Tuesday, June 7, 2022: Antonia Valaire's poem "Aint I yellow?"

 

Aint I yellow?

Knees tightly held together,

Bound by shivers and quivers

Rings formed around my Iris

Black and blue plaster

Know no better

Expect no better

Cutting wrist

Ready to quit.

Aint I yellow,

Cannot see the silver lining

Beneath cumulonimbus clouds,

Eyes bloodshot

Feeling worthless,

Have no hope

People are clueless to the struggles

Of a lost, broken and bruised woman.

They think he is awesome!

A stallion and savior to a Nubian Queen,

Many times wished upon a star

He would choke on a bone or have a stroke.

As he made me hopeless,

Almost no fight left

Only death awaits us

Can heaven open up and swallow me up?

Once had a dream,

Had visions

Was a woman of great worth and fortitude,

Now, was sold a dream that aint worth my life

Where can one go to rekindle the woman once was?

To be all can be which was told one could never be?

Why put your faith in man and chariots?

When it’s guaranteed failure

Why foolish women like me never learn?

Why do we become slaves to ideals?

Then it fails and we are still to be blamed

Tried to satisfy and be the flower that a bee will pollinate.

Instead I got baseball bats,

Hits upon hits like a classic record

But a tune despised,

A song never wants to listen again.

And they will think how yellow I was to stay

But they never understand a syndrome,

Plague in doubt and PTSD.

Controlled by a master manipulator,

Free me, free me I tell you is a distant and frail cry,

A cry so hidden, so screaming, so echoing that is silent

To only who can discern.

Will any anyone hear me?

Beneath my make up smile

My chilling laughter,

Stunning starlet dresses,

My servant attitude to assist at all times.

Do they know I am dying inside?

Screaming through my ears like a ringing doorbell

Can I fight back and live for me?

Is a question that ponders my heart, constantly.

My mind is weary and degenerates, perpetually,

But time and time again, it reboots and refresh

And feel a sense of belonging,

I was never yellow just broken.

© 2022 Antonia Valaire

Bio: Antonia Valaire is a Jamaican poet, Christian, and award-winning author of Pearls among Stones, Black Gold and Out from Babylon System: Liberation of Mind. As a spoken-word artist, she has been nominated for an International Reggae and World Music Award (IRAWMA). Her social media links can be accessed via: @Antoniavalaire | Linktree

National Women's Month: Mona Jean Cedar's poem "The Cup"

When the Cup is Full you can’t Pour in anymore.

Ya gotta empty (POUR) your cup

Before you Pour more.

Never Worry; Not Enough

Gotta get a Big-ger Cup

Don’t be Afraid to be Without

Heaven’s got Lots more to pour

this Pouring-out and Pouring-in

it is’ the Change that Must Begin

If Your Time-Cup is Full w/ a Crammed Schedule?

Inflexible, Immutable, impervious to Change

(Set, Impossible, Stay “Y” Same)

How do you Expect to Reform and Refine? (Become Improve)

Don’t even have a Goal in mind…

(Warn) & People are always Steal-ing your Time.

Can you? Yes. Can you? Yes. Can you? Yes, Yes, Yes Yes,

(put xxxx in schedule)

Time’s all gone; there’s nothing left

Gotta Eat, Sleep, (put in schedule)

Wanta Create & Meditate, or

Party (“y” & Drink) TV (Look TV Watch)

Study, Maybe be with Family (Mingle Family)

so Choose; it’s up to you. (Decide Self)

it’s Your Cup; fill it up (pour)

is Your Brain-Cup Full of Worries and Maybes

of Futures un-happened (Late)

and Pasts so long gone (Finish w/ hand slaps)

Guessing, Obsessing, Stressing

(R) Gotta; (L) Hafta; (R)Oughta; (L) Should

Who Says so? (Question Mark)

Mom & Daddy?

Teachers, Lovers always Adding

Their Beliefs into Your Cup…

You’re Old Enough to Know

Don’t be so Gullible xxx (Pour Glup xxxx)

be Responsible

Know what is there and Why

If your Heart-Cup is Full of Complaining & Anger,

of Blaming the Other; Comparing the un-Fair!

