Author: poetryfest

Braiders:
stood before the train
stone-stared like apostles on Judgment Day
wrapped in Mama’s Thursday finest
tied wrappa, wax print weeping gold down
the cracks of 125th and Lex. Take a
‘fro, file it into cornrows. Split the scalp—
let the twistout shine. Braiders stay
unimpressed. Burnt earth stare towards
darkened crowns that do not pass muster,
do not pass go, she meets your eyes, tilts her head,
says ‘hair braiding miss?’ Flattening the r so
it leans to an l, ‘Hair blaiding miss?’, translation,
I can fix that, translation, You stepped out like that?
Translation, Let me help you, And on the days
you stumble out of Metro North with August
Saturday plans stretched into taffy, hair blown out
And edges screaming, you shake hands and
step up the stairway to heaven and down the hall,
where black chairs squeaked with childish glee
and toilet paper was by request, Braiders,
Tilting your head back to meet a dead fan and
streaked ceiling. Braiders, splitting kanekelon hair
and greasing plastic rat combs with Let’s Jam! How
her hand tugs at your scalp like a promise
Of a journey, how the braidline rumbles from your
scalp to her as cracked hands fly, half attentive, stuck
between a box of Popeyes and a conversation, a
bubble of Bambara bouncing off full lips. Turn your
head. How the throb of braids presses a rhythm into
your skull, bloodtapped nerves internal hi-hat over
Nollywood movie bassline trilling from TVs rimmed
by static, her phone rings, she answers, hands
still flying I’ll be there in two hours. She doesn’t have
time to respond—half a head of hair left, new
appointment at 6, ‘fro sticking up like mahogany
flames—she has a mission, planting braids
at the scalp and watching them fall to your waist,
watching you touch the result. Braiders, who gossip
while their children chase clumps of hair coiled like
dense tumbleweeds. Cowboys in a lawless country,
sending money to Mali, Senegal, Ghana. Braiders,
wandering ghosts over your head, cleaving the scalp
to sculpt a story, you, she, and this impossible
country, and her hands climbing your edges,
how she steps back to watch her work
like a sculptor, head tilted just so, a smile
when you smile, I am because we are. Braiders,
spread down 125th in silk line threads, fingers
callused like Hendrix and voices sharpened to steel.

Bubbling water on the ends, now,
Steam a curl climbing the neck
Her hands pile the mousse. Your scalp peeks
out to watch through the braid grid. A business
card passed through hands. She made the card,
of course. The door swings and her hand follows you
home.

Johnny looks at his bride
beautiful in her wedding dress
her ebony curls cascading
artfully over her shoulder
in her casket
he has arrived early
in the church where they
were about to be wed
he glances around
he looks in the cloak room
the key to the hearse
is in the pocket of
the undertaker’s jacket
he lifts her from the coffin
he carries her out to the hearse
carefully placing her in the back
he roars off down the highway
his eyes fill with tears
clouding his vision
he skids and leaves the road
bouncing through some underbrush
ending up in someone’s back yard
he leaves the key in the ignition
and walks along the highway
a horn honks
it is his almost mother in law
she smiles and asks
what he has done with her
he gestures over his shoulder
she tells him to get in
he takes her to where
he left the hearse
she looks in the back
her daughter looks somewhat miffed
but other then being dead
is perfectly fine
she carefully rearranges her
she gives her almost son in law
the key to her car
and drives the hearse
back to the church

This poem will end racism.

These bodies just happened to us

Every single one of our ancestors
reproduced successfully and consecutively
for three and a half billion years

You’re welcome to not comment on mine

This poem will end racism.

You know to never comment on a woman’s body?
It’s a matter of etiquette
Keep your body-comments to yourself

What if you stood in front of your identical twin?
What would you say?
What would you not say?

We need a Bill of Body Rights
which includes the Freedom from Comment

and government control

This poem will end racism

when we view people as individuals
and not as a member of a group

Personal autonomy is freedom
Personal autonomy is the ultimate value of privacy
Our bodies are the boundaries of our privacy

We are free to think
free to act
but there should be freedom from being acted upon

Treat people like you are responsible
for them

Don’t tell me what to do with my body
My body is my boundary
Respect it
Ennoble it

And a note to Old Believers: A Savior isn’t one color

Be polite
No comments about bodies
Don’t bring up race
Don’t bring up gender
Observe etiquette
and a new taboo

This poem will end racism.

In the mirror’s gaze, I once felt whole,
But shadows whispered fears that took their toll.
A young Black girl, with dreams like stars,
Yet burdens of judgment left invisible scars.
I’ve danced to the rhythm of others’ embrace,
Lost in their visions, I lost my own grace.
Scared of the change that could set me free,
I built up a fortress, but it suffocated me.

With every new dawn, the world feels so loud,
They watch and they comment, a critical crowd.
Afraid to be bold, afraid to be bright,
I’ve hidden my heart, turned away from the light.
But deep down, I yearn for that spark to ignite,
To reclaim my own power, to step into the light.

