"booker" poems
What does it mean to be a Chicano/Latino in the US?
What does it mean to be Black in the US?
What does it mean to be a minority in the States?
You know what that means...it means that we have a lot to prove
As in the words of Booker T. Washington:
"When a white boy undertakes a task,
it is taken for granted that he will succeed.
On the other hand, people are usually surprised
If the ***** boy does not fail. In a word, the ***** youth
starts out with the presumption against him."
Now in a society where institutionalized racism,
Or racism without racists, prevails
We are disenfranchised from even being considered youth.
We are a bunch of wetbacks, idiots, moron...you name it,
Where failure is expected of us...
...but enough is enough, we should not abide to the stereotypes
And stigmas that society stamps on our foreheads.
As a matter of fact, I do not ever recall giving this white patriarchal society
My blessing to call me whatever the **** it decides to call me.
We are here to take manners into our own hands, here to do whatever the heck our heart desires.
We are here to create the change that we wish to see in the world.
We are here to become the few & growing positive statistics that we fight for.
We are here to create voice and shed the light on those wins that we take to our hearts.
No one is here here to reflect the stereotype that this ****** up society
Tries to slap us with on an everyday basis.
We are here to change perception of who we are and where we stand in society.
We are positive statistics...not a stereotype.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
I remember that summer of 2012 we came down south. you were just as sweet as can be and so happy to see us. after two weeks of fun we had to leave. I can remember the exact words you said before we left."I sholl wish yall could stay longer.I'm really gon miss y'all..love you". I will never forget those words. like I will never forget the horrid shriek that interrupted my sleep at 10pm November 11th. it came from my mothers room. "she gone.I don't have a mother or a father.she gone" replayed over and over and over again. tears started to pour from my eyes and unto my pillow as I heard the pain guilt and hurt that filled my mothers voice. though we weren't close, I felt like we were that summer ,welcomed and loved by all the southern hospitality. even though we weren't as close, it hurts to have someone you love pass away. so Booker girls and boys it'll be alright, dry your sullen eyes for your mother and father will now be together again and can rest peacefully in paradise. remember to stay strong and to keep the family together. no fussing, no fighting just peace love and happiness. stay lifted in prayer and know that god is here to help you through this hard time.
Rest in PEACE Shelly Jean Booker
you ARE missed.
O.Rob.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC
So, I wanna try something. I know this is a poetry website, but I have been writing this story. I stopped for many reasons such as being too busy, not inspired, not sure if it was good enough or not, etc.
So I wanna post just a part of it, just to see if anyone will like it. Just to see if it's worth it to continue it.
It's called The Sweet Pea, Honey Bee Kiss.
I tried not to regret the decisions I had made thus far, so the decision to pack my things and leave San Francisco was my own. I said not a word to anyone—not that anyone cared—and left on a rather depressing Wednesday morning. Leaving was not as hard as I thought it would be, rather, it was easier than well...me. There was an empty feeling in my stomach as I left, a sense of worry and depression lingering, but I refused to let the tears fall. So he didn’t turn out the way I wanted him to. That was fine, I suppose....
But who was I kidding? I thought he was the guy...the perfect guy. I didn’t know he could be so cruel, so detached and so...so much like every other **** there was at high school. Not all guys were bad, I knew that I wouldn’t succumb to blaming every breathing human being with a ***** I just knew now that Tristan Booker was an evil son-of-a-bitch and I was a complete idiot for thinking that he could ever like someone like me. Watching him turn his back away from me—away from the possibilities that could eventually be us—it crushed me. I had never felt so alone in a world filled with people—people who may have experienced the same thing I was going through or at least experienced heartache and heartbreak. I felt so emotionless. I couldn't find it in myself to cry, a cry that I so desperately needed, so desperately wanted. I could go my whole life blaming every guy that was a “Tristan”, I could go on with my life and succumb to the whispers and disappointment that pressed itself against me until one day it wouldn’t matter so much anymore. I could fight back; defend the dignity that was left behind and on life-support. But I did what any rational and distressed human being would do: I ran away. I hid in a tower much like how a Disney princess would, but then I remembered Cinderella was never called a *****
I know it's long. Please bear with me and like/comment it honestly. Thank you so much!!
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
Arrested and convicted of sabotage,
Madiba resists the Apartheid.
We live and rest in good company,
while counterparts seek new shelter to hide.
Time has elapsed, and man discusses these changes,
of the past that has rotted away, which builds upon our ignorance.
Do you not see the same in existence,
the backwards, in truth, which our skin folk arranges?
Rewind or fast forward, backwards will remain the truth,
I will remain Madiba, President of Belief.
