(Source: suaved)
Love’s Hamartia
When skin’s like butter
Deliberate fingertips leave impressions
When Love’s Hamartia reemerged
Engraftments arose as chills
To see her… enchanted
Half moon eyes reminiscent,
Stomped smiles from hearts
Still. Hamartia’s alluring touch…
Visceral. Love’s opening envelopes
Trapped, orifice to pore
Sapped joyful while amidst
Memory seeped, swaddled anguish
Miss Theron (Black Hollywood rebuttal)
Let’s keep this shyt in perspective
Your perspective is not our perspective
Its merely, speculative, your opinion about black hollywood
You ever been there
Took the tour
They lay out the red carpet & order a buffet and a bouquet
Or was it a 10 foot subway split between the cast, the crew & you
Miss Theron, in black hollywood
Did you see the sights
Full sets on half budgets
Most main actors lighter than the paper bagged lunch they carry
Extras crispy, back ground
One liners, bafooned, cooned
In the 21st century
Black hollywood, did it match the illusion of main street
Feigned that existence of a handful of directors and a plethora of colorful talents
How do you know so well a place you’ve never been
Because this place barely exists
Like shangralah, it appears on screen
Once in a blue moon w/ blood red streaks as a comet lights up the sky
& in order for this event
White hollywood grabs 60% of the pie
Miss Theron
Having Faith & favor is an awesome concoction…
The passing of music…
The death of childhood
Memories that hold together a time
… we can not get back
Yet… I look back
Etta, MJ, Vesta, … Teena, RIP to DJ’s
Don laid tracks over bridges to pass
… through, now burned, gone
& I’m hurt
Devastated
Black music debilitated,
…passing away
Weeping not for an unreachable star
Yet a childhood laid to rest
Connected to the hardest time
… Music once
illuminated, Sublime
Why is music dying?
Barely surviving… Clearly trying
… faint pulse
limp thump… An allegory
Clear…
_________/\___/\_ algorithmically
bump bump, rhythmically
Revive me,
resuscitating, communicate
… Love
A love for music that doesn’t allow
frequencies below 433 but lifted to
vibrate at & above 528
As god, We create
… harmony or cacophony
Musics’ passing is weighty
unbalanced in me
I watch it…
Music
…drown in its own shyt
gasped in horror wishing to save it
clasped tightly to the past
Like music ripped away, I’m torn
Gripped emotionally
…with the loss of Whitney
Music… tore a page from my book
& its passing secretly
Unknowingly,
…laid to rest a peace in me
Living or just waiting to die
Occupying time until it flies
Technically alive…
living just enough, doing just enough
Making it, getting by, getting through
Not just layman’s terms
yet a lazy mans terms
Attempting to make a life in between
the does & don’t(s).
Admitting they, the best laid plans,
intermingle drops of disappointments & want(s).
The game of life is meant to be won
A conquering of life’s purpose & the details in the midst
The essence of what holds it all together
The paths & patterns we brand into the fabric of time
& traveling to the distant origins,
our mind… we fly
In not having restraints of imagination
It takes some work
Finding God is a joy
Knowing God is a bitch
Being god is an honor
Some buckle under the illusion of blasphemy
Not fully understanding the nature of who they are
In the universe, I stand alone
because we are one
The us is forever the I
The me is but a temporary vehicle
Its a blessing, I get to do it in heaven & the earth
as flesh & Spirit simultaneously
(Source: phinephenix)
I wonder if I could be your miracle…
… I wonder if I can spare you pain~ Whitney … Rest in Peace & much love to you
“The Last Holiday,” published eight months after Scott-Heron’s death at 62, provides sharp oratorical examinations of the American social contract as well as…memories and celebrity encounters. At some point in the second half of his life, he became a crack addict; his career and ambitions and relationships suffered for it…
more.
(Source: thesmithian)
Talaam Acey’s “The Perfect Poem” … for my Dragon, reach for the stars but enjoy the ride … I love U~
JackN4tweets
*giggles* 9 years ago I did the latter phrase——> “@LesbianRealTalk: Some women are harmless, some are a danger to your sanity…but there are some women that your soul craves & they scare the hell outta you”
Untitled work in progress…
An effervescent remnant of God the Universe, we are…
This soul in us is merely a pore of Creation
Breathing, expanding & expelling
We are the forfeited cells released & washed away @ death
Fertilizing & replenishing the soil @ the anchor of existence
Absorbed back into the essence of knowing all, being all
We are regurgitated thus regenerated & perfected as waste
Elements of God broken into the purest form
Not imperfect, not unbalanced
An example of
Ingredients added in but not mixed
Anticipating the blending after osmosis
Holding a space to be assimilated into Greatness
The antithesis of human existence
Via this double sided moon
of effeminancy
The reflection of
A hermophitic display
Not light vs dark
Yet two sides of the same coin
There is something about watching poets in session, hearing their cadences and tone, the passion as words slip off their tongues, and watching their facial expressions that combine to make one appreciate the truly compelling power of poetry.
It was thus easy to see, on Monday 19, why the Uganda Female Writers Association (Femrite) chose to crown the year by treating members of its Readers and Writers Club to a literary interaction caked with poetry fascinating recitals.
The Femrite Readers Club meets every Monday, and on the last Monday of the month, an established writer dubbed “author of the month” is invited to share his/her writing experiences and field questions from the club members.
Last Monday, the honour of author-of-the-month fell on Mildred Kiconco Barya, a UK-based Ugandan author, who is acclaimed for her two poetry anthologies: Men Love Chocolates But They Don’t Say (2002) and The Price of Memory: After the Tsunami (2006). In 2008, she won the Pan African Literary Forum Prize for African Fiction.
