Fiction, poetry, writing
A silver breeze ruffles a curtain
of green cotton, passing a crestfallen
angel with red shoes.
People cackle and titter and
a wagon hurtles past, its destination
of little importance.
Crockery patters against a plastic bowl
recalling memories of a sister standing up.
Old lives are laid out in glass coffins
partitioned, numbered, selected.
Dainty egg sandwiches wait against
a backdrop of Polite Literature.
Huey P Newton – A Poem
This morning I put on my crisp, white treads creased to perfection,
pockets pressed down and Bob revisited me in a rock style
round of black vinyl and I stood, poised, the sunlight through
the old net curtain, glanced off my body, warming half of me,
slipping into the contours of my torso, easing the pain of muscles
pumped up with weights.
I am philosophized and doctored and my well-fingered, full-thumbed
books pile high or stand in uniformed attendance, a testimony
to the knowledge of a system I have been through, am going through
will fight through for the rest of my life.
Behind me, in remembrance, are white chains, lazily linked
The Black Panther lies gracefully at my feet.