: : BLUSH : :

i blushed a little
then a lot when i realized
he pinned a poem to me
i the romantics romantic
left a little silly at
even the possibility
i blush a little even
at the thought

PicNap-Poetry 2.o

Now that the slam team is back from nationals in Texas, I can sit back and analyze how to improve on one of my favorite projects, the PicNap Poetry Series.

It's been a blessing to be able to associate with so many positive, talented folk. Somtimes the weekly series can be a bit of a drain... at least until I walk through the doors and see all those big smiles, to be greeted by even bigger hugs.

The homophobic, spiteful and jealous folk still hate, but they can't blunt the genuine energy that radiates from the Meetery Eatery every Friday. We truely celebrate all kinds of poetry and all kinds of folk. From gay to straight, to black or white, we embrace everyone who will embrace us without malice.

It's like a beacon to the sane who wish to avoid all the negativity in a city that seems to cherish it like a rosary to a nun. PicNap-Poetry is a bastion of truth, where real folk speak personal, and sometimes revolutionary.

I'm looking forward to 2007 already.

Middle Passage (Epigrams)

We are braided tight in complete submission;
A plight plagued by the man’s crooked condition?

Its been four plus decades in the masters wrath;
It brought impotence to our own ancestors path.

We wonder why we simply can’t get along;
Because massa’ only taught us how to sing songs.

Petty envy and jealousy, man’s self-hate tools;
crabs in a barrel fight like ignorant fools.

Brainwashed brotha’s take millennia to cure,
while some brothas’ just happy doin’ jail-time tours.

Traditions drowned in mid-Atlantic slave boats;
black flesh in soiled rags on a ship with no coats.

One who holds his race and culture back.
Jeopardy’s retort, what’s an American Black?

Black-eyed peas, collard greens, a box of Jiffy Mix;
boost yo’ self-esteem, stop jonesin’ for a fix.

Uncle Sam, he'll do all the grocery shopping;
so stay home, make babies, watch stories, do mopping.

We kill for items God didn’t give a soul;
man, take this damn coat, crawl back in yo’ fuckin’ hole.

Gangstas, players, inner city houchee hoes;
Crack ma’s and dealer pa’s create juvenile woes.

Some families find refuge in lily-white burbs;
we label them sellouts, why are you so disturbed?

Grown men obsessed with where to put the dick.
Duped women, be selfish make him respect you shit.

Disease, guns, drugs are rites of passage today.
The master just called collect, tell me who’s gonna pay.

© Jy-Obadele

Lafayette Park @ Dawn

s u n s h i n e

its sun-fall i feel he needs me
different from days before
his sleep restless and his
dreams nightmares

his eye lids drawn in fear
from constant tyranny by petty
tyrants who rear swords drawn
toward fruitless battles

only he awakes to more
tattered tales casting spells
upon flesh-eating soul
sucking slithering

yet only today yesterday
and maybe the other day too
i feel my brothers need
moreso today than most