Dickory Frumpth hates early afternoons. He hates many things like the sound of his neighbor’s dog barking, the broken sprinklers, ads for auto shop repairs, advice columns, smooth jazz CD one-oh-one-point-nine, The Garcia Family, water beds, his mother, adolescents, his shower head, checking emails, and Greg Peterson’s voice greeting him with “Go…[Read more]
they must have told you
to smile countless times
by the time you did with
such a faint, feigned smile
it’s exhausting just looking at it
nevertheless I must know
who you smiled for
did this person steal it
did he force it out of you
did you smile because you felt the need to
or were you wishing for it to be over
so that he will let y…[Read more]
I enter the cafeteria where the familiar screams and giggles and cries
for Mister John to tie shoelaces rush through me
I walk past tables of hi’s and hello Miss Roxanne towards the small library
where torn books of children’s short stories
and Christian fables and science experiments
and nonsensical doodles on pages not quite read sle…[Read more]
“What happened is between you and me”
You say as you put your clothes on,
Your shoes on, your mask on…
“Did you hear me?”
You asks. You always ask.
Because everything is a question.
I always say
The same answers
Every time you asked
Every time you’re here
Before you disappear
To your reality
Gwendolyn Brooks’s “Kitchenette Building” and Langston Hughes’s “Harlem” are poems both published in the 1960s; both discusses and challenges the idea of the American dream for black people.
In “Harlem,” the speaker questions the American dream deferred that black people are prevented from achieving due to white oppression. Hughes uses var…[Read more]
Poem #2 Revised:
Your face, a fetid fruit rotten,
Your eyes shrivels as dead leaves do
In fall, falling and floating about,
I, the soil you once fed on
To flourish, to grow,
Yet here you lay,
Your life in decay.
Your face is like a fruit, rotten and forgotten,
Your eyes like leaves shriveling up in fall,
Falling slowly from the tip of the branch like the life you choose to live.
Mother cries like broken strings on the violin
You once played like blossoms in spring.
I was the soil you once fed on,
growing and flourishing and yet
here you lay, a…[Read more]
her face was once like glowing amber,
no longer held the light within.
alabaster roughened where
crevices formed as she smiled
as if engraved by years
of tears that flowed through like rivers
that now runs dry