Trusting enough minds with similar desires,
may place an unwarranted end to all others’ grief.
Swimming through a crowd of faces,
painted shades I witness unfolding.
We are but fingers on a hand, separate yet together,
Booker claimed this truth as a new era began molding.
Yet is this era really new; Are we to believe the past is past,
as I witness starvation, corrupt education, and abandoned dreams?
My kin folk inform and educate my evolving mind,
of hidden conceptions that my skin folk blatantly screams!
I am able to speak with my mother, knowing she is safe,
grateful that our family must not live in fear.
But why must some of us remain unused,
when our help is called for year after year?
Indira has communicated,
that you cannot shake hands with a clenched fist.
The fingers, which are part of the whole, clasp tightly,
for my skin folk, not my kin folk, are amidst.
There are racial issues, undoubtedly,
in the land of the free, home of the brave.
And all over the world it reigns,
you cannot be blind to it, that we have a modern slave.
This is not a physical destruction,
you will not witness it branding the skin.
But a mental and spiritual deterioration,
directed, and has infected,
most of my kin.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
The receding horizon,
The fading light of day,
Azure taking a livid hue.
Pokhran's hot, scorching sand,
A lash on our moribund logic.
Death and Life, Life and Death-
Religion and Atheism, Nobel and Booker,
Make us proud and shiver,
Make us happy, rob us of gaiety,
Shoot all our fragile hopes to artistic acme.
Smash all our favourite dreams to smithereens.
The Ganga meanders amidst a maze of
Ripples, crest and trough-
With a dour askance,
With a nonsensical exterior,
At the dead of night,
The hoary-headed ***** rises,
To take stock of pelf,
He keeps in hiding,
Looka yonder, the man with a rice plate in his shack
Stirs out of his lumber, in a jiffy,
Dawns cracks, leaves rustle, breezes whistles,
The nightingale still chirps coo, coo, coo....
Breaking the calm of a nostalgic daybreak.
Love buffoonery, antics of sweet urchin,
Effrontery, betrayal, self-destructive urge,
Blinds love toting niggling details of despair
In it's womb.
A silver of modernism, none can deny,
Gleaning the core of every 'ism' in it's *****
Roads, alleys crisscross, end of tunnel seems dark.
At least, a hairpin bend,
Across the debris of a fresh landslide,
A ray of hope, a shaft of optimism,
A changed universe, a reclaimed Utopia.
Coming true!
-Subhanjan Saha
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
The receding horizon,
The fading light of day,
Azure taking a livid hue.
Pokhran's hot, scorching sand,
A lash on our moribund logic.
Death and Life, Life and Death-
Religion and Atheism, Nobel and Booker,
Make us proud and shiver,
Make us happy, rob us of gaiety,
Shoot all our fragile hopes to artistic acme.
Smash all our favourite dreams to smithereens.
The Ganga meanders amidst a maze of
Ripples, crest and trough-
With a dour askance,
With a nonsensical exterior,
At the dead of night,
The hoary-headed ***** rises,
To take stock of pelf,
He keeps in hiding,
Looka yonder, the man with a rice plate in his shack
Stirs out of his lumber, in a jiffy,
Dawns cracks, leaves rustle, breezes whistles,
The nightingale still chirps coo, coo, coo....
Breaking the calm of a nostalgic daybreak.
Love buffoonery, antics of sweet urchin,
Effrontery, betrayal, self-destructive urge,
Blinds love toting niggling details of despair
In it's womb.
A silver of modernism, none can deny,
Gleaning the core of every 'ism' in it's *****
Roads, alleys crisscross, end of tunnel seems dark.
At least, a hairpin bend,
Across the debris of a fresh landslide,
A ray of hope, a shaft of optimism,
A changed universe, a reclaimed Utopia.
Coming true!
-Subhanjan Saha
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
if you happen to need traction
you gotta come to Booker One
broken hip, mama, you need a pin
Richard screws and bucks are in
bed pan baby, don't say maybe
if you happen to get in an accident
you got your skeleton all messed up
when the ambulance comes tell 'em just what you need
it's the Booker One Orthopedic Remedy
bed pan baby, don't say maybe
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
Anonymous is a funny name
for a writer on an Opt-Ed page.
I'd want a by line I suppose
if I were going to step on toes.
I know the President would glower
to find me speaking truth to power.
He'd say "You're fired!" on the spot
but I 'd have my verbal parting shot.
Hashtag "Not Me" is all you hear
from senior officials who quake in fear.
Yet if computers can disclose
by close analysis of prose
what Shakespeare did or didn't write
I'm sure the identity will come to light.
