A poor life this is if ruled by dollars

Even more when judged by color

 

Dangerous risk to make a stand

When named at birth, given a brand

 

How many people have suffered from this

Spending their lives in an abyss

We must stop the hating

Away with dictating

 

And now start anew

Let kindness come through

 

Welcome these equals

Make sure there are no sequels

 

A poor life this is if ruled by dollars

Even more when judged by color

Annoyance, rising up in my chest; threatening to explode; with
Each repeated yell adding up to the swell.
Irritation, mild anger; red darkening to black.
It covers my brain, till I burst into flame.

Its triangular shape poking at me, nonstop
It creeps up to me like a shadow, till it pounces.
It appears as a storm cloud; at first clean and white;
But as the sky fades to grey, its red lightning strikes.

It sounds like the grumble of a man awoken too early;
As he tries to lie down and rest just a little more.
A constant tap on its back and call of its name
Drives this word on to light up with rage.

A storm above my head, zapping on my skull,
This emotion is sure to attack one day.
It lives in New York with the buzz of the city
No peace or quiet; enough to drive anyone crazy.

A rondeau, inspired by The Autobiography of Malcolm X

The minister’s words; the seeds they sow
With every speech the white fears grow
For Muslim brothers who love him dear,
The things he says eliminate fear
To rise up is the only way to go.

He tells the oppressed: Stand and say no!
While white men attempt to overthrow
The ideals they believe in here:
The minister’s words.

But all of Malcolm’s followers know
It is nearly time to end the show
The final curtain shall appear
To cut off, with a mournful tear
That thing Black Muslims all have followed:
The minister’s words.

A resounding cry of “build that wall” rises,
An ugly history of hate revises.
Always masked by empty words of liberty,
Newly revived, the monster of hostility.

Always the devil on the American shoulder,
Curbed temporarily, resurging even bolder
The golden veneer of the land of the free
Sheds yet again, making way for bigotry.

“Unprecedented!” some cry, “Such crass!”
Reassuring themselves, saying “This shall pass.”
But great experience suggests otherwise;
Racism remains a persistent American vice.

I sprint down the field on a clear breakaway, bringing my head up to look
at my final destination, the goal. The next moment, I find myself spread-eagled
on the turf, my limbs twisted in odd angles. I open my eyes to see a blurry and
off-kilter world. I blink once, twice, and my vision slowly rights itself. Shakily, I
stand to find blood flowing from a broken lip. I snarl, a sight that I am sure is
made even more terrifying by the crimson liquid collecting in my mouth. I throw
my arms out wide and demand a call from the ref. A foul, a yellow card,
anything! My pleas are fruitless; the referee is pretending that he cannot hear
me and the girl who took the ball from me is already yards away. I turn on my
heel and sprint after her, anger simmering in my veins. My cleats pound into the
turf, bringing up sprays of black rubber pellets with every stride. The metallic
tang in my mouth urges me to push harder, run faster, and hunt her down.
With no regard for the rules of the game, I slide into the girl’s legs from behind,
effectively tripping her and bringing her down. Once again I am on the ground,
but this time with a sense of satisfaction as the ref blows his whistle for the
blatant foul that I committed. The blood staining my teeth tastes like victory as
he pulls out a card as bright as the triumph that surrounds me: red.

Perfect is my golden teddy bear chain,
Ice cold on my throat and neck.
Perfect is the warm, humid wind,
Right before a summer rain.
Perfect is immersing myself in music,
Earbuds snug in my ears.
Perfect is the aroma, the perfume,
Of new Bloch pointe shoes.
Perfect is the flying satisfaction,
Of a perfect triple turn.
Perfect is reading in the corner of a room,
Entering a portal into another world.
Perfect is my pencil on a post-it,
Sketching out something spontaneous.
Perfect is being squeezed and held,
In a tight group hug.
Perfect is laughing,
Even after tears.
Perfect is love,
Smiles peeking from the shyest faces.

You see me every day
Strutting down these boring halls
Pretending to be strong,
To be confident,
To be stunning
And charming
Flashy and fun
While crumbling on the inside,
Wearing the mask, trying to hide
From the masses of people that shouldn’t have tried
To wear me down,
To tear me down.
But, you see, there are these moments.
Times when I truly am myself,
Stripped clean of all facades
And showing off my vulnerability
To the world. And not caring.
And feeling something wonderful,
Something grand,
Electrifying.
I call this feeling metamorphosis.
Transformation.
Shift.
It comes with the minutes that seem like glorious hours
Singing your heart out, letting your voice flow
Feeling drunk on the cheers, on your own inner power
But scared of making a mistake. You won’t. And you don’t
So everyone starts screaming your name
When you’ve finished your song, and you float on air
Brilliantly colored red ribbons of elation
Twisting in your mind.
It comes with the tentative exhilaration
Stepping onto the blindingly bright, white ice
Gliding along with bliss, hearing susurration
Of your ice skates smoothly flying across pearly white skies
And you let yourself be swept up in it
And twirl through air to land perfectly,
Pale lilac stars of excited calm
Drifting through your mind.
It comes with the wonderful relaxation, like heaven
Enveloping you comfortingly, a warm blanket
As you bite your lip, trying to figure out number seven
And you jump to the correct conclusion with just ten seconds left
And you scribble down “125 pi”
With a relieved exhale and sit back,
Mellow yellow circles of confident anticipation
popping through your mind.
It comes with the frenzied, wild happiness
Seizing you as you sit, wrapped in bed
And your own thoughts, making connections to assess
Should you delete that last sentence? No, it will fit well in this novel of yours
And the only sound is the tap-tap-tap
Of the keys of your laptop as you write a story,
Summer-sky-blue rounded rectangles of grand ideas and ambitions
Swooping across your mind.
This transformation
Feels wildly beautiful
When you are in your own element
And greatness thrums through your alert veins.

At the library,
I sit in my usual seat.
Do you sense my gaze?
I wish you would look at me.
Yet I am afraid
Of what I may or may not see…
I am the lonely crow that prays
To join the trio of lovely doves
Who painted my feathers black
With their betrayal, and flew away.
My honorary sisters,
Crows in disguise
Forced to destroy me
With their tangles of lies
I miss you
I hate you
I wish you
I…
I can’t say it.
You have done too much.
Do you feel me watching you
Oh, so desperately
From across the library?
You won’t turn to look at me
But here is where I’ll always be.

You’re my fave and the love of my life
If only, if only I could be your wife
The fact that I’m not causes me much strife
The pain of rejection stabs me like a knife
Rejected and ignored 152 times
I could be as sour as 152 limes
But a deep flame of love still burns in my heart
You’re so cute, my own little tart
Although you’ve said no, I’m sure Cupid’s love dart
Will turn you around and make you be mine
Out of all of the boys, you’re the most divine
My friends all hate on me and say that I whine
But my love for you is still in its prime
Everlasting, fresh as a pine
Unrelenting, straight as a line
I see you out of the corner of my eye
And your bitter refusal makes me want to cry
However, I believe you’ll understand my rhymes
Maybe you’ll say yes the 153rd time