We celebrate to celebrate
ourselves
We become the celebration
all swagger and swirl
swig and swell
Enough for back then
for now
momentous, momentary
Eventually, they call us a cab
and the night turns back into
itself
Like losing it falls
back into
the black hole of time.
What I always turn to
For inspiration or energy
When I am downcast
Or in need of invigorating karma
With knowledgeable answers hurrah
Swarm my medulla oblongata
When you came into this world
You cried and everyone else smiled
Live your life, so that when you leave
Everyone else will cry
But you will be smiling
On my way home
As I walk towards my house
I behold an alcoholic
Drinking his daughter’s future
And somewhere at a corner
A cat taking care of its
Newborn kittens.
I start contemplating as usual
As I move ahead
I see a happy family
A responsible father, a caring mother
And a fortunate daughter.
I wish I had such a great family.
It would have been possible
If the drunkard whom I saw
Just few minutes back
Was not my father.
Four o’clock on a Florida morning
The car alone on a four lane
Finding its way home
Having heard heartbreaking news
The shock so great
The guilt
Of being gone
When I was needed
Rolled through my mind
Boyhood memories
Out of context
Played in a loop
In the silence
I wanted to holler out
To shout
My anger and anguish
Grief and sleeplessness
Mixed like oil and water
Grief over fatigue
The anchor
That held me
In a surreal world
The thought
Of what next?
How can I go on?
Death happens to others
But not to my mother
The woman
Who bottled her illness
Never allowing
It to keep her
From so many tasks
Milk of magnesia
Each morning
A stomach so raw
I could see her wince
When she thought
No one was looking
Knuckles that swelled
But did not keep
Her hands
From cold water
On her job
As a chore woman
She was invincible
My iron lady
But now dead
And all the gravity
Of this world
Bore down on me
Like a prospector
You search for a vein
Of truth
For pure ore
Words that shine
A golden vision
Of subjects
Important to you
Meanings buried
From the ordinary eye
Ideas you choose
To explore
To show others
As much
As for yourself
In the stream of thought
You find nuggets
But never enough
To quell
Your curiosity
I am a poem,
a pin pointing to the souls of these butchers,
I am stabbed into stanza by their swords,
I am motherless monkey black to marrow,
Whose body guns work on like harrow.
I am a poem
written with tears and blood of slavery,
Their tongues shall break by my sharp rhymes,
when they sing me with laughter,
and applaud for me growing mushrooms.
I am a poem
turning their heroic tombs to humours,
Where their achievements are labelled crimes,
and their honours are honoured with spittle
from soared mouths of sorrow.
I am a poem, little lyrics
sung with voice of raped mother,
Their guitars are my sister’s heavy breathing,
The drums, my brother’s head breaking,
under the gifts of your guns,
And the bounds of your boots.
I am a poem,
a pin pointing to the souls of these butchers,
I am stabbed into stanza by their swords,
I am motherless monkey black to marrow,
Whose body guns work on like harrow
But I cannot be buried.