I think the turncoat might be named "Dan"
but I'm not willing to take the stand.
Cory Booker, who knows the law,
still thinks it must be Kavenaugh.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 8:18 AM UTC
not much of a story...
it's only half past 10, and it's a saturday...
but i have two litres of dark *** with me,
and a bottle of hoisin sauce...
shit's gonna get dangerous
down in the kitchen...
some pork is going to get slaughtered...
and if i get my hands on some
booker t. and the mg's?
and then fry some rice, and add some eggs?
you're going to be talking to marlon brando...
without the cotton-balls stuffed into his cheeks
to speak, like he spoke, when filming
the godfather...
could have smoked 20 packets
of marlboros... and you'd still get the huskies...
and the sledge... and a holiday in alaska...
never mind.
hoisin sauce though? that's the dog's ********
it goes down well with duck... chicken?
to bland... but i'm guessing will pork will go
down well with the sauce.
otherwise? z.z. top me...
i only learned yesterday,
what a boilermaker was...
apparently a shot of whiskey
followed by a beer...
nothing quiete like al pacino in
the 1971 film, the panic in needle park...
this is going to be a feast... i can feel it...
what do michelin star chefs eat when they get home?
some simple grub... probably egg on toast...
i hardly think they're spectacular in their
choice of edibles to replicate their restaurant outputs...
for them it's probably like:
if it ain't done in 15 minutes... i'm not eating it.
hoisin? yep, that's to replace the sweet chili sauce.
then there's the 2 litres of ***
well... i'm pretty sure one of the litres is for tomorrow.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 5:38 PM UTC
“If you are silent about your pain, they’ll **** you and say you enjoyed it.” - Zora Neale Hurston
The older we become the more often karma comes to visit.
"Life can be a ***** but you got to be tough and kick its ***
Love is a storm of intense feelings
“Prejudice is like the old skin of a snake. It has to be removed bit by bit.”
"It is better to be alone than to be in bad company.” - Booker T. Washington
“The more you know of your history, the more liberated you are." - Maya Angelou
“A culture is a total way of life."
“God and Nature first made us what we are, and then out of our own created genius we make ourselves what we want to be." - Marcus Garvey
“Never forget that intelligence rules the world and ignorance carries the burden." - Marcus Garvey
“The only protection against INJUSTICE in man is POWER".
“A man’s bread and butter is only insured when he works for it.” - Marcus Garvey
“Your crown has been bought and paid for. All you must do is put it on.” - James Baldwin
"Where hate flourishes, all are corrupted. Where injustice reins, all are unequal.”
“The hardest work in the world is being out of work.”
“History teaches us that unity is strength, and cautions us to submerge and overcome our differences in the quest for common goals".
“The oppressed will always believe the worst about themselves.”
“Leadership does not mean **********
“…The truth itself does not have any name on it. And each man has to find it for himself."
“Sometimes it’s worse to win a fight than to lose.” - Billie Holiday
“Ethnicity should enrich us; it should make us a unique people in our diversity and not be used to divide us.”
“Dreams and reality are opposites. Action synthesizes them.”
“The world has improved mostly because unorthodox people did unorthodox things." - Ruby Dee
“Find your voice.”
“The emotional, ****** and psychological stereotyping of females begins when the doctor says: ‘It’s a girl.'” - Shirley Chisholm
"Politics is nothing but war without bloodshed and war is nothing but politics with bloodshed.”
“Memories of our lives, of our works and our deeds will continue in others.” - Rosa Parks
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 1:17 PM UTC
My sister’s a mister. She cares for her plants,
Her orchids from Cuba, Tahiti, or France.
She grows lovely children entirely from scratch
In homemade production runs, two to the batch.
She teaches the women of her little town
To belly, to yoga, to boogie on down.
She’s always found living alone such a bore;
A harvest of husbands – she’s on number four.
She drives a Miata with careless aplomb,
The very ideal of a hot soccer mom.
But me, I was thinking of how to invent
A Booker prize novel to cover my rent,
Or lysergic rhapsodies for the guitar
Or finally learning to drive in a car.
The hours spurted onward in skips and in bounds,
Years twirling away down a hole in the ground;
How gently appalling my ultimate fate,
To grow wispy white whiskers, and sit on a gate.
She spins on the dance floor like wind on the wing,
To Western and Latin and Manhattan Swing;
Her elegant limbs grace the South Jersey beaches,
And people go mad for her raspberry quiches.
Her daughter (my niece) with her blue eyes so dear
Sets the upper crust of Baltimore on its ear,
While her brother my nephew is cutting a swath, (um)
Through the au courant circles of fashionable Gotham.
