Gods expectorant unfrocking priests
Heavens elixir epitomising the broken lamp of truth
Purging the liasing humours of bane angels
Enlightening deaths harbinger conjuring berevity
Under colour of nothingness as shadows birth
Unabated yonder the gate of unfoldenment
Billowing illuminous damnation as
Black as thunder unforetold expelling
Transgressions red-letter day, conquested
Deciduously in the teeth of the wind
Extinguishing hand over fist corrupt valedictorianism
Delving hell for levity eluding the copious
Breaking butterflies on the wheel
Of righteousness conspiring as sure as
God made little apples to show
The vale cloven hoof woe betide
The tope of man friday

time leads up everything
proof is the story of a might king
he was destined to be a prince in royal
but was turned down by some,who he thought were loyal
he forgot love and became a ruthless warrior
conquested many kingdom and resumed his career
he built his own empire and sat on its mighty throne
where even those traitors had to lower their tone
but now ti me mercilessly asked him to descend
and immediately his sword fell marking his end
he worked hard and made the whole world his's
but time didn't leave him to enjoy this
                              look how cruel time is??!??

Someone was watching Drozen and Dragon-Man headed for a confrontation.
And cursed that the Faceless Tongues did not choose him to battle the Federation.
But he was trapped in the Perishment Cave, and the Faceless Tongues had said.
There will be no peace, until the Federation and Dragon-Power are all dead.
We will choose Drozen, a mercenary who will add Earth to the Conquested Universe.
This being could not protest because he would never be able to get there first.
But through the Foresight Waters, he could see that the Federation was assembling.
The Legate, a voice called out in the darkness of the Acider  Flames to mention
How would we free you, all of our potions are impotent against this fire heat.
The Legate replied, I can stand the heat, but the darkness is too blinding.
Suddenly a dark shadow arrived with beast of burden and said, To rescue you is my assignment.
These are Magaian tiger-hounds, who can eat both the flames and the darkness.
We will then go and make a Scimita barter at the Logre markets.
And why should I trust you, The Legate said as he sat down in the fire.
Because Dragon-Man is the Oathed Sacrifice and he belongs on the altar pier.

What is your name, The Legate asked, and he said, I am Dialect.
I was a Faceless Tongue but they kicked me out because I had no respect.
But in truth, it was the entire council that transgressed against me
And once we finish off Dragon-Man and Drozen, we will go after the Faceless Tongues harshly.
The Legate said, You may proceed, and the Magaian Tiger-Hounds proceeded to eat through.
Dialect took the Legate’s out of the remnant of the Foresight Waters to meet his crew.
Dialect waved his hand and said, These are the brave warriors who live to die for you.
I will be your Warmonger General, and together you will see this is the best decision.
The Legate stepped to the edge of the Hapsumed Mountain and shouted, The Legate is Risen!

Chirlane McCray   (b. 1954)

I used to think
I can’t be a poet
because a poem is being everything you can be
in one moment,
speaking with lightning protest
unveiling a fiery intellect
or letting the words drift feather-soft
into the ears of strangers
who will suddenly understand
my beautiful and tortured soul.
But, I’ve spent my life as a Black girl
a *****-headed, no-haired,
fat-lipped,
big-bottomed Black girl
and the poem will surely come out wrong
like me.

And, I don’t want everyone looking at me.

If I could be a cream-colored lovely
with gypsy curls,
someone’s pecan dream and sweet sensation,
I’d be poetry in motion
without saying a word
and wouldn’t have to make sense if I did.
If I were beautiful, I could be angry and cute
instead of an evil, pouting mammy *****
a ****** woman, passed over
conquested and passed over,
a ****** woman
to do it to in the bushes.

My mother tells me
I used to run home crying
that I wanted to be light like my sisters.
She shook her head and told me
there was nothing wrong with my color.
She didn’t tell me I was pretty
(so my head wouldn’t swell up).

Black girls cannot afford to
have illusions of grandeur,
not ***-kicking, too-loud-laughing,
mean and loose Black girls.

And even though in Afrika
I was mistaken for someone’s fine sister or cousin
or neighbor down the way,
even though I swore
never again to walk with my head down,
ashamed,
never to care
that those people who celebrate
the popular brand of beauty
don’t see me,
it still matters.

Looking for a job, it matters.
Standing next to my lover
when someone light gets that
“she ain’t nothin come home with me” expression
it matters.

But it’s not so bad now.
I can laugh about it,
trade stories and write poems
about all those put-downs,
my rage and hiding.
I’m through waiting for minds to change,
the 60’s didn’t put me on a throne
and as many years as I’ve been
Black like ebony
Black like the night
I have seen in the mirror
and the eyes of my sisters
that pretty is the woman in darkness
who flowers with loving.

©1983 Chirlane McCray