For in every struggle, I find strength anew,
To love every facet, to cherish what’s true.
So here’s to the journey, though fear grips my soul,
I’ll rise from the ashes, I’ll reclaim my own role.
No more will I cower, no more will I bend,
I’ll learn to be fierce, to love and defend.
To be in love with myself once again,
To break through the chains, let the healing begin.

With each step I take, I’ll embrace all the change,
And dance in my beauty, unbound and unchained.
For I am a melody, rich and profound,
A young Black woman, with strength all around.
So here’s to the future, bright, bold, and free,
To love myself wholly, just as I should be.

Am I allowed to stay?
Silence pressed, forced astray,
Pain replayed into my mouth,
Then sank down south,
Spread your legs now.

No.
You shouldn’t be ridiculed for calling out,
Shouldn’t have to search for credentials,
As essential to validate his carved-out heart.
Grasp for love unfound,
For in his back seat, magic wasn’t spellbound.

The truth is,
I am the good girl,
With good grades,
Going to church on Sundays.
I swear I didn’t ask for this.
Look at me–
I knew I’d miss
Trusting a friend who demanded,
“I love you”
And “be mine, won’t you?”

I won’t ruin you,
Like the jeans I can’t repair.
No proof anyway.
No stains, no saints–
Just the throw-up at the station
And the “date” at the DMA.

I never even showered.
Not before, not after–
You made it impossible
For anyone to touch me.
ME.

Don’t you know of my heartache?
A longing for love you promised her,
Over the phone instead of… See?
You broke me down so many times
I cried without a sound–
One, two, three–breathe.

What was this? Why don’t you grieve?
Oh, you’re not saddened? You don’t regret,
You know what you did, don’t you forget.

Love bombs so big
They’d fry fish.
Your name won’t fade,
No matter how many times my skin cells regenerate.

I played by the rules.
My whole life, let no one in.
You had to earn my trust,
My respect, my friendship.

Still, whispers circled.
Like birds to a flame–
More fun than a good run,
You thought wrong, Hun.

And yet,
it still shocked my heart to hear
Your love was ringing–
For more of you.
And Me?
Sitting like a stuffed animal,
Swallowing your callous malice.

I choked once for your mother.
Twice for your sister.
And thrice for your niece.
Who sees you as the good boy,
And notices every tear,
Dear.
Dare to lead them on,
Though I’m yet another pawn—
I beg you, don’t yearn for more MotherF-.

Don’t violate or smother.
Harass me, discard me.
I can see with glee
How I’ll rise like ink from each page–
I’ll write claim to my own stage,
More boisterous than the red of your Mustang.

You thought you’d break,
Me?
That I’d stay shattered?

But the cracks are only paths–
Though taxed,
I’ll walk through them and rise with wrath.
That’s the aftermath…

A young man sought war
But he was turned away,
Because war was sought:
“Death does not appeal
To the general leader,
After the horror;
Go now and make peace
For there is much more to life,
Than ending it now,
The pain of your youth
Will ease up and subside soon,
Do not rush head long
And cause suffering,
Outlive your parents’ lives
And give to the world
Do not speak of me
I will not feed fantasy –
Let love and peace live,”
Rejected, he lived,
Picking up the scattered
Pieces of his mind,
T’ was only later
Having lived and loved,
That he understood.

So aware am I now of the constant risk to life
A fragility that’s causing fear to ripple through me
So much so that I don’t know how I lived in such parity to my necessities
Now I find myself obsessing
Constantly I am aware and unsure how life so often goes on
Furthermore, those that live do so seemingly without fear of the ever closing only inevitable
Fears existing within the confines of existence itself and not the ceasing.
I think, though, that it may not be death that I fear
For that is certain, but the potential spontaneity of it
That without a clue or a warning or even a backing track or an audience
A life that feels so full can suddenly dissipate
How do I come to accept the literality of ‘everything is temporary’?
Surely there’s a right to mourn what will once be lost forever.
Love will cease
The laughter
The meeting your eyes that crinkle
The only way I cannot cry is to temporarily forget
I still hope the waitress catches me in my emotional moment and finds my tenderness attractive.
Maybe to avoid this fear, I could spend my whole life in the temporary inside the temporary
Where death will not do us part because there is no one for me to part from.
They ask if I’ve become more aware of my heartbeat recently
Yes, I say
Every day
Not because it beats faster, but because I know what it represents
Though they look at me as if I’m not making sense
But what I want to say is how can I not, when I know that when that’s stops so do I,
What you’re asking is ‘do you ever make sure that you’re not about to die?’

I’m being followed—
by a creature more horrendous than you could ever imagine.
If I stop, it will seize me.
I see it lurking out of the corner of my eye,
lurking, waiting to pull me into the abyss.

It doesn’t only haunt the dark moments.
It was there when I started my new job,
a shadow beneath the stairs.
Even in my happiest moments, it remains.
When I dare to smile, it creeps closer.

Sometimes, it catches me—
and the agony is beyond comprehension.

It will never leave me.
I must learn to endure it, for it is stitched into the fabric of my soul.
And so, we must coexist.
Perhaps, in time, its sting will cease to paralyze me.