"Memo To My Mother"

I am honored to participate in a flourishing exercise of "30 in 30". This is a challenge, not a contest, presented to the few willing to take it upon their duties to create thirty poems in thirty days in anyway way, shape, or form, no strenuous and strict rules, starting December 15th, 2009, through January 13th, 2010. (Twitter hashtag #30in30)

Here's #10 of 30 of the "30 in 30" project

Ifeanyi Okoro II (CopperSoul)
Houston, Tx

This bitter winter wind whistles
Calls like she did in volume
Offering me an early sleep
To wake up in the morning
And give me gifts
On a day that I now can't stomach
Where I turn a head
And cough
At the physical abuse given
To celebrate a dismantling of histories
And customs
And cultural significance
Now I receive these Maroon and White Texas A&M sweaters
And nice fighting games
And toys that revolve around justice
And watch Sparkle
Wondering what would I eat all day
If the Aggies would win against the "Golden Domers" of Notre Dame
If they would get over the burgundy and gold spearheads of Florida State
And what entails to me getting these things
Now that I believe in nothing more
Than what she was showing me subliminally

Then I recall when she had me with her at the library at "The Hill"
And I'd go to the fourth floor
Digging my heels deep in Greek mythology
Sitting in silence
To myself
Wondering about frank Athena Franklin
And Kool Hercules
Mixing my hip hop beat boxing
With my knowledge kicking steeze
She loved the fact that I could usurp books
Like Gwendowlyn Brooks does short poems
Noted for Ali's talk and Frazier's hooks
Gave me Friendware and Tandy candy
Information treats that I now see
Daily upon my seat here, before you all
On the damn Internet
Who knew that she would be so much like I was
So much like she was
So much like we once were?

And now she watches as she always did
Even when she was blind
And I had my greatest years in front
And my trials behind
In track and testimony in church
In basketball and performing poetry on stage
In saying how much I resemble Elder Abney
Although she never met the man with her sight
She supported me in baseball
And was on my ass about my grades
PTA
CYA
GPA
And even what would I be?
On NBC, or getting my degree?

Grew up a choir boy and playing bad guitar
Creating Lego themes and drawing art like stars
I was destined to draw and do French
Wear glasses and be a child-loving being
Become scholarly and maintain through the struggle
Help out my sister
Even when she caused the trouble
Support my relationship when it crumbles like bread crumbs
Withstand the weather, whether
Blistering hot or cold dead numb
Love my people here no matter the rights and wrongs
Love my heritage and own where I belong
Named me after my father and grandfather
Kept me as if I was just her own
And when she decided that she did just enough for me
She packed her things
And went home.

Rest with the ancestors, Dorcas Jo Okoro! Love you, mom!
12/7/54 - 1/11/04


© 2009 Ifeanyi Okoro II

"At The Hour"

I am honored to participate in a flourishing exercise of "30 in 30". This is a challenge, not a contest, presented to the few willing to take it upon their duties to create thirty poems in thirty days in anyway way, shape, or form, no strenuous and strict rules, starting December 15th, 2009, through January 13th, 2010. (Twitter hashtag #30in30)

Here's #9 of 30 of the "30 in 30" project

Ifeanyi Okoro II (CopperSoul)
Houston, Tx


So we give thanks to those who wear
The coldest apparel with the general flair
Soldiers with those black boots
Lead by the orisa with that royal red suit
White trim, wielding the ax like he was wired on Grey Goose
Nights afire when lightning bolts get loose
This ain't Santa, it's Sango
Dark like the Congo
Called by the bataa songs sung like the bongo
Tapped and relaxed on the throne like bones
Chaperoned to the ocean floor with revenge to be honed
Left alone to be hung and return like Redeemer
Seen as a crafty one, some say the schemer
Scheduling the scene to be torched to the crisp
Blowing Osun a kiss, but it's Oya he misses
Others think he was born on just December 25th
Misnomered, honored by people frontin' folks with gifts
No wonder the try to confine his entry through the chimney
Simply cause they smoked the history of African memories
Entry to the logs of computerization
Numbered and blogged to synchronization
I'm hatin' not even our own wanna give him praise
Then wanna cry to Christ when all hell gets raised?
This nation did a good job, adorning the door knob
With the "Do Not Disturb" sign near the fresh floor mopped
Of ya past, trashing your ancestors with imagery
Of a pasty male, impaled on a fucking tree
Lucky me, I awake eyes open to mockery
Stopping the utter recycling of hypocrisy
And not to be outdone
there's always gonna be a sound shoutout to those
Who recognize the sun
Coming unfroze...but celebrate that bullshit I suppose
Give me the Nubian-nosed King in the crimson robe
And that's dope.

Kabiyesi Kabiosile


© 2009 Ifeanyi Okoro II