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

Back In The Day

Back in the day

I remember
back in the day

When I could listen to music
And like what they’d say
Back when lyrics meant something
And they didn’t make you blush
Make mom come out yelling
“Don’t sing that mess, girl hush!”

I remember
Back in the day
When the street light came on
Meant the end of our play,
“Don’t make me come find you!”
We heard on the way out
Enough to get us back by dark
Of that there was no doubt

I remember
back in the day
Getting my hair done
By Miss Laura down the way
A stop at Mr. Henry’s
For a pickle on the run
Knowing that my head and ears
Miss Laura was sure to burn

I remember
Back in the day
When teacher meant honor
All the way
We also gave them, the utmost respect
they didn’t sleep with students
Calling it love
“What the heck?”

We should try to bring back
Our “back in the day”
They were the very best of times
Before we lost our way

copyright © 2008 Missy

myeishaspeaks@gmail.com

Renaissance, , New Millennium, , lyrics, , respect

Dans la memoire de . . .

This is blackstarr saying "Vive La Renaissance!"

photo by viper1955 at photobucket.

blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, New Millennium, Memorial Day, Vets, Loved Ones