poetry

Specifics
by javette

Where�s the brother I�ve been prayin� for
Brown sugar, mocha, peanut butter creme?
The kinda brotha� who�s got it going on
The man of every sistah�s dream.
He�s that brother who�s full of charm
A father�s very best friend;
A brother whose heart is filled with laughter
One on whom others can depend.
He�s that brother that mama loves,
But taught how to share his heart;
He�s that brother who approaches life
With a fresh and challenging start.
The brother who doesn�t mind a little dirt
Despite his many degrees;
The brother who knows how to thank the Lord
Has no problem falling on his knees.
He�s the brother who can share an intimate thought
Play a joke or two;
Enjoy the feel of a gentle caress
And knows how to give them too.
He�s the brother who wants to share
His heart, his life with me
Who�s open to love, to life, friendship
What�ere the possibilities may be
this is my prayer.
� 1998 all rights reserved

Heroin

You were born writing little girl
but you will learn to wait
the lines will appear as currents
events to fool you into submission
the grocery store
the post office
the unemployment line
the local train platform at two in the morning
this is where you will find poetry
screaming between the air inside your walk
this is how you'll learn to kiss and paint
nurse babies and call "next!"
on the ball court
your name will be one african syllable too many
for jane who didn't do her lower case b
phoenix assignment
pretending that she just can't pronounce Kenya or Brendesha
with america's alphabet
this is the moment you find meaning in cuss words
you will take cuts attempting to find the front line
your scent will leave hunters running in the wrong direction
as your home becomes brick your bones become thick
clocks will confuse the moon into thinking
dark is a synonym for gloom
you will stay still as your body leaves the room
for the first time in weeks
strength will appear from behind the sun
they will call you a freak and you will believe them
you were born writing and will soon learn to run

we are born writing
but will learn to wait
the wind will pause our dreams
lies suddenly sound like laughter
we will survive in here
or after
skeleton woman break dancing
into poses resembling roses
emulating an african nose
that never smelled ivory up close

this is when you will cry the most
learn to gather your tears into your fists
realizing water will never grant your wishes
reflections are always true but never wet
so we kiss ourselves
till our lips turn dry and honest

you will hear faint pieces of your voice
in the electricity of a phone line
screaming for freedom
in the middle of a message or a voyage
never delivered during long distance
conversations or kidnappings
this is the moment your fingers
will find your hand
and hang up on your past beliefs
what is a white courtesy phone?
Why can't I ever find one?

the lines will appear as a sound waving
good bye
when you jump off the side of the ship
in the footsteps of the march of tears
funeral processions will break into the hustle
digging up murdered soil
that forgot this was a man's world
and daddy needs a son baby
everybody will wear black
forgetting this is your damn birth day party
There was a time we didn't have to wait
nine months for our children to be born
we just believed they would come
and waited for them to quickly leave
i'll take the young pretty one
with the chiseled brown lips
for 5 axes 3 pigs 2 arrows 1 chicken and a bushel of wire
this is when you'll carve your first pencil from wood
and draw blood
this is when your story is erased
I was born writing
but will be taught to wait
I am an incomplete sentence
a work in progress
and i'm not finished
yet

Black Woman: God's Instrument
Stacy Williamson

A Black Woman's purpose since the time of creation
A helpmate for man, the mother of civilization
Our contributions, though significant
are concealed in the canvas of life
Held in High esteem, He elevates the Black Woman to soaring heights

Not prominent in stature, but none the less we are distinctive
Empowered, commissioned, resourceful, proficient, resilient and creative
As instrument of God we shall heed to the Master's call
Permitting the Lord to use his vessels, unwavering faith we install

So.... try to visualize as I conceptualize, how My God who created the
sunrise realized that it was not wise, for man to be alone
So from the rib formation, he laid the configurations, for his most colorful
creation, that exceeded Adam's expectations, as he gazed with fascination,
boastful with admiration at God's proclamation.....That this is Woman, the
BLACK WOMAN

A testament to his infinite Love, Mercy, Grace, Wisdom and Power

God is Watching
by steve brownlee

This Sunday, like every Sunday
I practiced sitting very straight and alert,
Pressing each tiny vertebre into the hardwood pew
Sliding a king-sized wad of childhood love
Back against the last molar, surreptitiously
Drinking in sweet-salivated bubble syrup,
Trying to give a shit about all this hallelujah stuff, while
Admiring my own young finery and wondering
If God really meant for little girls to spend such miserable Sundays.
Somebody "gets the spirit" and convulses, jumps wildly
Eyes rolled back in head, speaking in half-assed bogus tongues.
I fight back the laughter by shifting joy around
In my mouth again, to suck some more love juice

And of course, Madam First Lady saw me--she sees everything--
. . .my jaw a little too full to lay flat, bulging like early mumps.
Chin lifted, eyes cast down-nose at me. . .she gestured me to stop.
God is watching, and if I wanted to go to heaven,
I must stop doing what I needed to be doing, just so I
Could forget how desperately I wanted to do something else.
With sheepish, true contrition, I sadly parted from my wad of happy diversion,
Wrapped it lovingly, snapped it away in my purse. With hot, embarrased ears
I sought new ways to stay awake, without laughing. I started counting hats by color,
Then choir members, and ushers in white nurses uniforms. . .
Sister Evangelist sings her solo. . .her giant breasts wearing that
White choir robe like two king-sized pillows might wear a bed sheet
I stared down at my pre-adolescent chest, wondering what it was like to be that big.
(As it turns out, I'd never know. . .)

And I know that God was watching that Sunday. . .
All sins being equal in His sight, my bubble gum chewing
During service was just as nasty as that deacon fucking his own daugher. . .
(They say he got her pregnant, and she had an abortion)
. . .and I guess gum chewing is just as bad as
Madam Assistant Pastor condemning homosexuality
From behind the closet door, her lover, Madam Trustee Board Chair,
Runs about in pricey pedigree garb most ghetto deli owners only dream of
And when Deacon Elder taught Sunday School one morning, and
Saw fit to tell me I might grow to be a whore--because I liked looking pretty,
He didn't mean me a bit of harm. . .just tried to steer me in the right direction, after all
The Almighty Omnipresent Great I Am was and is watching, sees everything. . .

I can't even imagine what He must be thinking.

I could say that it was just easier for me to repent.
But that's not true. In my fourth decade now, I still
Chew bubbles by the pack whenever I'm so inclined--even during service.
(It's rare that I go anymore, anyway.)
If He can forgive me. . .Maybe I can forgive everybody else. . ..but then again,
Maybe not. You see, I was watching, too--in fact, I'm watching still--
And I am not God. . .
� Copyright 1996, by steve brownlee. All rights reserved.