Jealousy does not behoove you (Benefit)

that Poison will Hard-en

it’ll Hurt Your own Heart (Block)

& Only You have the Power to Help/(Become) it to Heal

TIME HEART BRAIN

{1}

But They Need Me Insults & Injuries Thoughts From Them

2 3 1

{A}

Chase Compete Stone Cold Combat Stupid Dumb Imbecile

1 2 3

{3}

Strict Toxic Evil Stuck

1 3 2

That’s (Safe) Enough (cut throat) I Am (Hn) Full! (Overwhelmed)

(hands up)

(Pour, Relieve)

Breathe

right ( point here) Now

Perceive; behold the Beauty

Breathe;

right ( point here) Now,

Trust in your Safety

Know - you Need Nothing – just Be ( Mtn. Pose)

It – doesn’t – matter How it got there ( LPour into RCup)

Ya just Gotta get it out (R Pour out)

Might not (-) be Easy, Maybe need some Therapy

Dig deep (Analyse)& be ruthless (Strick)

Honest

Those Old Habits will not Help you;

they’re just holding you back. (noose)

let Loose the noose ; Pour & then Soar! (Leave Develop)

Know, Your Cup is so Precious

Allow in only Forgiveness

Thankfulness, Compassion,

Hope, Joy, and a whole lot of Love

This Is Your Cup, of Your Life’s making, (Pour L into R)

Cheers! Drink up!

© 2017 Mona Jean Cedar

Mona Jean Cedar composes and choreographs spoken word poetry with sign languages. She holds an AA in Dance, an AS in Sign Language Interpreting, a BS in Deaf Studies from CSUN, attended the Julliard School in New York City for Theatrical Interpreting and the National Theater of the Deaf.  For fun, she creates multi-communicative performances with her husband’s original music, has performed at many Burning Man festivals, slammed and interpreted in the National Poetry Slam Finals, interpreted for the Women of the World Slams, and represented the USA at an International Slam in Paris. France.  Ms. Cedar is “poetry in motion”.

Rich Ferguson's 8th & Agony

  I’m adding my thoughts rather late to the mix, but I feel compelled to do so after reading through Rich Ferguson’s first collection, 8th & Agony (© 2013 Punk Hostage Press). I’m also compelled to disagree with one of his admirers who proclaimed Ferguson “the last of the great poets.” Instead, I choose to view Ferguson as one of the founders of a new generation of 21st Century poets who’ve fused the best of written word with the classical tradition of oral poetry, or in this case, spoken word/slam poetry, and, in doing so, ensures the survival of both.

    Ferguson has spent many years performing in showcases. films, and tv shows. His stories have been burned into the minds of thousands of poetry lovers worldwide. If you’ve never had the pleasure of hearing Ferguson perform, then you’re in a woefully uninformed minority. Fortunately, now there’s 8th and Agony, a collection of the best of Ferguson’s poems that leap off the page and into the mind of the reader with the same lyrical ferocity of his aural performances. It takes the twin gifts of a bard and a writer to be able to deftly straddle the words of written and spoken word. 8th & Agony has achieved that level of mastery.

8th & Agony also offers a positive message, poetically and mythically speaking, which is often absent from contemporary poetry. Underscored in all of Ferguson’s poems is an aching tone of wistful hope, even through the lens of grief, as in the poem “Excommunication,” which chronicles the final stages of death and resurrection from a long-term relationship, which could have at one time been romantic and addictive:

A corrosion of loss clotted in his still-unformed wings,

while somewhere in his ghostly remains of memory

lingered a woman’s kiss -

sweet as gardenia.

He could remember that much,

remember that much of his life. He knew

there’d be things like this

he’d always remember. He knew he could

never die of forgetting.

    Ferguson is, as many of his admirers have put it, a “poetic messiah.”I gladly agree with this assessment, as the majority of Ferguson’s poems pay tribute to the bruised beauty of humanity, (“Transition Into Turbulence,” “Certain Things About Certain Women I’ve Known”, “On Becoming an Urban Legend”). Ferguson is a comedic street-corner prophet preaching a new version of the afterlife through the streets of Los Angeles in what I regard to be the best poem in his collection, “The Los Angeles Book of the Dead,”

O’ Son and Daughter of Noble Birth,

if you’ve done wrong

you can’t go trading up karma like baseball cards,

thinking you’ll end up with that prized

Tommy Lasorda 1988 Dodgers World Series Winner.

So if you’ve lied, cheated, looted,

committed a drive-by shooting,

screwed your best friend’s girlfriend/boyfriend,

left your cell phone on during a yoga class or movie,

now is the time your conscience is collecting

those sins and numbering them

on the bones of a South L.A. body count.

Yet if you should find yourself

in a La Brea tar pit hell

filled with dinosaurs, saber tooth tigers,

space aliens, and earthquakes -

don’t worry.

Know that it’s merely being created

by the special effects experts at Universal Studios

to ensure your journey

is the most exciting ride possible.

It’s National Poetry Month, and the masses (including myself) will unashamedly push all kinds of reading recommendations into the ether. If you had one book to choose, I’d recommend Ferguson’s 8th & Agony as an experience to immerse oneself into, and as a journey to take alongside one of the best poets to exist in any time or place on this planet.

(8th & Agony, Rich Ferguson, © 2013 Punk Hostage Press, ISBN 978-0-9851293-6-1, 136 pages, $15.95)

poetic content/cover artwork © 2014 Rich Ferguson and Punk Hostage Press

article content © 2014 marie lecrivain