"whitewashing" poems
Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
Ordinary words in ordinary order
Slouch across the page unnoticed
Mundane metaphors and trite observations
Destroy catch phrases with every old saw
Memes are dragged behind overused hashtags
Until they morph into yesterday’s news
Dusty and bent and soiled on the edges
Same ole rehash of the same ole crap
Whitewashing the fence of involvement
The old wive’s tales are alternative facts
That dance to the tune of an illiterate piper
In a boring routine choreographed by
A sullen pre-teen who finds herself grounded.
Wherever you’re going,
You can’t get there from here.
ljm
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 8:44 AM UTC
Look at me.Let my skin tell you a story of pain and suffering, let my eyes give you sight and show you my history. And it's odd to me because as history goes I know of her struggle but not her name, my great grandmama's face, nor my great grandfather stern gaze. My history was ripped from me then handed back in a textbook, like a stolen jewel being given back as a gift from its captors. They try to cultivate and appropriate my culture like it's a shirt that fits them better. You asked me what I'm mixed with because you see my blackness as something to be covered. But my blackness is not ***** that needs a chaser, it is not a ***** car that needs a little whitewashing and a paint job.
You asked me what I'm mixed with so here is my response; I am mixed with melanin and love swlirled into chocolate beauty. I'm mixed with strength and pride, fierce do I roar with the voice of the wise ancestors who gave birth to hope for my grandma, my mommy, and me. I am one part black and ninety nine parts victory. I am not a tragedy of circumstance I am a product of excellence. You ask me if I am mixed because you think I'm to pretty to just be black. Here's a news flash, I am pretty because I'm black! From the kinks of my curls to the dance in my toes, I am designed from the roots of the earth. In tune with its gravitational pull.
Everyone knows the moon only shines in the blackness of night. Stop trying to force an eclipse because they don't last anyway, only burn out to be surrounded by the blackness once more. You asked me what I'm mixed with, allow me the same courtesy. Are you mixed? What are you mixed with? Fear, hate, rage, disgust, or shame? I don't assume any of these for a wise woman once said, " people are diamonds made up of different pressure some in different measures and if you don't know don't judge for it is not your contest." I am on a conquest of love and redemption. I won't blame you for your ancestors but I will hold you to a certain standard.
So before you ask me what I am mixed with, think. Does it even matter?pretty is pretty so don't you dare come at a Nubian goddess cross eyed or tongue-tied, prepared to gain insight of her bloodline. She will shatter all illusion, destroy all thoughts of doubt. She will tell you she is black. She will say it in a song song voice because of the melody ringing in her soul when she makes this known. It will roll off her tongue like honey. For no other words ever tasted so sweet. She is a black queen. Mixed with blood and bones.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
Anathema's flag
flies no more?
Save at half-mast
in the hearts of diehard's;
forever, 'general-ly'. (lee)
Will Kromantse (Cromatin) blood rise
to salute this gesture?
Will it change our children's future?
Waged (media) war,
whitewashing the *****
a creed
of socio-economic
greed.
© Qwey.ku
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
the fever of the evening comes upon us
and again we find ourselves into the cups
half drunk, half in love, but never full enough
and the words we discuss
cut
revealing fresh blood, warm to the touch
the taste of salt and iron on the tongue
speaking what we whisper in our waking lives
with a certainty that would make sober hands
tremble
as I listen I can feel your potential
in subtle pauses and hope soaked syllables
I do not want this night to weigh upon us
I do not want your words to mean nothing
tomorrow
the morning sun will rise, whitewashing drunk lies
do not allow these dreams of other lives to die
for every second you wait is but another grain
escaping your grasp into the abyss of time
live
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
The king of cover-up is at it again,
Downplaying financial ties
And close connections with other countries,
Especially when questions arise.
First it was with Putin and Russia.
How much collusion remains to be seen.
Conspiracy in election meddling?
Whitewashing is now routine.
And then there was the hush-money
To cover-up some hanky-panky.
Dissimulation's easy when
You've got money in the banky.
It looks as though you must deny
And try to hide actions you rue,
But calling your fling "horse face," is that
A gentlemanly thing to do?
Now the cover-up deals with the Saudis--
With the crown prince and the Saudi king.
Denial…admittance…rogue players…
It has such a familiar ring.
After bragging over and over
About the millions of dollars he's made
From wealthy Saudis, his words are now
Exploding like a hand grenade.
When the leader has conflicts of interest,
Critics, pundits, and others who know
Where his interests really lie,
Shrug and say, "We told you so!"
He says he has a "natural instinct
For science." Isn't THAT a joke!
I wish his "natural instinct" was for
Telling the truth whenever he spoke.
-by Bob B (10-18-18)
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
Fluttering at shutter speed.
Is it my heart inside my chest,
or my lungs palpitating.
It is my veins.
Rushing with blood, or collapsing for lack of.
It is my stomach. Eating away its own lining;
Acidic paint splattered across its walls. Whitewashing them
With every sporadic convulsion I feel.
A fortnight,
No sleep.
When I do sleep, I do not sleep.
I am depressed. Unhappy. Not entertained.
Overly-dramatic.
Questioning every decision I’ve ever made about life,
I inflate with anger.
I think about opportunities passed.
I revolt with envy when I see artists prevail.
I am a miserable **** brimming with unseen talent.
I miss cigarettes.
I miss *******
Cheap whiskey and grinding my teeth
until 2 in the afternoon when my bloodshot eyes’ll tell you more
than you could ever learn reading my palms.
