Poets
Lounge
Words
From LTG's
Poetic
Wisdom!
____________________________________
My Word
by Kindred Wisdom
I haven't written a poem in some ages. And now I fear he will no longer visit
me. No longer engulf my pen with mended emotions and clear thoughts. Was it
fear that made me turn my eyes to his beauty and shun the thought of being like
them. Those so called poets who write everyday, but spell very little on
crumpled pages of narcissism. Maybe I should've never expected so much from
him, Father rhyme and lyric and simile and paper and pen and words and feelings
and heart and soul and now my soul yearns for rhymes and lyrics and similes and
metaphors and paper and pens and words and feelings and heart and soul. But
poetry is soul less now and sold now and I can't easily forgive. He used to
belong to me and other greats, but now to him I can't relate.
________________________________________
SHAKA ZULU
by
Progress
It’s a passion every Black man can identify with
Split by family and rightful domain
abused by a heart writhing in pain
silent as the rage of the twisted humiliation
that drives him ...
Ironically, this helplessness makes him more than a man,
it makes him a warrior for the reckoning day.
Infuriated with his world’s cultural hierarchy,
he spills lives in the Zulu way,
with a hardened heart.
And you do not know power, like he knows power
that story which reduces the strongest foundations to ruin
re-inventing weapons of destruction with the ingenuity of
God’s wrath on vigilant sinners.
Needing no one
Loving no one
Below no one
He decides to be resurrected as God himself
stealthy plastering his image all over your mind
you ask him- if you should be afraid.
Chapter 3 in Act 5 and the plan was laid
As there was never a man made of his components
it is told that his opponents are shown no afterlife
so European masterminds consort with their cohorts
and devise a way to eradicate this GodHeart from the earth.
To make it worth his while they exile the revenge in his
spirit by luring him with immortality over the mass of men who
envied him and once before had cast him out.
It was a taboo lie of the voodoo kind
that they would subscribe as our religious life vein
in years to come.
They promised like snakes in the garden of Eden
that he was evenly matched with God
and his power was as infinite as time itself.
And as his oldest of kin took her last breath
He dealt out murderous blows
in the wake of his mourning
and the life that surrounded him
having endured the end of torment
decided to relinquish his grip on a nation.
An idol, he was demolished with the spear
he created, the fears he abated,
buried by the very tribe that breathed
his brand of justice into existence.
But much to their chagrin,
he lives, immortal, carved into the thickness
of time with the thumbs of greatness.
So all hail the ruler
the mis-begotten but never to be forgotten
SHAKA ZULU!
______________________________________________________
Mulattos
–A Tribute
To Maiya
by
Progress
I am
haunted by
dreams of
transitional
skin.
Dreams of
being
revered
without
consequential
bias.
Marked as
muts, cut
from the
gut of
America,
inspected
from the
inside
out.
Arrival
irrelevant,
ignored as
purposeless
figments
of out
lash, a
political
outcast
with a
criminal
beauty
bathing
ligaments,
because
they are
testaments
to the
constitutions
of both
your
pigments.
Untouchable
remnants
of the
crem-de-le-crem
besting
everything
with the
schizophrenic
genetics
burrowing
into their
bones,
thrown
into the
world
with
battling
parents
scattered
to the
winds.
We find
love in 2
homes and
hate in
two tones
of skin-
a
dermatological
nightmare.
Mulattos
fear the
confusion
in your
jaded
eyes,
envying
and
plotting
on her
spiritual
position,
they
provoke
her
thoughts
of inner
division
so that
in
her head
she hears:
“there’s
derision
in the
ranks,
“Take
one out on
either
side.
Confide in
neither
bloodline.
They are
trying to
mis-educate
you on the
hate they
can’t
define.
But
we will no
longer be-
your
track to
cross over
your
exotic
flower
your
back to
walk on
your
neutral
friend
your
head of
“good
hair”
your
“tolerable”
skin
your
mixed up
plot in
the middle
of
this shit
Your
half of
this
person
between
the cracks
-@#$#
that!
Mulattos
are what
you are
supposed
to be-
plus one.
Beyond
the skin
and your
flagrant
imagination
masked by
the fear
that our
existence
is trouble
documented
in Papyrus
– our
third eye
sees
double.
We know
both your
faces- and
we’re
sick of
tracing
the
outlines
of bull
shit in
your dual
facades,
we can
point out
the space
in your
eyes where
we see our
blood
divide.
Your
spirits
are
multiplied
betrayed
and
magnified
as
the sobs
and tears
denied on
your
pillow-
the
desperate
needs and
issues
mounting
Below the
roots that
infest
your
family
tree-
Mulattos
are the
branches
that grow
free.
You could
seize what
we
symbolize
as a gift
to mankind
of two
great
powers
intertwined-
But you
won’t.
