Tuesday, April 23, 2024


Record Your Plants Progress



Available @ Amazon


From Nikki Giovanni's fourth volume of poetry “My House,” published in 1972.


we stood there waiting

on the corners

in the bars

on the stoops

in the pews

by the cadillacs

for buses

wanting for love

watching to see if hope would come by

we stood there hearing

the sound of police sirens

and fire engines

the explosions

and babies crying

the gas escaping

and the roaches breeding

the garbage cans falling

and the stairways creaking

we listened

to the books opening

and hearts shutting

the hands rubbing

the bodies sweating

we were seeing the revolution screeeeeeeeeeeching

to a halt

trying to find a clever way

to be empty

Monday, April 22, 2024




Ever Want 

To Crawl

ever want to crawl

in someone’s arms

white out the world

in someone’s arms

and feel the world

of someone’s arms

it’s so hot in hell

if i don’t sweat

i’ll melt

Sunday, April 21, 2024




And Sometimes 

I Sit

and sometimes i sit

down at the typewriter

and i think

not of someone

cause there isn’t anyone

to think

about and i wonder

is it worth it

Saturday, April 20, 2024




How Do You Write 

A Poem?

how do you write a poem

about someone so close

to you that when you say ahhhhh

they say chuuuu

what can they ask you to put

on paper that isn’t already written

on your face

and does the paper make it

any more real

that without them

life would be not

impossible but certainly

more difficult

and why would someone need

a poem to say when i come

home if you’re not there

i search the air

for your scent

would i search any less

if i told the world

i don’t care at all

and love is so complete

that touch or not we blend

to each other the things

that matter aren’t all about

baaaanging (i can be baaaanged all

day long) but finding a spot

where i can be free

of all the physical

and emotional bullshit

and simply sit with a cup

of coffee and say to you

“i’m tired” don’t you know

those are my love words

and say to you “how was your

day” doesn’t that show

i care or say to you “we lost

a friend” and not want to share

that loss with strangers

don’t you already know

what i feel and if

you don’t maybe

i should check my feelings

Friday, April 19, 2024

I feel this poem, the pain. The baddest poetry written was in the 60s and 70s. By the late 70s some poets changed their style of poetry. They moved away from writing Black Revolutionary poetry. Was it a change of an era, ideologies, or the infiltration of a Party? They do not poet like this anymore.


i don’t want you to think

that i don’t know the pain

when you say sister diana don’t sing

like she used to

cause i heard dionne making way for just like me

and i remembered the expectation

and the little surprises her albums

used to bring

the little love notes that told someone

what i felt and the ultimate surprise

when she didn’t sing for me and my love

no more and the pain was deep

cause the pleasure had been so complete

and i can dig when you say sing

like you used to but maybe we can


we don’t poet like that

no more either

Thursday, April 18, 2024



A Black woman’s rendition of Genesis

Ego Tripping 

(there may be a reason why)

I was born in the congo

I walked to the fertile crescent and built

the sphinx

I designed a pyramid so tough that a star

that only glows every one hundred years falls

into the center giving divine perfect light

I am bad

I sat on the throne

drinking nectar with allah

I got hot and sent an ice age to europe

to cool my thirst

My oldest daughter is nefertiti

the tears from my birth pains

created the nile

I am a beautiful woman

I gazed on the forest and burned

our the sahara desert

with a packet of goat’s meat

and a change of clothes

I crossed it in two hours

I am a gazelle so swift

so swift you can’t catch me

For a birthday present when he was three

I gave my son hannibal an elephant

He gave me rome for mother’s day

My strength flows ever on

My son noah built new/ark and

I stood proudly at the helm

as we sailed on a soft summer day

I turned myself into myself and was


men intone my loving name

All praises All praises

I am the one who would save

I sowed diamonds in my back yard

My bowels deliver uranium

the filings from my fingernails are

semi-precious jewels

On a trip north

I caught a cold and blew

My nose giving oil to the arab world

I am so hip even my errors are correct

I sailed west to reach east and had to round off

the earth as I went

The hair from my head thinned and gold was laid

across three continents

I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal

I cannot be comprehended

except by my permission

I mean...I...can fly

like a bird in the sky...