Happiness is a cruel joke.
Depression is more genuine.
A smile can be beguiling,
But it can’t hide these tears of mine.
I sang my pain for all to hear.
I gave them my heart to pillage.
They peeled away my skin
And ate my cancer
And made me the fool of the village.
I never smiled to beguile
I never hid these tears of mine.
Happiness always shunned me.
Depression was more genuine.
Jesus came to me in a dream
He offered me Heaven.
I couldn’t wait that long.
I found immortality in music
And became a messiah of song.
I sang my song for all to hear.
I gave them my soul to pillage.
They peeled away my skin
And ate my cancer
And made me the fool of the village.
My smile became beguiling.
My tears fell in vain.
Happiness began to mock me.
Depression was my gain.
My blues became too authentic;
The discord too much to bear.
No song could dispel my misery.
My soul began to tear.
When my music forsook me,
Death was my only fan.
He promised me a sweeter song
And I was born again.
He took me to higher plane
where immortals and music dare not tread.
Where I could sing about teenage angst
And contemplate my dread.
Happiness was a cruel joke.
Depression was more genuine.
It gave me the courage to rest,
And repair this empty soul of mine.
* * * * *
Rico Devante is a huge Nirvana fan.
I see your face in the rising sun,
When the early morning skies are red.
From this time, until the day is done,
Thoughts of you dance inside my head.
I dream of you throughout the night
As the downy pillows rub my cheeks.
Each vision of you brings me delight.
Your lovely face makes my spirit weak.
I hear your voice even when you aren’t near.
No song can bring a more peaceful sound.
Your euphonious music pleases my ears.
In you, a treasure I have found.
You, my dear, are a gem precious and rare;
Beautiful and lovely beyond compare.
* * * * *
Jessie Davis is a welder who writes poetry as a hobby.
black women are soft
like the petals of a rose
yet hard as diamonds
* * * * *
Donna Lewis is an elementary school art teacher in Detroit.
for momma's eyes when they made me behave
in a way words never could.
for momma's hands that could rub the hurt
from my heart,
for momma's heart, loving me
unconditionally, covering
me in a warm glow that said everything
would be all right even if she did have
to catch the bus in the rain or
couldn't afford to buy me a
car when i turned sixteen.
for momma's dignity
raising me above filthy streets.
teaching me about manhood
with no man around, and respect
for myself
and life (respect
for her is implied). prison wardens
don't make gumbo as good as momma's
and it's always too
cold at the morgue.
momma taught
me that.
and about God.
her faith inspired me to
seek salvation
but i can't imagine heaven being
much better than falling asleep
with momma stroking my hair.
for momma the queen of my heart
apple of my eye, soul to soul we are one.
if i could only be half the man
you made of me.
if i could only love like you love
with all my heart/body/soul.
if i could only touch others
the way you touched me
and appreciate life the way you do
then i could finally make you proud
that i am your son.
* * * * *
F.J. edits Soul Portrait Magazine
Father and then husband to desertion
Adored siblings to untimely demise
Vivacious Mother lost to perversion
Of graceful age retreat and time’s reprise
A son to undetermined primacy
A shadow daughter‘s need-ness they surmise
Cannot demolish that sweet vibrancy
She spreads her wings to rise and rise and rise
* * * * *
DL Minor is a poetry and fiction writer
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
Isn’t it amazing?
Not all colored boys can sing
You know why?
Colored boys ain’t colored
They just boys
Yeah, they momma’s black
And yes, they dark like that
But that don’t mean all colored boys can sing
Cause them boys ain’t colored
They upward leaning
Listen, singing ain’t everything
Uh, well, in church it does mean something
And yeah, lots of choir boys can really sing
But that ain’t got nothing to do with them
being called colored and things
Even the three Hebrew boys didn’t have to sing
Neither were they called colored and things
Even though they faced a very wicked king
Never once did Nebakenezzer ever demand
That them boys sing
Old men use to call my granddaddy colored boy
To him it was more of the same old white noise
They’d holler at him and his friends
“Go on now colored boys, ya’ll sing”
He wanted to say “Go on now, tell yo’ momma tuh sing”
But no sooner said would a rope be swinging
Isn’t it amazing?
Not all colored boys can sing
You know why?
Colored boys ain’t colored
They just boys upward leaning
Copyright 2009 Emmett Wheatfall
All rights reserved
www.emmettwheatfall.com
Audio Recording CD“I Speak”, Emmett Wheatfall, Peterson Entertainment, LLC, April 2010
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
Tagged as:
emmett wheatfall
Scalding sunlight on a winter Wednesday
A crown of thorn and leaves; my rage on this day
A whirl of ice and snow soak through my skin
My mouth a spoon half-filled; my thoughts of kin
A tree’s silent reproach; my mind on kin
The stones and air cathedrals to my sin
His face my face our faces strain and reach
He came to take me home but not to teach
He sought me out to school but not to teach
My empty mouth is set against his preach
The snow and sky engraved upon my skin
The light is colder here; I think of kin.
* * * * *
DL Minor writes poetry and fiction.
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
Tagged as:
dl minor
making love to a black woman
is like…
slow dancing
sweating
as she melts on your chest
and drips down your thighs
whipped cream & cherries
sliding down your leg
too fast to lick
her afro/disiac
lips, teeth, tongues
touching, tasting, teasing
in love, in motion
stroking a kitten
purring
stroking
an angel at dawn
skinny dipping
in a pool of icecubes
listening to Duke on the piano
bumping, grinding, singing
imagination music
in the dark
listening to Coltrane
playing his horn on his knees
horn on his knees
horn/knees
horn/y
feeling her body
dripping down your cheek
around your neck
into your soul
feeling her body
merging into your soul
plugging into her
rhythm
planting a rose in heaven
oooooooooooooooh
making love to a black woman
is like…
being born again
* * * * *
Gino Ramone is a musician and writer.
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
Tagged as:
gino ramone
Suddenly, everything stops.
An all-consuming silence
Envelops the living room.
The sound of his hand
Slicing through the stagnant air
Is all that remains.
She winces, cowering underneath
The black lacquer coffee table.
Her spirit, cracked like ice; her body,
A crumpled heap of sullen flesh.
His thick, leathery fingers
Slide across his weathered face
Leaving a trail of heartbreaks,
Disappointments, fears.
He stands a broken man.
Her shriveled body
Crawls across the carpet,
Through the broken glass.
In the dark, she brushes
Past his dingy pantleg.
He stares into the shadows.
Gin and sweat permeate the air.
He reaches out and touches her hand.
The crackle of bones
Jars the clock into motion.
* * * * *
Leslie Duran is writer who has published work in the Katmandu Journal, Poetry and Prose, and Gospel Weekly.
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
Tagged as:
leslie duran