Your
psyche
desires
that
someone be
under foot
and as
long as
our names
slice
together
the
Spanish
defamation
of a mule
and donkey
Your
two
agitation’s
remain as
nigger and
honky.
But were
mulattos
no longer
mulattos
called
we would
still
smell as
sweet as
honey
colored
skin
blended by
the Elite
peoples of
a mass
population.
We’ve
been
under-classed
as muts,
the
neighbors
in the
huts and
housing
projects,
A Slave
quarters
nightly
experiments.
Between
the
Masters
house and
the ones
in the
field we
have
consistently
yielded to
your
nurtured
hatreds.
But I’m
sick of
this shit
We are not
a fucking
bargaining
tool…
I am
thread
from the
spool that
molds
the
mystery of
majesty in
high
yellow
hues of
pageantry
that have
the power
to
neutralize
souls in
pain.
But
we have
our own
issues to
maintain
so we are
sick of
carrying
your
emotional
baggage.
We’ve
been
prisoners
of war
since
conception
but
through
the fire
we’ve
engrained
the lesson
that-
We can’t
try to
separate
what we
are,
we can’t
deny that
we are…
The
universal
kin and
the
reverbs of
the sins
you purge,
In
subsequent
protestations
you try to
divide
nine
months by
four
hundred
years,
and your
dividend
is the
epitome of
your
fears.
We are the
all in
both of
you- born
from the
fire
within.
Mulattos
are… the
peace
floating
beneath
your
skins.
__________________________________
Recovery
by Black
Pearl
Recovery
from
adversity
is not of
our own
making
Not our
way of
thinking
nor, can
we take
the credit
right away
Recovery
comes from
a higher
power
Strictly
"Godly",
very
spiritual
An
awareness
beyond our
comprehension
Recovery,
not a word
to be just
mentioned
Recovery
develops a
kind of
tension
because
It puts
you in
dissension
A self
that we
choose to
forget
Recovery
puts us in
a position
of regret
Recovery
awakens
the ghosts
and
goblins
It allows
the hidden
skeletons
to show
themselves
Recovery
starts you
from the
end to the
beginning
Just like
a roller
coaster
ride
Recovery
has its
ups and
downs
Nothing
good comes
easy, I
found
Recovery
is very
profound;
it
compounds
our fears
It exposes
the truth,
lies and
creates
sadness
Then
replaces
frowns
with
smiles and
turns hate
Into love
for
oneself
and others
Recovery
is
insanity
before
sanity
Recovery
once gone
through,
is an
endless
trip
No longer
hiding
behind a
clown face
If
recovery
brought
you
through
this task
Hopefully,
it will
last.
______________________________________
Sign of
the Time
by Black
Pearl
The
streets
are
unforgiving
People go
through
life and
stop
living
Lives are
lost
everyday
to drugs,
murder and
prostitution
Druglords,
with
expensive
cars,
money and
women
Are just
an
illusion;
we are in
a state of
confusion
Our youths
are
glamorizing
gangsters,
guns, and
good times
Brothers
are
killing
each other
over
colors?
Stepping
on gold
mines.....
The
devotion
of a
friend is
part of
the grand
scheme
To keep us
imprisoned
but, we
can unlock
the bars
that bind
us
By making
correct
decisions
We rather
poison our
own people
for cell
phones and
beepers
And $70.00
pair of
sneakers.
Living
life
illegally
and
lavishly
When your
words end
in a
tragedy
Being
locked up
for 25 to
life is a
reality
A drug
dealer's
retirement
is in a
casket or
confinement
And in the
mist of
all this,
substance
abuse and
violence
I turn to
the sky
for
guidance.
______________________________________
If
You Ask Us
by Jomo
Kellman
(A piece for LTG)
If
you ask
us, What’s
our
motivation?
I’ll
tell
you…love
of the
art.
If you ask
us,
Who’s
our
leader?
I’ll
tell
you…talent.
If you ask
us,
What’s
our
accomplishment?
I’ll
tell
you…applause.
If you ask
us,
What’s
our
weakness?
I’ll
tell
you…never
met ‘em.
If you ask
us,
Do we have
egos?
I’ll
tell
you…it’s
pride.
If you ask
us,
What’s
hard work?
I’ll
tell
you…rehearsals
in hot,
sweaty,
one-bedroom
apartments.
If you ask
us,
Do we have
vacancies?
I’ll
tell
you…just
fill out
the
applications
and apply
for
opportunity.
If you ask
us,
Will the
curtains
ever
close?
Till
the fat
lady finds
a
nine-to-five.
If you ask
us,
What’s
hot in
theatre?
I’ll
tell
you…a
revolution.
If you ask
us,
Will
the
Theatre
Revolution
be
televised?
I’ll
tell
you…Yes…we
need the
exposure