Some Poems

To celebrate poetry month (April) many people write a poem a day. I did that this year and wanted to  share some with you. Hope you enjoy.


Your mouth is a delta,
saliva pooling, threatening
to drown every inch of common sense that lives within your body.
Your eyes replay tragedies
you heard shouted through whispers.
Still refusing to
believe, this weight is too heavy,
truth too obscene.
If this is real life we have genuflected to paper tigers,
spilled blood to fill gilded chalices,
fake gold turning our souls green.
Yet, you cling to your illusion
like a sailor drinking in the sea.
How long before your thirst betrays you?
What a glorious day that will be.


Ya’ll are like the stars
Very few will ever know your names
Yet you make the night beautiful.
Soldiers on the front line,
History will forget you, but I wont.
The winds and the rains will erode
you from the textbooks,
Still we learn your lessons.
Pass your tests every time we wake up.
Our original teachers.
Mother’s and Father’s
With GED’s and doctorates in life.
Heros with no national holidays,
Just overtime and time and a half.
Ya’ll are supernovas.
Forever enshrined in the heavens.
Mapping our way.


I see you, grinding on the daily
paint splatters and wind burned face,
putting on for your baby girl. I see you.
Young solider got so much love, so much energy,
waking up is fusion. You are sunshine.
Enough warmth to turn houses into homes– like ma dukes,in more ways than one.
I see you, feeling the world in ways most can’t fathom.
It’s so much more than a turn-up.
This is church. 
But they don’t got that in the wild, so you scribble scripture in journals
for generations yet to come. I see you.
Scoundrel cornerstone.
Lord of the dance. Grinding daily. Molding the future, mumbling raps.
The future is bright soldier.
we thank you for that.


Got you decked out,
Million dollar makeover, but
I still see the stretch marks.
Remember the contractions.
You birthed real life.
Labor pains dulled by the high life.
They want charm with a blunt edge
And entertainment fees.
We got grit and razor sharp nerves
Only blunts ease.
They swarm like locusts
Feasting on the fruits of our labor
Got us griots
writing tributes to ghosts.
But this can’t be a eulogy
Got you in me, so
We seance and free up.
In ways they only mimic, their
Too bland:
Art districts, faux country clubs,
And the proof is in the footing.
Soil we watered with tears.
Scars that are still visible after all these years.
This is what makes us:
Good, bad, and the ugly.
Raze the city,
We comfy.
NE been beauty in the muddy.


The first time is the hardest, the words don’t quite roll off your tongue, they are sticky and jumble, messy. It gets easier though, with a little bit of practice you will be smooth with it, professional. Then it’s easy to do it to other people. The words move like water filling well carved out riverbeds. This becomes the path of least resistance, and you build habits. All from that first time… that first lie


I’m peeled back
In the most grotesque way
Fake ass knight buffing tarnished armor
Paper mache rock
Castle built from sand at hightide
They see your weakness
They hear you wandering at night
Summoning spirits
That don’t speak your tongue
Only silence resonates in your hollow
Acid rain falls down your cheeks
Nothing grows in your garden
You are not organic
You are exposed
Protect your neck
In the most grotesque way
Be unflinching
Bury your fear
Ball up fists
Wrecking ball
You are exposed
Mouth dry
Like the dust you came from
Not real enough to be perfect
Not perfect enough to be real
Bite your lip
to keep the fear from spilling
Your cup runneth over
Terracotta warrior I am
Peeled back
I am
Bone with no marrow
Navigator with no compass
In the most grotesque way


the future is bright
the type of bright that blinds
that hurts the eyes
brilliant bright
life-giving light


8 shots, middle of the day.
8 shots.
8 excuses, 8 apologies, 8 lies, 8 8 8
every 28
hours before the dawn
8 shots. 8 8 8.
what if there was no video?
8 angles, slow-moed 8 times.
8. 8. 8.
trying desperately not to swallow the hate


I try to mind my own business but they are talking loud enough for me to hear. “They just expect everything handed to them.” I’m not sure what “they” means to them but know it’s either poor people or people of color. Part of me wants to make a scene, part of me wants to just go fill up this glass of water. As I stand up still unsure of what I’m going to do I see the Obama 2008 sticker on his laptop. I turn and leave the coffee shop. Life in MN Nice.


We are connected.
We may have gulfs between us,
of fear, of
fun house images of God,
but we are connected.
And we will find each other.
With interstellar technology not even Google could map.
We will find each other.
We will speak in matching laughing accents,
and conjugate hugs to dull the pain.
We are connected


There are stories searing my tongue
Histories erased
Memories meandering
Ancestors accents anglicized for assimilation
But we are here
Buried under dollars and cement
Our roots remain
Ruins no more
There is truth to be told
Stories searing our tongues.


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