Pregnant Eyes

Poetry303-001

Prof. Gregory Pardlo

May 12^th, 2009

Pregnant Eyes

I can’t believe this woman

Yall real hard headed

No compassion fuh people eh.

I tell yah me brother dead

And I need lil money to help with the burial

And all you could do is give me

Hundred dallah

Hundred dallah

A should neva bring yall here

Give yall opportunity

Fuh yall turn round and spit pun me.

Shouldah left yah ass to rot in that mud village.

Is who feed and clothed

you and yah children eh,

as fuh them I don’t know what parenting you did

They ain’t got no manners

none what so ever,

the lil one just like you.

Hot headed and rude

and the older one

Well

me and know who she belong to

You must be put ma name on somebody else pickni

Just a lil small piece fuh help bury me buddy

And all you could fork out yah pocket

Is hundred dallah

Hundred dallah

Good for nothing woman

See when I come back hey

Mek sure you and yah children gone

Pack yuh Georgy bundle

And clear yah rass out!

Patacake Metamorphosis

Ghazal

Patacake Metamorphosis

Three cornered harmony laced infectious pride

glazed rich obsidian of enlightened bold pride

Your initiation though stealth with readiness was

tainted with fecal extensions of decayed pride.

Shifted through broken spaces, nested in foreign places

sudden swollen compromises lead to aborted pride.

Found you in vestibules of scattered moralities

chasing fallacious cures betting on dollar pride.

 Haunted visions from Sankofa’s lens beckoned

stubborn ears to cries of aging maternal pride.

Internal libation dispelled trapped demons

life now came forth in new informed pride.

Fueled potential opened rich spaces, labor

for tangible passions of respected pride.

Meticulous portal only curved rounds who planted

potent seeds of fulsome youths marked African Pride.

Pathway of Chaka Zulu, Nandi, Askia, Coffy 1763,

Toussaint, Martin, Madiba, Winnie, iconic Pride.

Tri symphony breeds rhythms from Ghana to

Rwanda, Buxton to Congo blood filled pride.

Trillion cut worshipped gem tranquil reign

Unfold fresh values, valiantly rain pride.

Candace renewed womb-man claims it all

Hidden balls, proud walls scream of attained pride.

Looking fiorward to rewriting this..not proud of the outcome as yet

Rebels of Earth and Sky.

Prof. Latasha Diggs

Sonnet – Pleasures of Sex

Nov 1^st, 2010

Task : Omitting the use of the letter eand using fruits instead of sexual signal phrases etc

Rebels of Earth and Sky.

Round jumbo sapodillas form imprints in silky hollows

kiss midnight's air with bold provocation, Kintu walks

across a charcoal plum canvas to find Nambi’s mangos shadows

summoning the moons luminous glow, and crafting locks

in Kintu’s honor.  Join sun worship psidiums into raw solution

moonlight coats dual lust of exploding sour sops pouring

thick spurs of mandarin passion upon onyx stain infusion.

Plantain drowns in silky sapota liquids, rhythms soaring

sky high like sinful imprints stomping on archaic concoction.

Ning Ning simah Ohi, Ning Ning simah Ohi, Ning Ning simah Ohi

Ohi simah Ning Ning, Ohi simah Ning Ning, Ohi simah Ning Ning

Ohi Ohi, Ning Ning, Ohi Ohi, Ning Ning,  Ohi Ohi Ning Nambiiiiiiiii

Call For Students to March in Washington For Education, Justice, Jobs and Civil Rights - News

Call For Students to March in Washington For Education, Justice, Jobs and Civil Rights - News

The Carrions Dance

Calla lilies, Orchids, Peonies,

Crystal encrusted napkin rings

Pensive Italian haunting grannies

commenting on forgotten things

like the vacant space reserved

for the father of an absent bride

weeping mothers with curved

brows, encroaching on caged pride.

But lovers bare their chest

in spite of the weary eyes

protecting their sable nest

in light of our present guise

Calla lilies, Orchids, Peonies

pensive Italian haunting grannies.

So this poem was based on a photograph...an interpretation of that photograph...I'll try an upload the actual photo...but i think it would be best to see it first without. as not to bias the perspective.
Appreciate the feedback...if any

What Haunts the Sable Sphere - Part 1

The smell of burning porridge rose to the surface of the air and the eggs rank stench traveled with a heavy odor of black pepper and cumin that now burns intensely on your nostrils. Hunched over the stainless steel range tucked in the far right of the kitchen, she is cooking up your favorite meal; eggs and sausage with a hefty helping of plantain porridge and crushed sweet potatoes. The flushed coral Martha Stewart’s inspired pots give great life to the austere gray tones of the marbled kitchen walls. Water is gushing from the faucet, keeping the sweet potatoes cool until she’s ready for them. And she still hasn’t gotten around to your roasted tomato gravy, made spicy with the red bird peppers from the small vegetable garden you planted together. Shuffling over to the dining table she sits directly in front of you, spreads her thighs wide apart, and sluggishly pulled the torn hemline of her pale blue sundress unto her breathing hips, revealing the thick luster of pubic hair, growing wild from her Bermuda triangle. Her thighs still possess the ripe youthful strength that captured your gaze ten years to the date. It’s your anniversary. You never married her for reasons she still seems to be unaware of, even with all that has unraveled within the last four hours, thirty seven minutes and three and a half seconds.

“Ralph I need you home more often, it’s quite lonely waiting for you,” she whispers gently while placing the bronze mixing bowl between her thighs, and smiles. The darkness of her skin has always revealed the beautiful contours of a West African princess.

“Ralphee are you listening to me.” Her delicate face weighs heavy with eagerness; almost a craze insistence for your response.

“Ralpheee!”

Nodding furiously, your face perched for a sudden up roar, if only you could free your wrist from the cold grips of the kerosene drunken ropes wrapped around the curved arms of the ashen chair.
Flailing within the confined embrace and glaring directly at Amma, your attempts to brake free are exhausting. She smiles in contentment, finally you have nowhere to go. Stifled screams are barred by the soiled bloody blue linen wrapped around your throbbing lips. You are all hers. Face swollen ruff and bruised, your eyes crowded with curdled blood as tears shamefully creep down the high arches of your cheeks and settle on callous lips, the taste is cruel and real. The reality being the selfish choices you have made, eventually; propelling your once solemn Amma to the brink of unforeseen madness. Amma brings her hand heavily down on the center of the mixing bowl, crushing the contents. Sweet mashed potatoes and hearty yucca gradually forced together, molding and folding into each other, the determination within her gaze bares hidden longings.
Continuously gyrating her wrist into the bowl grasping the tiny mortar stick, glancing occasionally at your pathetic face with the bitter waters flooding and flowing over your weakened chin. Amma places the bowl on the table with the mortar stick erect in the center, kneeling on the dark wooden floor and arching her back under the table, she stares intently. Around the edges of the solid wooden structure are sculpted imprints of the Sankofa symbol. She recalls how the two of you eagerly placed each imprint together as a mark of your 5th year of commitment to each other. Suddenly, without hesitation she maneuvers from beneath the table, grabs the bowl from above, and shuffles hastily over to the kitchen sink. You can hear her rustling about in the cupboard, dishes moving and clashing with each other, something falls shattering upon impact with the floor. But she continues on, tossing about the cupboard. A few seconds later Amma places a ceramic triangular bowl on the table it’s filled with a fluffy dense mixture. It’s the potatoes from before, your mind is racing, and the throbbing beneath your chest seems tempted to leap out and stain the air with red fear. You’re hoping that she wouldn’t try feeding you, she must have poisoned everything. Back to the kitchen she goes.

Glancing at the full length oak framed mirror from across the dining table, your reflection a strange visual for swollen eyes. Your mind is still searching for reasons of why your woman would strike you with such vengeance. You were still loving her. After all, you picked her up when necessary and sex was given twice a week.

You were loving.

Food was always in the fridge, bills were paid.

You were providing.

In the morning she would find you always by her side. You were protecting.
Amma races back from the kitchen her tattered blue dress covered with dried blood and traces of her heavy labor soiled the gentle fabric. Placing the remaining dishes on the ironed linen, it is a picturesque site. She’s determined to unlock your soul. Taking a silver dinner knife from the setting, she darts under the table, looking again at the Sankofa markings and then turning directly at your naked pelvis. Amma grabs your dick and engulfs the limp stem with her mouth, clutching your testicles in her left hand, she begins to gnaw at your betraying flesh. You scream in delirious pain but your sounds are muffled. You can feel your flesh separating, blood seeping from the fresh wound. Again with feline precision Amma springs forth and tactically disappears. This time retrieving a sharp butcher’s knife and without hesitation but with no less pain your testicles have forcibly abandoned your body. It’s concealed within her fist, Amma places her hands over the lengthy vase in the center of the table, releasing her folded fingers and freeing the contents . The water within the crystal cylindrical structure turns a pale bitter red and they both sink to the bottom.

Where The Balls At (Journal entry for Fiction)

It had nothing to do with him but he is so completely wrapped up in his ego it's impossible for him to see beyond himself. It's as though he's walking around with his head violently wedge within his anus. Yes it's safe to say i despise him. Not in the sense of rage and hate but his tactless, materialistic and selfish attitude just causes my brain to involuntarily detach from my body and contemplate leaping out of my skull.

I was bonking him as much as he was getting pussy. it's a two way street! That Fucker! He called, in a fit because i refused to come over to assist his arrogant dick to an orgasm. Does he think my orifices are his playground, No this is not John Mayor's "Your body is a wonderland." Fuck that. If i don't feel like cumming most definitely i am not going to come. Probably he doesn't understand the prinicple of Buddy Assistant. Before i thought he was the perfect choice, we're sexually compatible his organ is waaaaaaay above average....I pause to reflect

and we were together for four years. So why not let your Buddy Assist be your ex. i felt things would not get complicated. Boy was i wrong. It's generally known that it is quite dangerous to dive into a platonic relationship with your Ex. But the base line of that ideal is simply related to the 'out of control wacky ditsy female emotions'. Some chauvinistic crow probably sarted that rumor... (rubbish)

the fact that i still love him made the sexual escapades even more exciting and darn satisfying might i add. But i understood that beyond the friction in the sheets there was no more left to be had by either one of us. I just needed some, was i wrong... (shut your judging eyes and curve that wagging finger)

Though i must mention in order to carry on this affair taking into consideration his overbearing male ego. i had to instill the pretense that the space between my thighs salivated for him alone and as such, he was the only Knight who roamed my hidden hollows...

HAH HAH! Such a gullible prehistoric ape, so yes i played tit for tat with his ridiculous invasions of my privacy and coyly responded to his vacuous declarations of love. he never once conceived the idea that a woman, needless to say i, would actually OWN the scrotum lost within some fractured state of genetics and treat him as marginally as he and his man clan have done to female beings.

Yes I reduced him to the basic function of his penile organ and yes i take no shame with it. however, the hyena growling escaping through the receiver of my phone at three in the morning was not expected and certainly not welcomed. So, with no more hesitation i introduced his ear drum to the dial tone and drifted into my slumber, content that the screeching nagging on the line did not belong to a BITCH.