WaSaBē Mint Re BlackDynamite

Birthday Poem

I don’t pretend to know poverty/the elders kept that from me/they wrapped me in a dark matter love/that blanketed my needs/kept me warm and safe/from top of crown to feet/even crack in the 80’s failed to break me/ I grew to value and honor their plea/I knew days would come and it’d anchor my seeds/but how’d they smile and kept so much beneath/is troubling to me as I push to retreat/I’m not as strong as Herman or as bright as Bea/I just want to hide myself/call coward call peace/this world for my gems is too hard to meet/I’m half way in flight and half way in flee/all I want is for them is a chance to breathe/but living in these states won’t let that be.

Do you questioning and how you belong? In this episode, prepare to question what it means to belong.

Poem

Juneteenth is not your come up. From sundown towns to sun up, y’all always trying to one up. Can’t converse about reparations but got time for Fake celebrations, less than admirable adorations to make sure we keep on cutting y’all’s check.

Corporations selling ICE CREAM and white napkins to wipe off the taste of our freedom. The LIES SCREAM from failed attempts to pretend you give a shit. Come off of it. You don’t know the history. For whites and even blacks, it’s still a mystery. Cause we programmed too. Defeating the point and not listening, you mind as well still have us in chains. You mind as well keep thangs the same. How is a holiday for the still enslaved a day off for the descendants of enslavers. How is we still going to church looking for a blond haired blue eyed man we saved from extinction to save us? How can the mighty 1 still cash in on the many. Land of milk and honey my ass, seems like the land of fucking over plenty. Folk sitting home benefiting from our ongoing toil. I say we reflect and rebuild today and y’all start tilling your own soil. You aerate these old ways and expand your frame of thought. It’s your turn, You correct the inequities and all the hate it’s brought. We getting gunned down in grocery stores and by corner boys from the crack y’all delivered and you think your know a sliver of our struggle. Ain’t no 1865, we still fighting to stay alive….ain’t no plan in place so ain’t no need. We so called celebrating yet still ain’t free. WE ARE NOT YOUR COME UP! Juneteenth ain’t for you, it’s for me!

Poems about trauma