"breadwinners" poems
The honey in the lion sounds like a delicious thing––
a gentle balm capable of subduing
the cruellest of monsters.
According to the stars and tattooed,
you fancied yourself king of the jungle––
lazy in hot African afternoons.
Golden and tawn with sleepy sun-gold eyes,
shaggy mane, muzzle red with
the blood of a gazelle.
Did you think me such easy prey?
Or was I so much fermented honey,
only a sweet intoxicant.
Sun warmth seeps from jungles of cold concrete.
I mistook your gargoyle wings
for those of a guardian angel’s.
I overlooked your rough skin, your
crooked hawk nose and your skinny ribs,
and assigned fine things in you that didn’t exist.
So duped, I acquiesced to your slimy kiss.
Your mouth a neglected cemetery,
teeth a row of mossy tombstones.
Vampire. Incubus. Your seduction like grotesque death.
You named me tempest in a teacup,
but I was the eye of the storm.
Until the night the eye was eradicated,
and the storm blew in,
striking me dumb with your sound and fury.
But no spattered blood and no spreading bruise
to be found in the pattern of the kaleidoscope.
No cause for alarm.
Today I am lost in a picture show,
a beautiful world coloured by nostalgic past.
Women’s lips the vivid red print of a velvet valentine.
Head in the Clouds, I fantasize about a certain scene.
Because you think violence is ****
retaliation – ********** in my dream.
Give me an eye for my eye,
for all the eyes you plucked, from women and breadwinners.
Give me blood running down your back, sweet as honey.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
Rocket red robots and tincan screws
Light up the night with sparks,
Which I love.
The workers work and the sleepers,
They sleep forever.
Making rye for the breadwinners,
Making toasty socks for the children,
Making copper caps and wee brass booties,
But won't let them take a wee stroll,
Not in contrary Mary's garden.
The kettleheads squeal and the bronze bucket chests,
They hum with drums in their stomachs,
Candygloss paint trickles onto
The sprockets below with their sharp teeth,
Teeth that creep over the outmodes and candy red.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
Concern I am as a mother of three
of young girls and young boys, of today you see
Their parents wake up as early as 3
Spend time at work night and day
Hours of strenuous day
of hot and cold sweat ,
drains most of their energy ,
cooks their brain half dead
just to own some money
the sole breadwinners for family
a total responsibility,
unwritten committment never a burden
for the sake of love for family..sons and daughters
So dear young sons and daughters
Remember to value your parents sacrifices
not only for the material worth
but for their wisdom and virtues
the tears of blood that sometimes fall
to make you human and man of your own
but look at yourself today and ask
how much love have you sacrificed?
to honor these two great people
who'd given everything for you, even their life
to even write a word or two
to appreciate their love and compliment their good deeds
in a form of prose, haiku or poetry
instead everyday you declare to the whole world outside
look this is my man or the woman I love
till death do us part... till eternity
Your parents who've raised
and known you your whole young life
is no longer priority?
How pathetic.. how unfortunate... how sad..
for a second try to put yourselves
in your parents shoes....
imagine their smiles if they are reassured
that your love for them
is not number two....
so... do think wise!
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
I was pulled from the comfort
of sleep and warmth by my
father's voice from the floor
below. "Double-time girl,
we're going to be late!"
I hurried down the stairs
of our home to slip into
winter boots and zip up
my puffy winter coat.
In the garage, my dad was
already in his gray van.
I opened the passenger door,
climbed up over the rusted
rims and plopped into the
seat next to him. The cold
raced to reach my body. I
buried my bare hands in my
sleeves and prayed my wet hair
wouldn't freeze into icicles. I
could feel the stitches of the
leather pressing through my jeans.
Even they were cold.
My father's figure sat hunched in
the seat next to me. He gripped
the steering wheel with black
gloves. Staring forward,
he considered big things:
chemical structs and his
wife's lingering debt.
A familiar melody began to
waft out of the radio. Oops.
That meant that I had made
us late to school...again.
At 7:35 each morning
Garrison Keillor's voice
spoke on something my
parent's called the Writer's
Almanac. I listened with
fascination to his voice,
which seemed to promise
each listener an afternoon
backstroke through the
milky way and the strength
to land, with grace, on Earth's
hard ground.
Out my window,
I watched the early-morning
breadwinners rushing to buy
their fuel: gasoline
and coffee. I wondered
if I could ever be good
enough, worth enough to be
mentioned by Keillor.
What could I do? What
would make me special?
Should I write poetry?
The episode came to a
well-known, comfortable
close: "Be well, do good
work, and keep in touch."
I hoped to do just that.
My dad's sudden voice
brought me back to his
shaky van. ****
He too had been
wondering.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
As the winds howl
The birds scatter
Dogs start to growl
And the windows shatter
Autumn approached quickly
Signalling the end of summer
Crops dry out
A bad harvest for breadwinners
Stale, cold food fills the table
Warmed by only a candle in the middle
Still air indicates the silence in the room
A harsh winter was approaching
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 2:00 PM UTC
I learned to read and write at school.
I educated myself during my traveling and adventures .
I learned to swim well but it was in life's whirlpool
From thugs in the streets I got my lectures
Life provided me with the courses
My Failures harden my resolves
I got taught by my personal experiences
To get my bread I had to join pack like the wolves .
My tests were my challenges ,help came from no connection.
I failed a few courses and had to do remainders .
Yet through it all , I persevered grace to my street education ,
I was promoted to the class of those called breadwinners .
Somehow I knew my only way out was to hustle
So I set out to find myself but missed my way many times
I ate grass ,lighted trees ,ran the streets to beat the struggle
From the streets I learned to calculate my nickles and dimes .
I discovered poetry from the greatest book called the Bible ,
Written by the author and finisher of my faith , Jah most high
After writing my first poetry thru prayers ,I knew I was able
Thank God for the school of life ,I know everything will be aight !
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Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
16 August, 2012,
Today, we speak,
And today, we act,
We are tired of working like animals,
They stressed,
We are tired of being treated as such,
They asserted,
Today, all that will end,
They declared,
Indeed “today”, all that ended,
As like animals, “today” they were slaughtered and recklessly,
On the soil under which lay their livelihood,
Away from their comfort zones,
Away from where their naval cords were buried,
Subjected to undignified deaths that had no honor,
While politicians and capitalists farted in their comfortable seats,
And like animals, they were forgotten,
The grandchildren of Black ancestry,
The poor hardworking breadwinners of their poor families,
Plunging their lives into sheer deep insignificance,
Shame Black men of honor,
Shame!
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC