Rain drops fall, splattering as they hit the ground
Masking the sound of quickly moving feet
A faster moving heart beat,
pulsating, vibrating a small frame body as it presses against an alley wall
Catching a breathe, pausing for a quick rest
Thunder sounds, lightning strikes high, splitting the night sky
Heaven cries, sorrowful tears indeed
Looking at her hands, water rolling from face to cheek meets salty drops
Young black seeds in hard earth soil grow solid like stone
Home grown to be hard like diamond, but many with a soul soft like cotton
Touched by God at conception, and kissed by the devil at birth
Earth is in its last days, and they are in a maze of confusion
Delusions of love are passed over for lust and sex
Regrets are made in the throngs of passion
Passion draped all over the hands of one young woman standing in the rain
Looking at hands that had just come from caressing soft brown skin
But not knowing though his body was within hers
His love was only between her thighs, her eyes regret the day they first saw him
And try as they may, they couldn’t wash away the memory
Flashbacks and visions of all she had seen of and in him
These things proceed and all of a sudden the rain gives way to sunny days of happiness
Picnics, six months of indulgence in a world that was not hers
Lured in by his charm, holding on to his arm everywhere they went
Seemed like a sign outwardly of his inward content
But content is sometimes only contempt in wait
As he played her with Veronica, Suzanne, Lizbeth, Shawna and Grace
From massage to manauge, from discrete circumstance to desecrate indulgence
His fingerprints on their bathroom mirrors punctuated his deeds
Tendencies are ironies in wait
Because as was his practice, as was his fate
She had left in a commotion as Grace came to confront him
Seeds that he had let grow inside her, how could he have lied to her
Her fingers on prints of pictures taken by a camera phone of a friend
When he was showing outward content in the arms of Suzanne
Perhaps one could have been seen as a confrontation of short will versus high heeled determination
But now, prints clutched in her fingers, him inside this young girl
When nightmares hit the real world, you get stab wounds to the tune of 143
The rain fell violently, a relentlessly hard picture caught in a soft small frame

Avid

Whitney Peyton - no cookie-cutter rapper

Nonsense Makes Sense

We tango sambo
Manifesting delicious
Delinquency to the tune
Of tito
Ditto machito & his afro-cubans
Plantation palpitations
Bandana fandango
Somber sambo
Santeria celia
Cruz middle passage
Memorizing meringue
Sherbro sho bro
Talk that talk
Tantalize romanticize
Defecate delinquencies
Until p diddy’s umbrella
Is eunichized

Colonial Colón
Original origami
Paper tigers like Swans, geishas, Gertrude
& Virginia
Shakespeare’s sister
In a room of her own
But I’da b well damned
If that be my destiny.

Isis Osiris
Sister brother
Wife husband
ashes spread across seven skies
And I, sis, come looking
Reunification rectification
Holy wholeness
Can’t flub it
Or fuck with it
Untouchable like beloved
Whole womb
Embraces total nut
And it’s on
Like donkey kong
Or king kong.
who ain’t got nuttin on me
Cept extended stomach
Moon round
Full and fecund
Digging the ground
For roots
Sooty black foots my only carriage
But divorce not marriage
That be how I do it do i
While you try to woo it
only to end up rueing it
behind some foolish shit

but that ain’t the end
as I extend into tomorrow
no sorrow
as I search the world round
for the proper noun
to give my seed

P.A.C vs my history
sobukwe no way
Dahomey da homey
Africa to america
Da homey
Get it on, Gat it on
get get gone
only grass seen
prison lawn

don 3 of 4
1^st sankara
2^nd kono
And yeah, fauna
Has his name
Nowhere near lame

And I reclaim my fame
Signing my true name
I, Sis, You, Bro, San, Son
Isis Osiris and Horus
True trinity.

©2006 Tichaona M. Chinyelu

While enjoying the sun shine and letting the breeze massage my soul
You walked by… His name… Black Gold
Fine as aged wine and smooth like it’s taste
Black Gold I love you can I sit on your face?
His arms so strong
His eyes full of pride
Black Gold!
Black Gold!
Can I spend a night?
Just give me one night… I promise I’ll act right
I promise to treat you to the finer things in this life
Not just materially but I’ll welcome you into my palace
Where warm loving awaits you… with no strife… no malice
I need you Black Gold just like you need me
Come home to love
Come home to your Queen

The thought of us together
Used to send me thoughts of pleasure
I’d give anything to trust you again
But you’ve committed the unforgivable sin

I’m sorry baby what more can I say
We both know you fucked up in a major way
The love we shared, you’ve definately killed
Don’t worry my heart was very quickly healed

You say you’re no longer interested in other women
And that if I forgive you, you’ll never do it again
I know you’ve said it over and over
It only happened because you weren’t sober

You said I was the only one who owned your heart
I remember when I thought that we’d never part
You say you still haven’t found a better lover
Maybe it’s because you’re supposed to suffer

And that you wish you hadn’t put our love to the test
Because now you’ve realized now that I was the best
You say you know better now,
And you ask if I can tell
But all I want to say “Go Directly to Hell!”

You say it’s gettin’ harder for you just livin’
But you dont need to wonder if you will ever be forgiven?
The answer is no! I just can’t let that happen
So all I can do is suggest you keep on steppin’.

Juaneka Gore…Poetic_Soul

Jazz Stanzas

The wolves may huff and puff
but they ain’t got nothing on
apple sized cheeks
that blew sounds just as sweet
as the juice.

It don’t mean a thing
if you don’t take the A train
and hear the lady from baltimore
with the sanitizing stench of bleach on her
from scrubbing those damn white steps.
From lady’s maid to lady day
from the whorehouse to
covering the waterfront
until finally
it was heroin, not her man
that had lady singing the blues.

A trumpeter walks in front of a horse
leading a perennial procession for you.
That’s the image that comes to mind
when I think of you.
Your smile derided.
Your character declared a caricature
but Ghana loved you.
You were pops to the world.

In a mining township
a hundred miles from Johannesburg
exposed to jazz, traditional music
and apartheid
a horn player was growing up.
In a jim-crow dominated township
it was designed to be impossible
to graze in the grass
but somehow
you did.

And now, it is said
we don’t love the music.
Our faces are not in the audiences
of those who carry it on.
Our dollars aren’t spent on it.
We have allowed it to leave
and because of that
it no longer belongs to us.

But this is simply not true.

© 2004 Tichaona Chinyelu