At Da Club!!

What you see in the image is an expandable-keyboard cellphone. It is the number one sight viewed by yours truly this past Saturday night. I hit the club! OMG!! Everybody and their mother had a cellphone either in their hand, pocketbook or attached to their waist. My intended view was a bevy of delectable honeys in my direct or peripheral vision. Trust me - there was a ton and a half of beautiful, vivacious women to be ogled, but, these phones seemed to play a key role in their lives. I say that as every other moment was littered by one person or another glancing down at their phone, or diligently typing a response at lightning-fast speeds.

I found myself standing at the end of the bar, perusing the room to see which young lady would attract my eye first. As I glanced down, I saw no less than three cellphones gracing the bar, each lit with a neon-blue backlight. Upon glancing up again, there were cellphones in the hands of nearly everybody seated or standing at the bar - except for yours truly, of course. Those who held their phones in their hands were busy reading the latest text-message or creating one of their own to send to a waiting friend. Years ago, nearly everyone was seen in public with a pager attached to the hip. Next came a cellphone attached to the ear, which was followed by a long white cord that we have come to know as earbuds. Just that quickly, that sight has been replaced by expandable-keyboard cellphones. I was truly amazed at the amount that I saw this past Saturday night.

Of course, by now, you're wondering what in the world was I doing "at da club". I have a friend who needed to be out and about without the lure of being around the "old gang" - a recovering addict. I thought that I would show him that a good time can be had without the use of drugs and alcohol. This is the second outing that we've had, the first inside a club. He seems to be getting the hang of it and it looks at though it may become a fairly regular thing. Fortunately for me, it will only be every other weekend that he is in town.

We went to a club called "Morgan's", which is a club that I had frequented years ago. Figuratively speaking, it was my second home. I had ventured into this particular club about four years ago, after not having been there for a very long time. I stayed all of ten (10) minutes before walking back out the door. Everyone in the club seemed young enough to be my child or grandchild! A year later, I entered Morgan's again, wondering why I had only stayed a few minutes the last time. Needless to say, it didn't take me long to remember. So, years later, there I was, again.

An extremely attractive woman, who was seated at the bar right beside me, leaned over, while pulling tickets from her pocketbook, and asked if I'd be interested in attending a fish-fry at another popular hot-spot. I kindly replied that I'd think about it. She smiled and returned to staring off into space, sipping on some bottled brew. I eyed her off and on from the corner of my eye, but, decided not to start conversation as it would lead to nowhere, what with the ages of the attendees. My buddy had found his way to the dancefloor and was shaking quite a tailfeather when I spotted him. As a few patrons to my left rose to leave, I quickly scrambled for a seat, in the corner, in the dark. I ordered another ginger ale, much to the dismay of the barmaid, and prepared to nurse it for the remainder of the night. Finally, my buddy left the dancefloor and headed for the bar for some liquid libations to cool himself down. He stopped to order at precisely the same spot from which I had recently moved - next to this vivacious woman with the tickets. She was now talking to her girlfriend who was seated next to her, but, when bud strolled up, the tickets came up for air, once again. He didn't buy a ticket but proceeded to chat with her for quite some time, buying them drinks as they both giggled (the two ladies, that is). Later, he tells me that this vivacious young lady that I so graciously and magnanimously passed up was (so he tells it) thirty-eight (38) years old - not the as-young-as-my-daughter vixen that I had earlier supposed.

There is a very real, very valid reason that I stay out of clubs these days. I can see myself engaged in a flirtacious evening with some fresh, young hottie and she decides to make a post of it on her My Space or Facebook page. I can see my name, description, and possible photo (what with today's gadgety phones) on her page. I also see my daughter's profile there in the "friends" section. OMG!!! Is there a rock that I can crawl under right now???!!! Years ago, I walked into Morgan's, and walked right back out because the crowd was way too young for me. I'm sorry - waaaaaaaay too young for me. Ironically, because of my humanitarian gesture taking place, I finally stayed this time, struck gold in a beautiful, vivacious vixen who was not as-young-as-my-daughter, and I passed on the opportunity. Sheez!!

We left the club about ten minutes before closing, and headed for the car. After realizing that the club was about to close, we decided to stand outside the front door with the rest of the crowd and watch the parade of exiting honeys (as if we weren't going to do it anyway). The procession was inudated by expandable-keyboard cellphones either being read or typed upon. They were making the "hook-up" or lying about why they couldn't make the "hook-up". Either way, it was all being executed by way of man's latest form of human contact and communication - the expandable-keyboard cellphone . . . at da club.

copyright © 2008 blackstarr

blackstarr52@gmail.com

The Renaissance, The New Millennium, The New Millennium, clubs, keyboards, cellphones, hotties, young, My Space, Facebook

Royal Ebony

brown eyes that shimmer

of varying hues

skin from yellow

to the darkest of blues

intense in demeanor

determination of steel

there's a need and a way

I have faith that we will

show the world

what we're capable of being

take our places on thrones

as Kings and Queens

a residual flicker lingers

from a once full flame

ebony royalty

will rise again!