Fake prophesies of people who never really cared,
and rooms lit up with cheap disco lights and moist carpets.
Perfectly ripened with mildew and sweat and DNA.
The saved lives of unborn infants.
The lucky few.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 7:39 PM UTC
I am red clay
I am not lost
Because everywhere, I am
Stretching out to you
To keep me grounded
So I myself won't be eroded
By whitewashing
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
Mountain slopes clad in snow,
plains and paths covered in snow,
sloping roofs layered with snow,
tall pine trees sprayed with snow,
and fallen pine cones enveloped in snow.
There’s a calm but eerie stillness
and all over - an innocent and pure whiteness
stretching as far as the eyes can see.
The street, the sidewalk, the children’s park -
all covered by a white carpet.
In the diffuse sunlight
the whiteness does completely reflect.
Little kids leave tiny footprints
on the carpet of snow.
They indulge in snowball fights
from the top of the slide and below.
Red, blue, yellow, orange and green
Snowsuits, mittens and caps
are everywhere seen.
Older children go sledging
on the steep white slopes
on colorful sledges dotting the snowy terrain.
The air is fresh, crisp and cold
Whiteness, whiteness everywhere; behold!
In the midst of all the fun and mirth
Let’s thank Heaven for whitewashing the Earth.
Gita Ashok
9/10/2010, 3 pm
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 1:53 AM UTC
Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
I love a blank canvas
how it focuses the eyes.
It’s black and white without
the usual vestige of messy
attention-grabbing details.
We’ll color those in later,
spending our creative time
whitewashing it with the precision
of our own nervous perfectionism.
We’ll strip away minimalism for cultural
resonance and focus the razor attention
of ‘couture’ obsession and wider comment.
.
.
Songs for this:
Just Exist by Eliza & The Delusionals
Groceries by Mallrat
Feb 12, 2025
Feb 12, 2025 at 11:54 PM UTC
Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
.
Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
I'm going to change today
going to change the way
I am
I'm not sure why but
I am going to try.
There comes a time
after the
drugs and the *** and the wine
when your body's in decline and
you're really ****** about
living the life of
a hedonist.
The heresy's here
in the beer and
it's really quite clear,
I'm going to change today
rearrange the way I am
become the difference
in the difference
of the man.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
They've turned my life to boredom
By whitewashing all walls green;
I will not let them in my bedroom
Where they'll mess with my dreams.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
Each day begins with
The type of thoughts that
I’d rather not disclose because
You may think i’m ****** or
Just kind of indisposed
I read somewhere the gene for
Artistry carries a Foe
A higher predisposition for these
Thoughts that make me groan and
Some say this disordered thinking simply
Means I’m contemplative even
Intelligent or
Just closed off to the thought of being
Content
Aint that a word
The idea to be content to be
Ok with all the things i’ve done
Satisfied with my work enough to
Say it’s good enough?
No not something i can do
As an Artist I spend my days lying in
Contempt of my own mind
Brilliantly undefined to the point of
Madness
Painting for hours on end
Looking up when the suns gone down
Massaging numbness from cold fingers
Writing pages by lamplight
Tearing papers in frustration
Whitewashing paintings in a fit of
Inadequacy
As an Artist
Nothing you do will ever be the best
Not even your best
A constant crushing cacaphony of all the potential and possibilities
If youre like me you know
Every second you’re betraying your own potential to do better
Every moment not improving is a moment disrespecting
What you were given
But every moment working to improve is hellish
Scrapping line after line of useless poetry and
Smudged up paintings
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 11:18 PM UTC
dear politicians,
stop weaving a web of excuses to save our planet.
climate scientists have warned that we only have 12 years to limit a climate change catastrophe.
in 12 years, i'll be 26.
i'll have left university,
finally gotten the hang of my job
and all that will immediately be snatched away
because you don't want to stop spinning your wheel of excuses. you say you're doing all you can, but are you?
because i think we're failing.
every night i stare up at the ceiling and think about how because of your selfishness,
my life may be cut short.
stop whitewashing everything.
world peace and chaos are on two sides of a coin.
every time a new catastrophe is presented,
you flip the coin
and the world holds its breath
only for it to always land on chaos.
i want to be a teacher.
i want to teach tomorrow's children.
but why am i studying for a future that might not even be mine to have?
every day my prospects are slowly slipping away.
i'm being taught that money is the most important thing in my life.
work is more important than my well-being.
so in 12 years when i'm 26,
i want us to have limited this climate change catastrophe.
and i will teach tomorrow's children
that my well-being is more important than my work
and money is not the most important thing in my life.
we will be the spiders
that weave the web of truth and peace.
not you.
we will leave the world in a better place than we found it
for the future generation.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 6:14 PM UTC
They have tried to turn the language of your body
into ***** words, calling
your strength, grace of motion–
your poetry,
“Black Magic”.
But, Dark Art is that whitewashing illusion.
Misdirection.
Magic
is whatever color you see when you look in the mirror.
So, they slip their mirrors into your pockets,
commandeer the covers of magazines,
and big screens.
They costume in your clothing, your words, your art and artifact.
Keep you chasing shadows and slurs.
I want to say to you,
you need no one’s permission
to shatter glass,
take up space,
to outperform the top-hatted man blowing smoke from his stage.
Tell him to
Move. Over.
Unmask his ball-gowned, silent accomplices.
If publicness is not being shared,
it is being stolen.
Carry on.
Perform your magic in every spotlight.
I will stand aside,
and shout down your imposters.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 11:48 AM UTC