Afropunk
Creative power
punches through in
blues
funk
rock
disco
‘n’ hip-hop
Passion bleeds through the lyrics
Jazz and gospel blues singing through the rain
uplifted voices, beats soar above the canopy and waving arms
Afro.punK
Book burnings
sheets of music and worlds poured out
silent unrestrained tears
strips of wood burned
with letters stained red
knowledge was stripped away, leaving pale empty scars
the world didn’t take notice of its loss
Dancing
light weaved between the drifting strands of the clear glassy ocean
fish dipped in-and-out, words echoing in floaty, warbly bubbles
Touched by gentle orange hues, tiny clownfish circled the waving arms of a anemone
as a baby porpoise choked, collapsing in a intertwining blanket of cheap plastic
Doctors
Cold empty halls,
protective equipment
can it protect
the never ending hurt?
Besides teachers,
doctors are saviors
Life is a fragile thing to toy with
but not too fragile
that it can’t be fixed
Ink drops
I read during the
rainy nights, watching the
drops of letters,
ink,
that
can’t
be
controlled
.
Inside the globe
was a chaotic mixture of blue and green
Everything in it was frozen.
As I watched in fascination,
the clouds moved
the seas raged
the earth shook.
But the tiny sticks,
in shades of rich sunlight, dirt, chocolate, and raven
were still as stone.
Language
Open your mouth,
let a chorus of words fly.
Is it Navajo? Korean?
Italian? Or Spanish?
Armenian? Or Swahili?
Amharic? Or Bengali?
We need to open our eyes
Spheres of cultures dance around us
Reach up and pluck one
from the sky,
search within,
for a expansion
of your mind.
Light shines
The light I see
isn’t the sun’s kisses
or the dancing artificial lights
strung from post to post
in your backyard
It’s the smile of a young one,
It’s the bashfulness of a teen
The wise grin of a senior
and the dancing of the willow trees.
It’s in your bright, dark eyes.
Your soot-covered white shoes.
The fresh power of the season,
the heart that you unfold.
It’s in everyday mysteries
riddles, histories
A tumbling puppy from the shelter,
the sweat of a medical worker
The dying, glistening eyes
of a 22 year old prisoned in bed
no one in his family can be there
but the nurse, 5 times his senior,
shining hope
In the drops of dew on the shards of green
the broken but perfect pottery on the swinging chair.
A fluttering butterfly perched
on the edge of a plastic cup
in the field
Light is “light”
depends on what we say
Microscope
One eye held up to a leaf
where I see the same creases on my hand
a drop of dew collects at the tip
the green is almost blinding
Skin color
Underneath that coat of color
is that same blank canvas
Teachers change the world
instruments of education
Too low pay
They are the backdrop in the world
propelling leaders, engineers, CEOs, scientists, and doctors
They teach
They guide
They love
They are kind
Their teachings are the guidlines
that helps us to survive.
We grow
We heal
We are illiterate and blind
(to the ways of the world)
But
we can learn
we can read
we can climb
We can fight,
to change the world