© 2008 Missy

myeishaspeaks@gmail.com

The Renaissance, The New Millennium, Kings and Queens, Royal Ebony, Poetry, Unity

Wrap It Up (1)

I hate, hate, hate to jump on the bandwagon! Unfortunately, everybody seems to be doing it, these days. It has come to be expected upon reaching certain blog pages. If it’s good for the goose, then, it must very well be good for the gander. Therefore, I present the first of many “wrap-ups”. I’ll make it a bit different by not so much wrapping up the events of the last few days, but, rather, simply adding a few thoughts to what has happened recently. OK – fine!! I’m jumping on the bandwagon!! There – I said it.

Impeachment – Like most of the country, I am all for the impeachment of G Dubya. If ever there was a person to whom I did not take a liking, it has been old G Dubya. Before we impeach Mr. Dubya, I think that we need to impeach someone else first – but quickly. That would be Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi. She has, in no uncertain terms, decided that there will be no impeachment of G Dubya – at least not until after the general election in November. Rep. Kucinich took the time and effort to present as many facts as could be garnered, presented his impeachment motion, and Ms Pelosi and the remainder of the House, including those who voted in favor of the motion, sent it to a committee that is known for “killing off” a bill, motion, or idea. We can question why we elect these people into office, thinking that they will do our bidding. A wiser question is “Why do we continue to allow them to remain in office, if they are not doing our bidding?”

Discrimination – Colt 45 is at it again. I don’t mean the gun manufacturers – I’m speaking of the other African-American killer, the other producers of weapons of mass destruction – the malt liquor company. In Philly, as may be the same elsewhere in the U.S., we have a ton of murals throughout the city, depicting historic eras, celebrities, politicians, and just “plain old folk”. The murals were designed as a two-fold venture – to stop the senseless graffiti which had plagued our city throughout the years, and to bring forth education through the huge renderings. One of my favorites is the two- or three-story depiction of Julius “Dr. J” Erving. It is so detailed that it actually looks more like a photograph than a painting, and one that constitutes a spitting image of the man. I consider myself to be “up” on my Black history, but, I have come to find that I learn something from nearly every mural that I come across.

Now that Colt 45 has decided to add their two-cents into the game, I have learned something from their mural, as well. The company has no qualms about selling a product that is not only counter-productive to society, but, also dangerous to the body, mind, and soul of a human being. They have plastered a huge mural on the wall of the well-traveled Girard Avenue, depicting graffiti-type characters wielding Colt 45 cans and bottles high in the air. Several community groups have already spoken out against this discriminatory practice, and, there is no doubt in my mind that the mural will soon be removed. The message on the mural? “The Tales Of Colt45.com . . . works every time”. In smaller print it reads “Yo, enjoy our frosty malt beverages responsibly”. Walk through any suburban community and you will be hard-pressed to find one small ad depicting the benefits of drinking malt liquor, much less a larger-than-life mural on every other billboard. The sale of malt liquor is designated as a ghetto product and is marketed there and there only. I said that I have also learned from this mural, just as I have the other positive murals: genocide comes in many forms.

Music – I have already given you “La Factoria”. I ranted and raved about them for forever. If you recall, I had no clue as to what their message was – their music is sung in Spanish, which I don’t speak. I also said that I refuse to translate the words because they sound good and I’d hate to find out that the translations don’t sit well in my mind. I still listen to them everyday, and I still do not know meanings of the words. I do know the meaning of the word “harmonize”. If you check your “down wit it” dictionary for its meaning, you will most definitely find a picture of K-Ci and JoJo. Slide on over to Free Napster, and step back into time, a time when harmony was at an all-time high. The album, as well as the song, was “Tell Me It’s Real”. O-M-G!!!!! Not since the Persuasions has there been such a coming together of the forces of nature. Don’t stray too far. The next album is “Love Always” and the song is “All My Life”. If you were never a fan, these two songs alone might make a believer out of you. Go ahead – believe.

