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APRIL WRITE 2013 – Day 14 – FREE VERSE 2

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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



9 responses »

  1. 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.

  2. 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

  3. Lana Joseph (c) April 2013

    Shadow and Death (Inspired by Halim Flowers)
    “By LJ”

    I see You…

    I see Me

    I heard a resounding…
    You’re Found Guilty!!!




    I sat SCREAMING inside!
    Could not SHOUT OUT!!!

    The Judge shouted…

    Straight to Maximum Security
    / Prisoner
    / Convict
    That’s it!!!


    at that very moment
    I Lost My Identity
    “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
    That’s Me!

    Stripped down
    and bound
    all orange
    Shirt… pants… shoes…
    worn and torn
    Cast away…
    No longer mine

    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
    U don’t mean shit
    to those staring Eyes

    /Icy Cold

    Metal Mornings
    Iron Days
    Steel Nights
    No Lights

    Brains frozen
    /No clock
    Stretched within time
    Release schedule
    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

    Just a few literary adjectives
    for this Muse
    Now Me…
    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
    /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


    It’s so Damn N-O-I-S-Y!!!
    Never quiet

    I wanna SCREAM…
    SHUT UP!!!!!!
    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


    A L W A Y S ~ K 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


    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

    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

    my beloved dear friend
    are made to Win!

    As you walk through the valley…
    of Shadow and Death…
    Always Remember…


    “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
    *Revised Version of Original Scribe
    (“No Masterpiece”)

  4. Mark Paleologo (c) April 2013


    he considers a world



    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

  5. 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


    What happened to you showing me?

  6. 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…..

  7. 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….

  8. 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

  9. 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.


    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
    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


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