Poetry Magazine Marcus Kwame Anderson

Marcus Kwame
Anderson

USA

Salt Water

who said brothas aint supposed to cry
& sistas aint supposed to fly?
this rhyme aint really mine...
i just quote the sky
speak from the most high

baptized in 7 seas of grief
almost lost it
when i saw her
by the shattered window
bloody hand
her eyes faucets
i tried to hold
console
but something in my soul
grew cold/ frostbit
from the
small mind hate crimes of unseen swine
poisoning our academic experience

no time for a x or y-axis was the current train of thought
outside the classroom the true lesson taught
institution of higher learning -
last place i thought i’d see a cross torched
devil fire burning

usually reasonable heads stretched
all of us vexed, stressed
i wanted to kick, rip,
burn, loot, and strangle the vandal
who had dismantled my sistas
peace of mind
words of comfort stopped
by a 3 o’clock roadblock in my throat
spoke
nonverbally
broke down/ no sound found
wanted to holla/ modern day marvin
pride swallowed as i began to leak
head spinnin’/ reality bendin’
emotions hit the peak

and the rain came
slow
one lone drop
ran down my cheek
salt-water creek
made from rage, confusion,
mental sabotage, pollution
and every other possible emotion

looked at my sista twisted
on the floor next to me
her eyes faucets
hand pouring
torn from
broken glass
jagged as the black broken past

one tear
my first in God only knows how many years
temporarily freed me/
let out so much with one drop,
blew through roadblocks

who said brothas don't cry?
brothas cry,
we cry,
most times we cry behind closed doors...
sometimes we cry as the mother of civilization
shakes from violation amongst broken glass
splashed across the floor
not “supposed” to cry
we wear screw-faces in most places
hidden behind hard veneers
that mask fear

we cry over love ones lost
we cry for so much in this black holocaust

we cry

for so much

in this black holocaust

Saxophone Love Jones

listen...
u hear that?
..the blues,
sound sad to u?

if u can’t hear the blues
i feel sad for u

i am the blues
american made hue
often misconstrued
candy yams jams/ soul food
the setter of moods
emotion in the nude

i got a jones
for the saxophones moan
and the heartache
that becomes a beat break

staggering staccato
vomiting vibrato
later for whiskey
i get tipsy off of pain
poured into pianos

ivory & ebony
keys
together making melodies
we may never see
in society
sistas sing my life
into mics
strummin’ my name
...my pain
to maintain the flame
oblivious to monitory gain
soul became the main aim

don’t call me sad
the blues is true
the blues is
Black
Life
Under
Eternal
Stress

or

Black
Life’s
Undying
Essence in
Song

preserved
prolonged on wax
hopped the turnstile
rode the coltrane for a while
while u cried for me i smiled

not sad. just true
the blues is in the boondocks
the blues is on the block
i am the blues
and i'll excuse
if u cant read my hue