Are you sill on the Free Napster page? Good for you, because you know that I would not leave you hangin’ like that. Your eyes are probably getting weary from all of this reading so, here’s a little something that will make you get up out of your seat and make you dance a jig across the room. Guess what? It’s jazz!! Who woulda thought, huh? The group is called Us3, the album is Rare Requests, and the song is Cantaloop. I personally guarantee that if you don’t get up outta your seat and start dancing, I will double your money back!! Unfortunately, unless you are a member of Napster, as I am, you will not be privy to the re-mix that I listen to. It is Bebop at its best and it has a slice of Rap thrown in, and is topped off with some very unique scat thrown in for good measure. While you check that out, I’m gonna check out, ‘til next time. Peace.

copyright © 2008 blackstarr

Blackstarr52@gmail.com

The Renaissance, The New Millennium, wrap-up, G Dubya, Nancy Pelosi, impeachment, Kucinich, Colt 45, racial discrimination, genocide, malt liquor, murals,anti-graffiti, music, La Factoria, K-Ci and JoJo, Us3

Untitled

Everyday
The whole day long
Everyday
The same tired song
Feeling parallel parked
In a diagonal world
This way and that
Our image tossed and twirled
Hope and change vowed on the campaign
Yet we’re going down the same road again
Hope we’re not being used as political bait
Change how we think, let’s try to relate
That airing dirty laundry doesn’t make it suddenly clean
Stand up with a solution, a suggestion, I mean
We sit and we watch as we’re thrown under the bus
And no one says anything because “it’s just us”
So when does it stop, when does it end
How can we bring about a positive spin
We all aren’t lowlifes and tricks on the street
We got to school and work, have ends to meet
I want hope and change that I can follow
Not just words all too soon ringing hollow
Dark as midnight
We hear all the time
If not midnight
Then 11:59
Was the day originally meant for celebration
For good fathers to enjoy a moments elation
Not mentions of men with the backbones of squid
To overshadow the positive and good they did
It’s not that the message lacked real truth
Just that the timing was a bit uncouth
You can’t succeed
And then proceed
To bash us when the heat gets hotter
Our image and esteem your political fodder
We have problems yes, I’ll admit that’s so
So I’m not saying toss them out the window
The only thing I’m really trying to say
In perhaps my own misguided way
Is that continually speaking of the negative without
Offering solutions is no doubt
The quickest way to lose integrity
Not to mention it’s the epitome
of efforts done in futility.

© Missy 2008

myeishaspeaks@gmail.com

Renaissance, New Millennium, New Millennium, diagonal world, change, hope, futility, negativity, positivity, Barack Obama, poetry, social commentary, politics

HERO

My father is my hero
And his daddy was his.
It is the way it should be
It is the way it is.
He is always there.

My granddaddy was special;
He was a short,
Thick, tree stump
And was a smutty brown
Like the soil in
His vegetable garden.
And he took me
and my friend fishing
and I hated the worms
but I showed him I could
do what he could do
even though I was a girl.

My granddaddy let me
drive his blue Malibu.
I was only fifteen.
I liked his house.
His back yard was
Woodsy and sunshiny,
with a black iron pot with
boiled squirrels
and chitins,
And I ate them
and I hated them,
choked on the smell
but I showed him I could
do what he could do
even though I was a girl.

My father is my hero
And his daddy was his.
It is the way it should be
It is the way it is.
He is always there.

My granddaddy
Let me hug him
With my little girl arms.
And he hugged me
Back.
And I loved him,
Until
He wanted me to
Be his flower,
And be a part of his
Special garden.
But I didn't,
He wanted it to
Be our secret,
But I couldn't
Even though I was a girl.

My daddy
heard my secret.
My daddy could slay dragons,
but his daddy was his hero.
He kept my secret
and said nothing more
I asked him years later
As a daughter woman
If he ever had ever thought
About it
And got angry about it. He looked at me and would not say anything.
Because he kept my secret
And said nothing more

His daddy was his hero,
And my father was mine,
It is the way it was
The mystery it remains
For all time.

Copyright © June 2008 by CC Gill. All rights reserved.

cee_duncan@hotmail.com

The Renaissance, The New Millennium, heroes, dragon slayers, anger, granddaddy, daddy, poetry

The Great Gas-Out (part 1)

People - please don't forget that today is the first day of the


GREAT GAS-OUT.


Please do not purchase gas today.

If you must, please do it sparingly.

I will be more diligent next week, and remind you for the

upcoming Saturday,

June 21, 2008.

Peace.


copyright © 2008 blackstarr

Indigenous Tribe of the Amazon

I was immensely fascinated by the story of the indigenous tribe found deep in the Amazon jungle. Seeing is definitely believing and I think it’s beautiful that there are tribes of people out there that live according to thousands of years of tradition rather than the latest five-second technological fad. Jose Carlos dos Reis Meirelles, an expert on un-contacted tribes at Funai states that the indigenous tribe was photographed to prove they exist. Obviously, there are some out there that didn’t believe or didn’t care. Also quite obviously, this has more to do with the land they are on than the well being of the people.

