Friday, January 15, 2016
Urban #Poetry: Pounds of Black Ice (Justice Can't Breathe)
Copyright K. Omodele 2015
"Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter." ~ Martin Luther King, Jr.
You stop us; frisk us
with yuh Giuliani justus*
You sweat us; no let up,
Now it's ninety-six degrees
You go me swingin' on a noose
in this Home of the Freeze
Strung up in a tree
It's so hard to breathe.
You got me 'gainst a wall
moving slower than Diallo
reachin' for I.D.
Your gun hand tremblin' like leaves
yuh fingers twitchin' up to squeeze
tension tighter than a sneeze
You want me down on my knees-
strange fruit me up in trees?
Fifty lead-starred shells
hammered young Sean Bell
pounded promises of life
from his never-will-be-wife.
Black Life? Candle flames
flickerin' in Chi-town** winds;
flutterin' blades of grass
driven by the breeze.
So tread light, Trayvons!
Noose tight! My fight?
Those iron tones and shifty vibes
Garner-ed behind officers' hooded eyes.
I hear the CRACKing of yuh whip
in gavel CLACKS and cuff CLICKS
Mass incarceration slick; three TICKS-
TOCK. Lives stocked behind a fence.
You say, "Justice is blind." Right!
The dirty slut couldn't see?
Charleston BLAMMED down to his knees?
Rice Mama soaked in tears of grief?
In Staten Isle I can't breathe
Oh Eleven London banged up
Oh Twelve Linden pushed her hands up
Now, Cleveland stand up? Slut can't you see?
Chocolate cities screamin'
Same song 'round the world
Same turntable*** turning-
spinning sounds of strife,
how a pounded Black life
is worth so much more than pounds of black ice.****
In this world of ruby sunsets, can you believe?
Justus got me on a noose, it's so hard to breathe.
* justice for some; justice for a selected few
*** record player**** black ice - black diamonds
Thursday, January 14, 2016
"#Writing is cathartic; it is a cleanser of the conscience, it is sanative to the soul." ~Kaya Omodele
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
by K. Omodele @theabeng
Bless up this New Year, bredrin and sistrin!
Resolved- let's all immerse weself in Life's moments. Let's notice beautiful, even intricate things like "the color purple in a field before we piss God off." See, some of we go wheelin' through stretches of life at a million miles an hour, tryin' to make up for wrong-way turns and dashed-way time. But lost time is a thing we can never reclaim, no matter how we try.
Wait! You don't do that? So, it's only me, one, then? Alright...
Sometimes I just have to remind myself to brace and be still within an experience. Live it, breathe it, touch it, taste it, take it in, live within it. And when I do, I wind up creating meaningful-life memories I'll draw up one day like a bucket from a well of knowledge and wisdom.
Like nappies,* for instance. I'm my mother's first son, and child, and I was seven going on eight years old when my little brother came along. By then I was constantly revving to get out the house and go liming** with my ragamuffin friends, them. One day Ma drew down my gears long enough to show me how to fold my brother's diaper (because they were square pieces of cloth then, no pampers), put it on and pin it up before I jammed back into gear again and screeched tires out the door. Over the years I changed his and my sister's nappies a few times.
A few years ago, I was zipping through another patch of life again and made a pitstop with the fiance over my littlest sister's home to visit my then new-brand nephew. After a couple hugs and two talks, Lil Sis asked me to change Nevvy's dirty diaper; but, she was grinning with my girl like it was some sort of challenge; like it some type a daunting mission like she wanted me to go invade Iraq or something so. Silly rabbits...
I un-taped is pamper; wiped, raised him by his tiny ankles, wiped again; discarded wipe; laid new pamper and discarded old; powdered and covered him then taped pampers up- straight, like that. The two of them looked on, amazed. The fiance had whipped out her camera phone, muttering, "Yep, good baby-daddy material right here," under her breath but the video captured her. Please, I am a King!
Don't know why they looked so shocked; I didn't even have to fold and pin.
**Liming/lime - hanging out, to hang out
CARIBBEAN POETRY: Catharsis II: The Lost Writers' Colony copyright 2014 K. Omodele ...
Today, August the seventeenth, is a blessed day in my Journey. On this day a man was born in 1887 who would affect the way I perceive my S...
As an independently published author, it can be a challenge getting your book placed in a bookstore, especially chain bookstores like Barn...
In Africa , oral tradition was the primary means of teaching a people's history and culture. Griots were adept storytellers, teacher...
Drawing property rights to The Abeng.../ YardCore Int'l, Publishing Copyright 2010 K. Omodele ...
Lemon-grass and Ginger Tea Sleepily, I waddled on wobbly knees to the kitchen. Grated piece of ginger, crushed up two lemon grass s...