That’s my sister, triumphing wherever she goes,
And she never had anything done to her nose.
But me, I was dreaming up world-shifting rubrics,
Or imagining screenplays to shame all the Kubricks;
My ****** could make you explode in your jammies,
And my song lyrics won theoretical Grammys.
Of invisible kingdoms I was the past master,
I walked with Elijah, I lunched Zoroaster.
Yet somehow I find myself at this late date
With my brain in the clouds, and my *** on a gate.
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 1:37 PM UTC
The more things changes.
The more they stay the same.
Have society really changed.
Or we just doing lip services to it.
Thelma, Florida, Michael, James and JJ spotlighted truth upon good times.
Only ones confused, are those deciding to be blind?
Unemployed, abusive officers upon the force holds truth today.
And it continue because in various eyes of society.
They can't see no wrong.
Wionna, Booker and various others of the show were the voice of many.
If restriction was enforced racism would be our only voice.
Where you mouth off your opinions about others you barely know?
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 10:28 AM UTC
No matter how dire it gets,
no matter how despairing,
no matter how forlorn, how hopeless,
no matter how little reason there seems to be to go on,
Kendrick Lamar spat fire and spoke truth,
at least for a few years,
as did a few hundred other contemporaneous artists
who laid it down on the track.
Emily Dickinson
did not stop for death or thee,
but prolifically tackled issues
of universal import in her lapidary recluse's verse.
Chakaia Booker turned shredded tires into museum centerpieces,
hunted spirits, eluded the chimera of consumption,
forged reclaimed rubber into toughness,
a rough-hewn canvas for a displaced people.
You can have nothing going for you,
nothing substantial to look forward to,
nothing above to guide you,
nothing but averted eyes on the street and professional shame,
but still be transported away
by a few glorious minutes of song or poetry or sculpture.
When there's nothing else, there's always art.
No matter what, there's always art.
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 4:29 AM UTC
I take a pledge
To support Buttigieg
In all his future pursuits
It’s a thrillah
To support Kamila
And her justice crusades
Elizabeth Ann can
It’s guaranteed
and warranted
He’s a looker,
That Booker
Way to fly high, guy!
Hit or hold?
Time to fold and
Lose the Beto
I don’t feel
The Bern, sir; not
Not throwing away my shot
You as placeholder?
Take it slow, Joe
Steal the show
Sep 3, 2019
Sep 3, 2019 at 7:06 PM UTC
was a time when black chattel
was inheritance
like cattle,
like silver and gold
herded and sold
on auction blocks
to the highest bidder
going once,
going twice,
sold...
to the cotton king
and his kin
from florida’s keys
to the lochs of kentucky
wealth flowed like the Mississippi
filling white wells with prosperity
four centuries
and more
as seminal droughts rained
cyclones of poverty
on the black side of town
no gold
would be handed down
to the kin
of booker t and harriet...
only slivers of hope.
~ P
Dec 30, 2019
Dec 30, 2019 at 8:05 AM UTC
The Dems duked it out last week.
The Democratic debate number three.
At the current time we have
Quite a political potpourri.
Cory Booker had his moments
Of passionate insight, charm, and wit.
Although his polling numbers are down,
Booker showed that he's got grit.
Klobuchar's our Minnesotan.
While sometimes others appear misguided,
She reminds us all what happens
To any house that is divided.
Warren has her plan for this
And her plan for that, which is fine.
Can she keep up the fight and maintain
The strength to toe the party line?
Harris displayed pluck and resolve.
When she speaks, she's on fire.
It's just curious as to why
Her polling numbers are not higher.
One surprise was Beto O'Rourke.
Beto fans have to rejoice:
This prospective candidate
Has all of a sudden found his voice.
Without a doubt, one of the best
Speakers standing there on the stage
Was our veteran Mayor Pete,
Extremely wise for someone his age.
Although Biden is high in the polling,
At times his answers seem disjointed.
I start with high expectations,
But end up feeling disappointed.
Castro went after Joe Biden.
But sadly Castro's condemnation
Appeared to come less from strength
And more out of desperation.
Yang has managed to keep afloat.
But what's this crazy idea he has
About wanting to buy your vote?
A little political razzmatazz?
Bernie, well…Bernie's Bernie.
But why does he have to be so gruff?
After his rants, one wants to say,
"Enough already, Bernie, enough!"
It's early still and hard to know
Who will advance and who will flop.
But I would vote for ANYONE
Over the current man at the top!
-by Bob B (9-15-19)
Sep 15, 2019
Sep 15, 2019 at 3:10 PM UTC