Days in the life of a poet

When life gets too complicated and our hearts and minds seek out what is good and provides us sustenance...poetry is the breath of life. Words allow us to communicate...to express that within us that is most precious and real. We crave that which is familiar and gives us comfort...read and receive*

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Slow Death

Culture in crisis…wasting away
within derivatives of various victimizations and
historic plunderings…societally bereft
and weakened by degrees of
deep seeded fears of/and bigotry’s slights
Slavery of our cultural synchronicity causing
backward flowing vices of senselessness by the
criminalization and color-classification…of our skin
Though we struggle and fight…no way to win
this battle…we can’t win for freedom’s sake
Can’t win; humane justice and equality’s favor
…we are not allowed freedom’s acceptance
to smile…to feel that kiss of America’s blend

Passages through time have hardened the eyes of
the stony eyed stares of the blinded masses as
many revel freely in genocidal eccentricities…unaware
uncaring, in a battle with egocentrics and filtered genetics
beleaguered by poverty’s vice grip and degeneration into
ghetto mentalities of ignorance, degradation and shame…
the victim victimizing all senses of moral code and ethical worth
dying deaths of wasted births…

Cry the lonely mothers of wayward and abandoned children
…sages of wanting and receivers of heartache and familial loss
drowning in stale, waterless pools of despair that
chastises their fates and cripples with the weight of their pains
They see the compromised manhood of their men who’ve
lost their true countenance…
as they wane in unrealistic glows of damning cruelties
…and unrealized potentials
Those sons of sons, who’ve never quite understood
their true identity…their rightful place
Centuries of never knowing their father’s strengths and
being guided by the nuances of self-hate…the pulses
of unrelenting doubts of their fragile worthiness…
pride-less and shamed by constant failings…
with hearts darkened by the bruising shackles
placed by history’s brutal slap to their faces
…the constant challenges to their manly stature

Owning no “pissing pot” and feeling…
a “Black man’s worth”
…will be forgotten and dismissed
just as monarch butterflies emerging from cocoons…
born to die…a wasted birth*


Jon` B. Crenshaw
Slow Death
© copyright 2011 - All Rights Reserved


1 comment:

  1. Been playing catch up with a lot of reading lately.....you've been busy and writing some great stuff...really enjoying your writings :) take care

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