Now that the world knows of their existence, hopefully we can work together to help maintain their way of life. I admit that I am not particularly hopeful and am rather fearful for their continued existence. Historically, Indigenous peoples all over the world have not fared well and they somehow always end up with the short end of the stick -- and a substantially smaller portion of land.
It was stated that in the past, within the first 12 months of contact with the outside world, around 50% of other “unknown” indigenous communities have been lost.

As I type, I’m sure there is a specialized focus group of highly paid corporate consultants thinking of a ways to put a spin on things to justify moving these people so that their oil or logging companies can move in. Sure, right now we hear cute stories about how fascinating it is. I fear that pretty soon, the media will let the words “savages” and possibly “cannibal” slip. Then, there won’t be a man, woman or child alive that will think that these people should be left as they were. Unfortunately that is the true nature of our capitalistic society. If you’re not making money for yourself or somebody else, you’re a drain on society. We do not appreciate nor attempt to understand the traditional culture and values of any indigenous people and we don‘t realize that they have as much to teach us as we think we have to teach them.

We may be on the cutting-edge of technology but we lag far behind in traditional values.

copyright © 2008 Missy

myeishaspeaks@gmail.com

Renaissance, The New Millennium, rain forests, indigenous, South American jungles, Jose Carlos dos Reis Meirelles, Funai, savages, cannibals, cannibals, cutting-edge, traditional values

Ghetto Summers (part 7 of 7)

GHETTO SUMMERS

Three holidays, in the summertime,

the backdrop for my ghetto rhyme.

Memorial Day finds me on my way,

to a shore,

a shore with a boardwalk, a bikini, and, a party.

I depart, for a moment, from the confines of my beloved ghetto,

to the clean, endless sand of a Virginian beach.

In July, I depart, for a moment,

to pay homage to someone else’s beloved ghetto.

I depart to the smell of charcoal, of hot dogs.

In someone else’s beloved ghetto,

I taste of cooking put to good use,

and, lay low with a gin and juice.

September finds me at home,

enjoying the sights, enduring the sounds,

feasting on the aromas of a rapidly fleeing ghetto summer.

Money’s too short, now, for one last

trip to that shore of sand, bikinis, and, parties.

So, September finds me at home.

I can’t pay homage to another’s beloved ghetto,

as their money is too short to entertain.

Therefore, September finds me at home.

So, the distinct smell of charcoal

gives way to

the distinct smell of hot dogs and burgers,

gives way to

the distinct smell of ribs and gin,

but,

with city workers on strike, again,

it all gives way to

the distinct aroma of festering ghetto garbage.

copyright © 09.07.1997 blackstarr

blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, The New Millennium, ghetto summers, poetry, poetry, Virginia Beach, bar-b-ques and cookouts, gin and juice, garbage strike

Ghetto Summers (part 6)

Shorty

I see what they cannot.

They are trained,

and, I am not,

yet, I see what they cannot.

That’s why Shorty sells the drug

that’s on the one.

Out in the open, for all to see,

Shorty, without shame, disrespects me.

Yes, he politely speaks each time I pass.

But,

he buffs his Lex, and, makes it shine,

then, laughs at the Malibu that I claim as mine.

New Chucks, big bucks;

vintage wine, and, a brand new vine,

Shorty sells the drug that is on the one.

Anonymously tipped,

with names, and places, and, dates, and, faces,

those who are trained

cannot see what I see.

Yes, I see what they cannot.

They are trained, and, I am not.

Therefore, from the rising moon to the rising sun,

Shorty sells the drug that is on the one.

copyright © 09.07.1997 blackstarr

Blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, New Millennium, ghetto summers, drugs, Lexus, Chucks, poetry, social commentary

Ghetto Summers (part 5)

(il)legal tender(ronies)

I see tights, covering healthy thighs,

and, halter tops that attract my eyes,

and, micro-minis that solicit my sighs.

I see tights that

illuminate every curve of vivacious vixen;

thighs covered tightly,

in tights that slightly cover

luscious curves.

Halter tops, and, blouses that

are not sheer, but, SHEER,

allowing a glimpse of ample cleavage.

Micro-minis coerce my sighs,

causing me to stare, harder than is wise,

at legs that tower unto infinity.

. . . and, Charlene leans, and, whispers to Jean

“Now, you know . . . !!”.

I truly believe that I see

women with perfected bodies,

fully developed in every way.

But, I find that what I see, instead,

is the essence of youth and vitality;

an essence blossomed ten years too soon,

old enough for motherhood,

young enough to call me Sir.

copyright © 09.07.1997 blackstarr

blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, The New Millennium, vixen, summertime, thighs, tights, cleavage, tenderonies,halter tops, micro-minis

Now what?

Although Obama's winning the Democratic nomination is an historic event, I have to say that he was not my first choice. I’m reminded of an online friend from Chattanooga who foretold this very thing. During an online chat, she mentioned his name as I Googled him on another page. My first thought was . . . ”He won’t get too far with THAT name”. Patiently abiding my ignorance, she encouraged me to look into his record to see what he had accomplished and told me to get over the name thing.

Sage advice that I didn’t follow.

Little did I know that some few months later the very same man would throw his hat into the presidential ring. Normally, I have about a three-second memory when something doesn’t interest me, but even I would be hard pressed not to remember the name “Barack Obama“. Had I maintained contact with my online chat buddy, I would have told her how right she had been and how totally wrong I was.

So, here we are with Obama possibly being our next president and I am 100% on board the “Change Train.” As the saying goes “better late than never”. He has made a believer out of me but, he has to know that even as his greatest supporter, if/when he takes office, I will also be his harshest critic. Gone are the days of electing politicians to office and not holding them accountable for their actions. I think back to all of the hype given to our having a Democratic Congress . . . and well, now what? What have they done? I certainly expected a lot more than I got in that deal.

Of Obama I ask, “Now what?“ First item up is who he will choose as a running mate. I know the world is sitting on pins and needles as am I. I am not wholeheartedly opposed to Hillary Clinton being Vice President (VP). She can help unify the Democrats and bring everyone together to oppose John McCain. Additionally, she has that cutthroat mentality that is sometimes needed in the political arena. Barack will always have to “watch his six” with her as his VP and I'm sure he knows that. With his life already potentially in danger, he doesn’t need the added pressure of in-house fighting.

Presently, with Hillary Clinton stopping short of conceding the race, she is doing significantly more harm than good. Soon enough, even her own supporters will turn on her. If the ultimate victory of the Democratic Party is of any real importance to her, she will stop passing up perfectly good opportunities to help bring the voters together. Right now, it's "all about Hillary". She's making it personal when it's really about the people. Someone should tap her on the shoulder and remind her. In her quest to win, it looks like she forgot.

I don’t know what McCain has in store for Obama but I know he will come out fighting. He has yet to put up his fists because Clinton is doing such a great job of doing it for him. She just went down in flames and it appears as if she wants to take the party with her.

A house divided can not stand. The Democrats divided can not win.

copyright © 2008 Missy

myeishaspeaks@gmail.com

Renaissance, New Millennium, Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, John McCain, nomination, politics, presidential election

Ghetto Summers (part 4)

A Visible Pulse

. . . and, yet, another pulse emanates:

the pulse of just-bought groceries,

the pulse of someone’s hurried driver,

or,

just the pulse of too many cars,

parked on too many, too small streets.

I see the blink blink pulse

of caution lights,

as someone is always double-parked.

It has become the lay of the land,

to leave one’s car unmanned,

with the blink blink pulse of caution lights.

It’s not that anyone even minds,

as it’s done by people of all kinds.

Everyone does it, this visible pulse.

They blink blink out of courtesy,

as if to say

“I’ll just be a moment.”

Now, they’ve returned,

and, the flashing stops, as they finally drive away.

But, before too long,

the visible pulse begins anew,

as another takes the place of the blink blink

that has left for another

temporary parking space.

copyright © 09.07.1997 blackstarr

blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, The New Millennium, blink blink, pulse, double-parking, courtesy, flashing lights, poetry

We have a winner!!

Ghetto Summers (part 3)

Verbal Abuse

Voices ring out, with the shrill of a siren,

not wanting anyone in particular to hear,

but, instead, just wanting what they’ve said to be heard.

Two young voices have the sound of three,

and, three, the roar of a crowd.

They ring out, they scream out,

with no particular destination.

Any ears will do,

so long as their voice is heard.

Someone else is always shouting,

and, it’s always that same someone else,

always having nothing to say,

but, saying it loud enough for all to hear.

That same someone

always has nothing to say,

at least,

nothing that anyone else wants to hear.

Voices ring out,

with the shrill of a siren,

or,

above the shrill of a siren,

that pierces the night air.

911 zooms through my street, at 2am,

obviously not headed for my street, but,

some far away street.

Its siren is

vibrating,

activating car alarms.

. . . and, Charlene leans, and, yells

“Turn that damned thing off !!”

copyright © 09.07.1997

blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, The New Millennium, sirens, voices, 911, poetry