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

Ghetto Summers (part 2)

Ghetto Pulse

I can’t see the car.

It is still a block away,

so, I can’t see the car.

But, I can feel the bass.

There is a pump, pump, pump it up, a pulse

that emanates from every other car

that cruises my street.

That pump it up is

the unique sound of a BOSE system,

blasting Reggae, Rap, or, R & B;

sometimes blasting a sound that’s foreign to me.

The unique sound

announces the arrival of

the unique sound

of a TUPAC,

or,

of a B.I.G.,

coming, soon, to a neighborhood near you.

But, that pump it up

is more than a sound,

is more than a song.

I don’t just hear it,

and, I don’t just sing along,

I feel the beat within my pulse;

it is my own ghetto pulse,

dancing throughout my body.

That pump, pump, pump it up

becomes my pulse.

I watch the car, as it fades from sight,

but, that bass returns,

as the ghetto pulse emanates

from the next approaching car.

copyright © 09.07.1997 blackstarr

blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, The New Millennium, pulse, Tupac, B.I.G., poetry, poetry

Ghetto Summers (part 1)

With summer rapidly approaching, I thought it only fitting to present an oldie-but-good entitled "Ghetto Summers", a seven (7) part poem which chronicles life in my beloved ghetto. Enjoy.

Charlene Leans

Her son is no where in sight,

But, as she squints at the fading rays of sunlight,

Charlene

leans

out of her second story window,

and, without looking, calls (yells) “Malachi !”

He frowns

as her sounds

disrupt the flow

of a well-earned free-throw.

From blocks away, the voice of his mother

sends him towards home,

and, in two strides, he is at his doorstep.

To his misfortune, so is his mother.

She lets out screams,

and, lets out blares,

and, without out fail,

she always out stares

him, as he blankly searches

for reasons (excuses) for such a messy room,

or, for shooting hoops when dinner would soon

be on the table.

Perhaps she yells because

his once-worn underwear

is under a chair,

or, elsewhere,

instead of where

he knows they belong.

Who knows why a mother screams?

But, Charlene leans,

and, Malachi

never has to wonder why.

copyright © 09.07.1997 blackstarr

blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, The New Millennium, ghetto summers, basketball, poetry, free-throw, teenagers