| Author | Message | ||
     Rondall Moderator Username: Rondall Post Number: 66 Registered: 01-2004 Rating: N/A |
Kola this is for you... Yet... In a wink of eternity... "yet" is a mighty long time. It is time measured by the weight of longing for something, anything... just out of reach. Waiting... hangs. Affixed to a listless heart, on a given day that you cannot forget... nor remember. Yet... may never come, but the waiting... will always keep you company. Rondall | ||
| Kola_boof "Cyniquian" Level Poster Username: Kola_boof Post Number: 323 Registered: 02-2005 Rating: N/A |
Wow, Rondall. That poem made me think of the dried out, crumbling rose that I keep in my bible (although I'm not a Christian, I read the bible almost every day). How sad and beautiful. It got caught right in my throat and hung on the breast bone after I read it. Thank you so much for sharing that. WOW! | ||
| Abm "Cyniquian" Level Poster Username: Abm Post Number: 3806 Registered: 04-2004 Rating: N/A |
Rondall, BRAVO! <bowing> | ||
| Rondall Moderator Username: Rondall Post Number: 67 Registered: 01-2004 Rating: N/A |
Thanks and big shout outs to the both of you!! This poem stemmed from Kola's comment about her last poem posted: Kola: "I don't think it's a good poem yet--AT ALL." The word "yet" just struck me, akin to listening to a piece by Bird or Thelonious. That word was like a note played to a feeling, and not to a fit. But the word still left me unsettled...like be bop. It's odd, but most of my inspiration comes from the shadows cast from the words I read or the echos from the things that I hear. Honestly...it's just good to be writing again. | ||
| Moonsigns "Cyniquian" Level Poster Username: Moonsigns Post Number: 593 Registered: 07-2004 Rating: N/A |
Rondall, That is a beautiful piece! | ||
| Abm "Cyniquian" Level Poster Username: Abm Post Number: 3811 Registered: 04-2004 Rating: N/A |
Rondall, It's interesting you mention Bird and Monk. Because there is a sort of breathless jazziness to your poem. Kola has a way of doing that kind of thing to a brothah. Do your thang, playah. Do your thang! | ||
| Cynique "Cyniquian" Level Poster Username: Cynique Post Number: 2313 Registered: 01-2004 Rating: N/A |
Now that's what I call poetry, Rondall! | ||
| Yvettep "Cyniquian" Level Poster Username: Yvettep Post Number: 584 Registered: 01-2005 Rating: N/A |
*snap snap snap snap* | ||
| Kola_boof "Cyniquian" Level Poster Username: Kola_boof Post Number: 330 Registered: 02-2005 Rating: N/A |
Rondall, here is the finished poem. "NO NAME IN THE STREET” by Kola Boof They killed their own mother/ And the White People watched. They killed their own mother because they wanted to be FREE/ (of the pain in her body) Out of lies...they conjured up Hands. Fists that PIMPED the Soul Machete. They killed their own mother because she was black. As Ghana as dancing/as smiling as chocolate cake batter on children's faces as dusk as cranberries as yams/as honey as Red and Gold leaves come autumn as charcoal...they killed their own mother. And the White People watched. You see them with their lies African nigger-stock Proud and free as Piss HIP hopp-ING and carrying on about their ancestors —as Blind and ignorant as new puppies underneath a House Porch. This is what Blind love reaps. This is what Blind love reaps. Disappointment that has no name in the street. These killers with no name in the street who dare Call/ the White Man...Satan. These HIP...HIP killers. |
