
Birmingham I am blue
Birmingham I’m yours if you let me
Birmingham I am you
Aug 28, 2020
Aug 28, 2020 at 7:32 PM UTC
I want to be a crab cake
because I like tall buildings
perpendicular to highways,
penthouse balconies
thirty meter diving platforms.
whenever in San Fran,
i pancake my hands together
so i don't do impromptu Physics
eyeballing skyscrapers.
I want to be a crab cake
because I like tornado sirens
at two in the morning,
someone fetal position mouthwash drunk
in the bed next to me.
whenever in Birmingham,
i listen to my headphones;
tinnitus a siren wail
long after the flight home.
I want to be a crab cake
because I like bridge collapses;
infrastructure devastation
west of Florida,
killing all granola exports.
whenever in Portland,
i waitlist college signs
and estimate the weight limit
of a commuter bridge.
I want to be a crab cake
because the sunsets here
give me panic attacks.
it used to not,
but enough honey has built up
so bees swarm the bonnet
whenever there's a
blood orange tint.
I want to be a crab cake
because I don't like
the seafood here
or Sushi Pier discussions
of future trajectories
while rain pours on our
trout marinated in
Tahoe Tessie **** water.
I want to be a crab cake
because the mountains
bug me out.
i want flat land
where there are
blood prints on highways,
broken families in Tornado Valley,
and remains of promising bridges.
i want to be a crab cake
because i want the world
to eat me up.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
Tennessee Coal and Iron
Ensley Works , Birmingham , Alabama
Ensley Highlands , 30th Street
A turn of the century wood
framed house , sitting high on top a hill
Sitting on the front porch swing
in the sweltering August evening air
Playing "Your car next" , as cars ran
up and down the hill
Swapping turns , who gets what , laughing
at some of the outrageous wheels
Then as darkness descends
the dark skyline turns to Hell
Jets of forced blast air hits molten iron
and the gush of flames shoot high into the air
Eleven , twelve , maybe more
all the blast furnaces roared
as sparks flew up into the smoke
Surely these are the Devil's works
Where men are tortured so
As this for a backdrop now
it was time for ghost stories galore
Headless people and black drabbed ghouls
and little girls dripping wet that drowned in some unforgiving lake
We would draw up knees to our chest
in spite of the oppressive heat
And I would jump every time the breeze
would rustle the hidden leaves
So scared were we as bedtime neared
we'd ask mother if we could
spend "the night with you"
Ha ha ha , she replied , "NO !"
And then she went
Boo ! Boo ! Boo ! Boo ! Boo ! Boo !
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC