Welcome to Day 14 of the April Write 2013: A new era begins
Today is our second free verse Sunday. There is not a topic for today so you can write about any subject which comes to you. All we ask is that no erotica is posted today and it is saved for its space and time on Freaky Friday. ~ Marina
The April Write 
Katie Rendon (c) April 2013
Oh good cause I’ve been working on this one most of the day:
“Birmingham Black and Blue”
They called her Nigger.
It was a foreign word to my six-year-old ears.
I tried to make sense of it phonetically:
N-violent vowel-jagged Gs-violent vowel-r
I didn’t understand what it meant
or why she wasn’t welcome to climb
the sprawling Magnolia with the rest of us.
I eyed her skeptically: her intricate braids,
the pleats pressed into her skirt,
the big-wheel bike none of our parents could afford.
That must be it. What did she want with our tree
when she had all of that?
I didn’t understand why she stayed,
ebony carved chin tilting back tears
she was too proud to spill
or why that was so offensive
to the stick-swinging klan of kids
but somehow, that word slid
heavily off of my tongue too.
“What did you just say?”
The sun was to my mother’s back
allowing only her shadow to glare down on me.
I tried to answer but before those Gs could cut again
Momma hung me by my arm and beat me
what would forever be known in our home
as Birmingham Black and Blue.
My blue eyes met brown.
My pale, tear-streaked cheeks mirrored
another little girl’s, pain etched on both our faces.
I waited for her that’s what you get smile
but it never came. She just peddled
off at an impressive speed.
Momma yelled after her,
“Tell your folks we’ll be right down.”
Momma led the way, marching like Martin.
She said I’d have to explain what I had done,
but I didn’t know, “What does it mean?” I screamed.
Momma slowed slightly, exhaling relief,
“Well at least you’re not colored with hate.”
She talked about Birmingham bombings,
white only water fountains and the boy
that wasn’t allowed to love her back.
Her pace stilled to a sway as she rang the doorbell.
“But that’s all over now, right Momma?”
“You’re about to find out.”
She told the large figure at the door that her daughter
had something to tell him. I looked into his sturdy stare
and listened to the soft concerned voice behind him.
I forced that word back up to apologize for ever saying it,
for saying it to their daughter.
I watched those jagged Gs cut deep creases in her father’s forehead
and jowls. Those violent vowels echoed endlessly until her mother’s gasp
finally silenced them. That’s when I understood.
On the way home, Momma walked ahead
as Jim Crows gawked at me from power lines.
Slaine Montmont (c) April 2013
there is no pain without struggle
there is no struggle without success
there is no success with out a journey
there is no journey with out a hope
there is no hope with out a dream.
there is no dream with out a cause
there is no cause with out passion
there is no passion with fire in da belly
there is no fire in da belly with out pain.
the circle of life is constant and will continue with or with out you. so lets just cherish each and every moment we are give grace to dance sing laugh play and evolve each day shiny and new in the all the huge possibilities of a new day a new moment a new taste a new experience that will nourishes us all
Lana Joseph (c) April 2013
Shadow and Death (Inspired by Halim Flowers)
“By LJ”
I see You…
I see Me
I heard a resounding…
Pounding…
You’re Found Guilty!!!
Ohhh…
NO!!!
WTFU@K!!!
I sat SCREAMING inside!
Could not SHOUT OUT!!!
The Judge shouted…
Straight to Maximum Security
Criminal
/ Prisoner
/ Convict
That’s it!!!
Who?
ME???
at that very moment
I Lost My Identity
NO!!!
“That’s not Me!!!”
My Father
/ My Master
/ My God
Please help me now
With a closed fist
Scattered… broken… lost
locked down!
in this tank bleeding
Brain… body… teeth freezing
Numb… feeling dumb… founded
Nothing!
That’s Me!
Stripped down
Tied…
and bound
all orange
Shirt… pants… shoes…
Undergarments
worn and torn
Too
Cast away…
time
No longer mine
Muse…
Turned mute
Bled… then Fled
Destroyed… Rep
Inmates Eyes
I cannot Write
I don’t wanna see
mirror… mirror on the wall
I cannot stand tall
No Uniqueness
Inside…
U don’t mean shit
to those staring Eyes
Cold
/Cold
/Icy Cold
Metal Mornings
Iron Days
Steel Nights
No Lights
Brains frozen
Lost
/Tick-tock
/No clock
Stretched within time
Release schedule
Dared…
and double dared
Who Cares?
time measured…
by Devil’s lair
finally I saw
Behind ghost whispers
Ravenous brains decaying
No longer works of art
No bars may they depart
Striking
/Dazzling
/Spectacular
Just a few literary adjectives
for this Muse
Now Me…
I…
And It…
are dreadfully deceased
What happens to a Masterpiece
that sleeps with an Iron Phantom?
Doing Time…
Trying to call My Muse
But can’t get through
Putting lead to paper
Hoping
/But Nothing
Still mute
I can only write what I hear
I can only write what I see
I can only write what I dare to dream
And…
It’s so Damn N-O-I-S-Y!!!
Never quiet
/Screaming
/Yelling
Crying
I wanna SCREAM…
SHUT UP!!!!!!
A-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H!!!
PLEEEEEEASE!!!
SHUT UP!!!
But the Bunkie cross from me does instead…
And the next morning that inmate was found dead
Another body, less to count
Added to the silent ghosts…
Laid up somewhere on a mount
Another fresh reminder
from the Inmates in the tank
I’m not in Control of me
I’m not in control of anything…
in here
Shortly before I came
another inmate was found dead
That’s what they said
That’s what they told me…
Those sounds are becoming waaay too familiar now
Clanging
/Clacking
/Clinging
Banging
/Bamming
/Beating
A L W A Y S ~ K E Y S
E
Y
S
A L W A Y S
K E Y S
Seems time slept silent
She’s the only quietness seen
Voices are heard in the deep dark night
Madness appears in velvety light
Lunacy cannot be restrained
Keys will not open those deadbolt locks
Mindsets become metered like a wrist watch
While Souls are obstructed by Satan’s vile-ness
Astonishing
/Remarkable
/Surprising
Amazing
/Spectacular
/Stunning
That used to be Me
Each and every day
I prayed to stay safe and sane
while trying to refrain
and keeping the enemy
from tainting my brain
And…
it is still YOU King Halim!
Please realize…
You are not like the others
Many have given up!
They were career Inmates
On the inside…
Many… Many… Many…
Minds are Institutionalized
Crippled and Immobilized
Many times before… times ten
But…
YOU…
my beloved dear friend
are made to Win!
As you walk through the valley…
of Shadow and Death…
Always Remember…
YOU
are
A
MASTERPIECE!!!
“You can chain me, you can torture me, you can even destroy this body, but you will never imprison my mind.” -Mohandas Gandhi
[To the women and men imprisoned by an unjust system in the society in which you live, please know that you are A Beautiful Masterpiece. God has given Us All Gifts. & You are not alone. Our heavenly Master is with you, and He loves us All. I hold you in my thoughts and prayers. To everyone that are affected and/or effected by the imprisonment of a loved one, please let them know that they are indeed a Beautiful Masterpiece; created perfectly perfect, by our loving creator. Thank you for taking time to read my scribe. ]
Copyright © 2013-13-04 LJ LN69321960
QAQDJS. All Rights Reserved
MCN:C3RFN-V3F4F-3BEFN
*Revised Version of Original Scribe
(“No Masterpiece”) https://www.facebook.com/notes/lana-joseph/shadow-and-death-inspired-by-halim-flowers-by-lj-1230/458212997594682
Mark Paleologo (c) April 2013
home
he considers a world
where
i
retains validity
while peeling grapes
with a butter knife
there has to be a way
spoken to honey blonde birch
not turning to face her
long slender taper
wrapped in bathrobe blue
already satisfied with morning
he puts down the implement
i’ve been walking this dog
after he died
every night and when i rise
she admires the lack
of one true corner
angles that destroy echos
that say
you are breaking
all of your rules
Marina Bayley (c) April 2013
Show You love
Treat YOU with cotton kitten gloves!
Maybe, just maybe
You think I’ve gone insane
I drank some mad puss piss
Thinking you
Were the one,
Now don’t get me wrong?
I’ve heard the painfully
Tearful song
It rings in my ears
I have enough of your fears
Forgave your failings
Forgave the pain
Maybe, just maybe I’m really ailing
A head sick,fool
Playing by someone else’s rules
Now it time to get this all straight
What you’re really asking me
Show You Love
Please…
What happened to you showing me?
Donna Parkinson © April 2013
So I’ve got this far,
I’m not dead and I have no visible battle scar,
To mention,
And despite my supposed unfortunate dissension,
I was doing well, considering I was destined to fail.
As a 15 year old black male,
From the proverbial hood,
No-one ever believed that I could or would,
Be anything other than a crook,
But my head was always in a text book,
‘They’ thought I was ghetto cos I spoke too ‘street’,
‘They’ always gave me the backseat,
In every lesson despite consistently high marks,
That sound familiar? Does anyone remember Rosa Parks?
In their eyes, I was a Black British youth living in Brent,
And that meant,
That I was supposed to be a thug, who carried a gun or knife,
If I wore a hoody my shelf life,
Was expected to extend only to my mid or late teens,
And by no means,
Would I ever make it out of the concrete jungle?
But that wasn’t me…. To them I was like some fungal,
Disease that no-one wanted to catch,
I was an itch that they couldn’t scratch,
Try as they might,
But I was ready for the fight,
With words; I was a young black male with intellect,
How would they dissect?
Me now? How could they label me correctly?
When I didn’t fit their stereotype directly,
I was more than a number,
Let no man put asunder,
The positivity my parents had instilled,
They willed,
Me, and I had learned;
That I was able to achieve the things I yearned,
Could I be a new breed?
Was I a statistic that would succeed?
Amidst their negativity,
Would I be the one to penetrate their selectivity?
I was 15 and counting….
And my hunger was surmounting,
I wanted to be heard for who I was,
And what I stood for, because,
Discrimination would not be allowed to weaken my opportunity,
I knew someday I would become prominent in my community…
And I met objection at every bend,
But each time I would defend,
Myself with science and knowledge and understanding,
I was demanding,
Their attention,
They pushed me and expected me to retaliate with brutality,
But their mentality,
Just made me stronger and more resolute,
I could compute,
Any situation they threw at me into a something constructive,
I was more than productive,
I was progressive,
When they expected aggressive,
And I was making headway; peers were becoming aware,
They were starting to share,
In my belief,
Taking a leaf,
Out of my book,
And inwardly they began to look,
At life in a different light,
Oh we definitely had to fight,
But not with weapons, arms and confrontation,
As they would imagine; but with skill and education,
Their ignorance was bliss,
In their bigoted abyss,
But our development was the key to our evolution,
I was gonna start a revolution,
Without any violent behaviour,
I would be the youth’s saviour,
The word of the street was about the alter,
And nothing they could say or do would make me falter,
I was 15 and counting,
And in the community hope was mounting…..
Neapolean Smith (c) April 2013
Media driven corruption
Prejudgemental assumptions
All to keep us pacified
Day after day
I see how much they try
Like ancient Rome we are fed bread and circuses to take the real problems off our minds
Might as well treat us like handicap children
Cause they already have made us that.
Virtually blind….
Zita Holbourne (c) April 2013
My Freedom was not gained in a day, a month or a year
To achieve it I had to overcome both sorrow and fear
I walked across continents and centuries
Many times stumbling, falling down on my knees
I died a million times for my Freedom
Not a day passed when I wasn’t grieving
But I never gave up, never stopped believing
That I would reach the destination called Freedom
Sometimes I cried for my Freedom
Other times I died for my Freedom
My body and soul became my own Queendom
The ground beneath my feet never there long enough to call home
Constantly I ventured to uninviting pastures unknown
I died a million times for my Freedom
Be it one century or one year
I could sense freedom always near
The scent of sweet liberty permeated my nostrils
I etched songs of freedom in my mind that became my gospels
Strong and defiant, never forgetting proud roots
Passed through DNA to my womb’s precious fruits
I died a million times for my Freedom
Sometimes I was taken, sometimes I was used
Other times I was tortured and abused
My tears of sorrow deepened the sea
Broadening the divide between Freedom and me
Rebellion gave me hope and determination
My resistance knew no boundary or limitation
I bore the scars of my captivity
Like tribal marks of identity
I died a million times for my Freedom
When I was held back physically
I charted the route to freedom mentally
In order to keep journeying towards my goal
The map of Freedom was imprinted on my soul
Between the stench of bodies decayed
And so many promised loyalties betrayed
I caught fast breaths of sweet fresh air
I could taste Freedom drawing near
I died a million times for my Freedom
When I couldn’t run I walked
When I couldn’t walk I talked
Promoting the very concept of freedom to all who would hear
Convincing that Freedom could be reality if only they would dare
To claim it as their right
They could bring it into sight
When I could no longer walk, I rested
Learning that if I invested
In my own physical and mental well being
I would never stop believing
That Freedom could be mine
And when I finally arrived the sensation was divine
I died a million times for my Freedom
Even though I was wearied by centuries of oppression
Aged beyond my years by sadness and depression
Weathered from exposure to extreme elements
Frail from multiple abuses and resentments
I embraced my Freedom like an old lost friend
And refused to release my grasp for fear it would end
I died a million times for my Freedom
I died a million times for my Freedom
I died a million times for my Freedom
Zita Holbourne, Poet~Artist~Activist
Zita Holbourne (c) April 2013
This poem is written by Lunda Vicente. Lunda lives in a refugee camp in Zimbabwe and does not have access to facebook. He is a poet, artist and an environmental activist.
BLACK AND PROUD AFRICAN MAN.
Dark black or light black may be the colour of my skin
But I am peanut butter brown, the colour of sweetness
A proud piece of chocolate brown
I am THE AFRICAN MAN
Deprived of education by those who called themselves helpers
Us called gorillas or monkies, people of low class – people of second class
By those who thought they knew better
My mother tongue they said was lame
English, French, Portuguese, Spanish and a bit of Dane were more tame
When we protest, they massacred
They left me puzzled, dazzled, muddled
Where was I coming from?
Where was I going?
A crashed flower in fields barren
A flickering light in darkness dense
I am an African man not a candidate to isolation
A victim to sneers, I refute all claims of self pity
Arise with me African men
Let’s take the bull by its horns
And take charge of our future
I condemned those who supported colonialism, apartheid and segregation
I criticize those who consider racism as a best policy
In remberance of all who died for African education
And those who still fight for it
We salute you fellow comrades and activists
Lunda is my name
Africa is my motherland
Zita Holbourne is my best friend- the voice of voiceless.
[The hope of tomorrow – The hope of future generations]
Victory is what I am gunning for
As an African man
Lunda Vicente (c) April 2013